“I can imagine,” I say.
Dad nods. “Anyone with sense can. And Emma’s a smart cookie. She knows what she’s asking for, and I would bet this farm she’s willing to do whatever it takes to get you to say yes. Even if it means moving out of state like you were talking about.”
My stomach cramps, the thought of asking Emma to leave the land she just settled into this summer banishing my bacon-inspired hunger. “I can’t do that. Can you imagine how much money she would lose if she tried to resell that fast?”
“Maybe she doesn’t care,” Dad says with a shrug. “Maybe it would be worth it to her. You don’t know how women get when they’re desperate to have a baby. It’s like they’re possessed, son, and a possessed woman is willing to do all kinds of things that might seem irrational to a guy who just wants to get his rocks off.”
He turns back to his bacon, tossing his last words over his shoulder. “And then you’d have Stroker’s land and me out of your hair. His place isn’t fancy, but it’s plenty big enough for an old bachelor. Two old bachelors if he decides he doesn’t want to move to Florida after all.”
“I don’t want you out of my hair, Dad.” I just want you off my ass, I add silently, but I’m not willing to sell myself like a stallion put out to stud to make it happen.
I decide right then that my answer will be no. The fact that Pop is the only one on board with this plan underlines how insane it is.
I’ll do my best to let Emma down easy, wish her the best of luck finding someone to knock her up, and life will go back to normal around here.
Normal. With no heart-stopping kisses in the moonlight, no beautiful woman begging me to take her wherever, whenever I want her—as long as I do it bare.
Bare. I’ve never fucked a woman bare…
Ever.
And damned if that isn’t what I think about the rest of the day, unable to get the thought out of my mind no matter how hard I try, proving that “no” isn’t going to be easy to deliver.
Chapter 5
From the texts of Emma and Carrie Haverford
Emma: You got a second? I need a second opinion on this outfit…
*sends image file*
Carrie: Holy shit. What are you wearing?! And where have you been hiding those ta-tas? I didn’t realize you had that much cleavage! Da-yum!
Small animals could get lost in there, Em.
Have you checked your breasts for chipmunks?
Squirrels?
A litter of stray kittens?
And more importantly, are you sure you meant to send this sext to your little sister?
Emma: Ha, ha, you’re hysterical, as usual, but I’m in a hurry.
And yes, I meant to send it to you! I told you, I need feedback.
Is it too much? Do I look ridiculous? Should I change before he gets here?
Carrie: He, huh? Tell me more!
I’m guessing he’s not your usual boring business douche if he’s hot for teacher.
Emma: I’m supposed to be a librarian.
He’s got a thing for librarians…
Carrie: OH MY GOD. YOU’RE ROLE PLAYING WITH YOUR NEW GUY ALREADY AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN TOLD ME YOU’RE DATING AGAIN? What’s wrong? Do you hate me? Are you still mad because I said your new home smelled like poop?
Emma: It only smelled like poop for TWO DAYS, Carrie, because we were spreading compost on the new raised beds I put in for the winter garden.
Carrie: I’ll believe it when I smell it…
Emma: Then come up for a visit next weekend, Miss Fussy Pants, because it smells lovely here today. And the next time we fertilize the garden, I’m going to have Bart get compost from the organic nursery down the street. Their compost doesn’t smell like poop at all, which is the way it should be assuming you’ve got the proper carbon-to-nitrogen ratio.
Carrie: The amount of farmer stuff you’ve learned is really impressive. Boring, but impressive. I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you’re loving your stinky new life.
Emma: I am loving it, but I’m going to love it more if I can convince my new friend that we should be special friends, so can I get some outfit feedback please? Is he going to laugh at me? Or think I’m trying too hard?
Carrie: Okay, wait, back this up. You’re not special friends yet?
Emma: No. He’s thinking about it and is going to give me his decision today.
Carrie: WHAT? Fuck him! What’s to think about?
You are a smoking hot pixie vixen with giant boobs! And you’re intelligent, successful, sweet, funny, and probably the most generous person I’ve ever met. I mean, who deliberately locks themselves away with a bunch of sticky-fingered kids every weekend to teach them life skills for free?
Emma: Lots of people. Some of us actually enjoy the company of children. And teaching them new things.
Carrie: Gross.
Emma: Lol. You don’t mean that. I’ve seen you at book signings. You are SO sweet to your readers.
Carrie: That’s because my readers are intelligent children who recognize quality entertainment. They’ve set themselves apart from the mouth-breathers with their imagination and excellent taste in literature.
Emma: So humble. As always.
Carrie: Yeah, well, we all have our glitches, don’t we?
I think too highly of myself and you don’t think nearly highly enough.
Seriously, show this guy the door, Em. Better yet, don’t even let him in. Take off your sexy outfit and save it for someone who will appreciate what an honor it is to spend time with an all-around amazing person like you.
Emma: It’s not like that, Carrie. It’s complicated in a way I don’t have time to explain right now because he’s going to be here in ten minutes.
