In Love with a Single Farmer-Daddy novel · Chapter 7 of 24

Chapter 7: The Downstairs Room

I checked on Posy first.

She was asleep on her side with one hand under her cheek and the gray kitten's feed sack dragged up onto her pillow.

I pulled her door almost shut, the way she liked it.

Then I went down the stairs barefoot and through the dark kitchen.

His door was open.

The room off the kitchen had been a sewing room once.

He'd moved down there after the funeral and never moved back up.

There was a bed, a dresser, a chair with a work shirt over it, and one lamp turned low.

Roscoe was sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees.

He stood up when he saw me.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

"People say things."

"Not me," I said. "Ask my grandmother. I've never once said a thing I didn't mean, and it's cost me plenty."

He laughed under his breath.

I shut the door behind me.

I shut the door behind me and the click was the loudest sound in the house.

He didn't move.

I crossed the room before I could think about it, before the fourteen years of being told I was the plain one, the free one, the one nobody picked, could catch up to my feet.

I grabbed the open edges of his work shirt and pulled.

A button hit the floor.

"You've been staring at my mouth since Monday," I said. "So do something about it."

His hands came up slow and closed over my wrists.

Not pushing me away.

Holding me there.

"I've been staring at your mouth since last spring," he said. "When you told the feed-store man to mind his own business and didn't even look up."

"Then you've had time to think about it."

"I've had time to think about a lot of things."

He let go of my wrists and pushed my sleeve up, gently, the way he had at the sink.

The red marks were darker now, four finger shapes on the pale inside of my arm.

He lifted my arm to his mouth and kissed them.

One by one.

His beard scraped the bruised skin and I stopped breathing.

"Nobody's ever going to grab you again," he said against my arm. "Not while I'm in the room."

"Roscoe."

He looked up at me.

"I didn't come down here to be rescued," I said. "I came down here to get fucked by my husband."

Something in his face cracked open.

He pulled me in by the hips and kissed me, hard, with his hand in my hair and the other flat against the small of my back.

I got his shirt off before I knew I'd done it.

Pale chest, brown forearms, the line where the sun stopped.

I put my palms flat on him and he made a sound low in his throat.

Then he pulled my thermal shirt over my head and dropped it.

The air hit my bare skin and I didn't care.

He looked at me.

Just looked.

"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen in this room," he said.

"Then stop looking and start touching."

"I'm getting there."

He pushed my pajama pants down and I stepped out of them.

Naked in my husband's bedroom with the lamp on and the wind against the window.

Then his hands were on me, on my waist, my ribs, my breasts, his thumbs over my nipples until I gasped.

He backed me toward the bed and I reached for his jeans.

I got the button and the zipper and pushed them down, and he kicked them off.

His cock was hard against my belly when he lifted me and laid me down on the faded blue quilt.

He kissed my throat, my collarbone, the scar on my thumb.

Then lower.

He kissed my stomach and my hip bones and the inside of my thigh, and I was shaking before his mouth even got there.

"Roscoe."

"I've got you."

He licked my pussy once, slow, flat-tongued, and my back came up off the bed.

He did it again.

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