So PLEASE just tell me if this is the kind of thing that might scare a man away.
We did kiss last night so I know he’s attracted to me.
And he told me that my glasses make him have naughty librarian fantasies, so this isn’t something I pulled out of thin air.
But maybe I’m better off playing it safe?
Just in case he says no?
If he says no while I’m wearing jeans and a sweater, it will be much less embarrassing than having to slink away in a skin-tight pencil skirt and my cleavage shirt.
Carrie: So it’s the shirt that’s doing all that? Where did you get it, if you don’t mind me asking? I’ve got a hot date tomorrow night.
Emma: CARRIE PLEASE!! I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME TO CHANGE CLOTHES!
Carrie: Okay, okay! No, don’t change! Stay the way you are and own the shit out of it, because you look smoking hot.
Emma: Are you sure?
Carrie: Yes, I’m sure. The only reason you’re tempted to change is to avoid potential embarrassment, right? And avoiding something that might not even happen is no reason to make a decision.
Emma: Right. You’re absolutely right. Life isn’t about minimizing risk; it’s about maximizing joy. And sometimes that means jumping for that next rock, even if you end up slipping and falling on your butt in the river in the process.
Carrie: Exactly! Because you might not fall.
You might land solidly on that rock and ride it all night long…
Emma: Now who’s gross?
Carrie: All night long, Em. You deserve it. But first be sure to tell him how disappointed you are in him for returning his library books three days late. ;)
Emma: I’m going now. I can see him walking across the field. He’s on his way!
Carrie: Shit, are you humping your hottie neighbor?
The one with the sexy hair and the Brad Pitt mouth?!!!
Emma: I’m not humping anyone yet. So let me go and stop making me nervous!
I can’t believe you even remember him.
You barely exchanged two words with the man.
Carrie: That’s not the kind of fine-ass farmer you forget. But you’re not the kind of woman a guy forgets, either. You’ve got this. Go get him, baby! No fear.
Emma: No fea
r!
*wide-eyed emoji*
*biting fingernails emoji*
*book emoji*
*stiletto emoji*
Chapter 6
Dylan
All the way across the field, through the gate, and up the path to Emma’s place, I’m mentally rehearsing what I’m going to say to take the sting out of this rejection. The last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings or her pride. I already feel like a jackass for giving her such a chilly welcome to the neighborhood. Holding her while she cried last night changed everything between us. And then kissing her like I was going to fuck her standing up with all our clothes on changed it some more.
I have to tread carefully. Wisely. Respectfully.
I jog up the front steps to rap on the door of the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse she’s spruced up with a fresh paint job and dozens of brightly potted plants scattered across the porch. There are two red rocking chairs at the far end, too.
I’m thinking that might be a good place to have a friendly conversation—nothing more soothing than a rock in a rocking chair, preferably with a beer—when the door swings open and my cock springs to attention so fast it’s like someone pulled the emergency switch in the erection-center of my brain.
And that someone is this woman, in a skin-tight pencil skirt, sky-high red heels, and a white shirt that’s unbuttoned far enough to reveal the twin swells of the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen. Touching her through her sweater last night, I could tell she was a tempting handful, but this is the first time I’ve seen all that creamy, luscious flesh on display.
Add in her red wire-rim glasses and the blond hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head, and I’m a goner.
Gone. Completely gone. So out of it I don’t remember stepping through the door, only coming back to my senses as Emma closes it behind me.
I’m losing it, fast, everything I planned to say evaporating in the rush of lava dumping into my bloodstream.
“Hi,” Emma says, her fingers playing with a button on her shirt. The top button, the one that—if undone—would send her breasts spilling free.
Vivid images of my fingers on that button, my mouth on her breasts, my hands cupping her fullness as my tongue plays back and forth across her nipples, making her moan, flash on my mental screen. My blood pressure skyrockets, and my throat squeezes tight. Even if I could think of something to say right now, I wouldn’t be able to get the words out.
“I was taking care of a few things in my office when you called. Why don’t we talk in there.” Emma motions with a smile for me to follow her and starts across the room.
I hesitate, watching the swivel of her hips, observing the way the light gray fabric strains across the firm roundness of her spectacular ass.
Fuck me.
Now all I can think about is my fingers sliding beneath the hem, guiding her skirt up and over her thighs, baring her gorgeous backside to my hands, my mouth. In my imagination, I already have her bent over her desk and my tongue is making intimate friends with her pussy.
I need to get out of here. Now.
I should call after her and tell her I’ll wait for her on the porch. Then I should head back outside, sit down in a rocker, and do whatever it takes to talk my cock down from this hard-on that’s making my jeans feel like a medieval instrument of torture.
Instead, I follow her into her office, a bright space with bookshelves on three of the four walls and a view of the valley on the far side of her property. I deliberately leave the door open behind me, hands balling into fists at my sides as Emma turns to face me, leaning back against the edge of a desk that’s plenty big enough to accommodate any number of getting-it-on-in-the-office fantasies.
No. You will not bend; you will not break. You will stay strong, deliver the bad news, and get out of here as fast as humanly possible.
“Would you like something to drink?” Emma asks, fingering that damned button again. Curse that button. “I have coffee or tea in here, or I can get iced tea from the kitchen if you’d rather have something cool.”
I definitely need something to help me cool off, but iced tea isn’t going to do the job, so I shake my head. “No thanks. I’ve got a lot of bookkeeping to take care of this afternoon, myself. I just wanted to have a quick talk with you in person, make sure you understood where I was coming from.”
Worry creeps into her delicate features. “Okay.”
My breath rushing out, I fix my gaze on the green-hooded lamp on her desk, the better to get through this without being distracted by how sexy she looks. “I did a lot of thinking last night, and this morning, and I—”
“I did some thinking, too,” she cuts in, fingers threading together in front of her as she stands. “And I looked over my records.”
“Your records,” I echo with a frown.
“Yes.” She nods as she moves closer. “And according to those records you have six overdue books, Mr. Hunter. And that’s not something I take lightly in my library.”
I realize what she’s up to and shake my head. “I’m sorry, Emma, I don’t—”
“So what should I do with you, Mr. Hunter?” She stops in front of me, close enough for me to catch the lavender and honey of her perfume and the sugar-smoke Emma scent I became intimately acquainted with last night.
I can still taste her—hot, sexy, and salty sweet.
God help me, all I want is another taste. I want it so bad I know the chances of getting out of here without violating the boundaries I mentally put in place are getting slimmer with every passing moment.
Still, I try. “I can’t play games with you, Blondie. That’s what I came to tell you.”
“This isn’t a game.” Her expression is as serious as the heart attack she’s about to give me when she lays a hand on my arm. “Have you even read those books? Do you understand how long the waiting list is for those particular titles? They’re very popular, Mr. Hunter, some of the best stories this library has to offer.”
“I don’t read fiction.” I gaze down at her, keenly aware of how close her lips are to mine. “Biographies, memoirs, non-fiction. That’s it.”
“Why?” she murmurs, the curve of her breast brushing against my chest, making my jaw clench and my already swollen cock pulse. “Don’t you enjoy pretend?”
“I haven’t had much time for pretend,” I find myself confessing, all my defenses now devoted to keeping my hands to myself.
“Then why don’t we make time?” Her palm skims up to my shoulder, and before I make a conscious decision to move, my arms are around her waist.
Because my body is a traitor to my cause and has zero interest in walking out of Emma’s office before this game is through.
Chapter 7
Dylan
“There’s nothing pretend about what I want to do to you right now, Librarian Haverford.” My voice is low and rough as I cup her ass, drawing her close to where I’m so fucking hard for her.
Her breath catches and her lips part. “And what’s that, Mr. Hunter? How do you intend to get back into the library’s good graces?”
“How about I make you come on my mouth?” I mold my fingers to her ribs, letting them hover beneath her breast as I brush my thumb over that demon button. “After I kiss every inch of you.”
Emma’s lids droop to half-mast as she tilts her head back. “That sounds like an incredible place to start.”
“An incredible place to finish,” I correct. “I’m not up for anything more.”
Humming softly, she runs her hand over my erection through my jeans, drawing a groan from low in my throat. God, I want her hands on me. Her mouth on me. Her pussy slick and tight around my cock as I take her right here on the floor of her office, but I’m not willing to lie to her to get what I want.
“No baby-making,” I add, to ensure we’re perfectly clear. “If we have sex, we’re using a condom.”
She leans in as she shakes her head, brushing her lips gently against mine. “That wasn’t the deal.”
“Come on, Blondie.” I drag my knuckle back and forth over her tight nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt. “It’s clear we both want this. Want it pretty fucking bad if we can’t keep our hands off of each other for more than five minutes. So why don’t you let me make you feel good without the strings attached.” I pinch her taut flesh between my fingers, drawing a soft moan from her pretty lips. “I might be a bad library patron, but I’m going to excel at making you come, sweetheart. I promise.”
“I believe you.” Her nails dig into the skin at the back of my neck, making me desperate to feel them raking across my bare shoulders while I’m moving inside her, driving her crazy. “But my one condition is non-negotiable. No condoms. If that’s something you can’t handle, then we should stop now.”
Stop.
It’s a horrible idea, the worst word I’ve ever heard. It makes me physically ill to even consider such a terrible, awful, shitty, no-good thing.
I don’t want to stop, I want to go and keep going until there is no part of this woman that’s a mystery to me. Until I’ve marked every inch of her skin with my lips, my tongue, my teeth dragging across the inside of her thigh, at her elegant neck, across the pink tips of her breasts and the pinker slickness between her legs.
But I’m a grown man, and my head is calling the shots around here, not my dick.
And so, drawing from the deep reserves of self-control that have kept me calm and steady through every crisis my family has faced the past few years, I capture Emma’s wrists gently in my hands, draw her arms from around my neck, and take a head-clearing step back.
The Baby Maker Page 5