Warning, adult situations ahead. That said, any 13 year-old can plunk down $8 at Barnes & Noble for a "romance" novel with much more detailed sex scenes than mine. It's still PG-13 for now. (See previous disclaimer.)
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Pumpkins, John Shooter was discovering, were a lot less easily disposed of than corn. He had pumpkins on the counter, pumpkins on the table, and that wasn't counting the five carved into jack o' lanterns on the back porch. He'd roasted the seeds -- had a whole bagful of them -- and he was trying to figure out what to do with the surplus. It occured to him that it would be a neighborly gesture to take a few over to Miss Nadine, who after all, had brought gifts over twice now. He pecked out her phone number without the sense of unease he'd felt last time. He was ready for that machine of hers this time.
"Hello? Miss Nadine?"
"Hey there, Rainey. How's every little thing?"
Her voice was like melted butter and honey on hot biscuits. Was there anything better? "Doin' good, doin' good. I was hoping I could drop by and bring you a little something."
"What kind of little something did you have in mind?" she asked slyly.
Heat coursed through him at her teasing words, his imagination yielding vivid thoughts of what he really wanted to give her, all those fine, soft curves of hers, just meant to be made love to. "Pumpkins," he managed to say through the knot in his throat. "I've got more pumpkins than I know what to do with. You wouldn't happen to have any good recipies, would you?"
"Bring 'em on over," she invited with a chuckle. "I'll think of something."
Shooter loaded the trunk of Rainey's car with the orange orbs. Eight pumpkins to Miss Nadine made a fair dent in the pumpkin population. He found her driveway without much trouble --- it was the one with the brand new mailbox standing at the roadside --- and followed the not-yet-rutted tracks to her yard.
Her kitchen had a lot more countertop than Rainey's -- the bountiful harvest wasn't quite so overwhelming in this setting. Shooter looked around curiously. Clean and orderly, he noted. Not fussy, not a bit. Peaceful.
A row of pegs ringed the main room; most with hats of all kinds hanging on them, hats, in every shape and color imaginable: top hat, sunbonnet, fedora, pith helmet, hard hat, viking headdress and several styles of cowboy hat. There.were elegant high-church hats and baseball caps. They were made of straw and leather, of felt and fabric, embellished with lace and feathers, sequins, beads and ribbons. At least fifty of them, Shooter noted in bemusement -- but she doesn't have a hat like mine, does she?
As if she'd heard his thought, Nadine plucked the hat off his head at that moment, and he looked over at her, startled. She grinned back mischeiviously and walked over to the wall where a small mirror hung beside the back door. She rested the hat on her head, adjusted it, took it off and fiddled with her hair and tried again. It was much too big. "Nope," she said, returning his hat to him. "Looks great on you, darned silly on me."
"Don't you be messin' with a man's hat, Missy," he mock-growled, feeling --- what? Playful? John Shooter was generally about as playful as a mountain lion, but then again, this wasn't like having to deal with Rainey's spoilt missus. Nadine appealed to him in ways that were a mystery even to him. And she'd be good for Rainey, too -- the poor bastard needed to have his creative juices stirred up some, and this one could do it. Yes, indeedy...she could stir up all manner of things.
"My apologies to your hat. I made some cornbread yesterday, would you like a piece?"
"I sure would like a piece," he drawled. The color brightened her cheeks at that, but she strolled into the kitchen and came back with two wedges of cornbread. Shooter savored the treat. When had he last had cornbread? A long time, surely. This was sweet and moist and perfect, just perfect, and he told her so.
"Baked in Me-maw's cast-iron skillet," she said proudly. "That's the secret to good cornbread. Bake it in cast-iron." Then Nadine began to cough and gasp beside him, and he discarded the treat, moving swifty to reach around her for the hug of life.
His arms went around her waist, and he was about to bring his fists up under her diaphragm when he heard her gulp in a lungful of air, ribcage heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. Leaning back against him, she tilted her head back into the angle of his shoulder, catching her breath. Sweet-scented, silken hair tickled his cheek. The curves of her fanny were pressed up tight to his crotch -- which was, surprise, surprise, responding. He was powerfully aware of the weight of her generous breasts resting on his forearms. (Take her. Right now. Bend her over the table and -- )
"I'm okay," Nadine said shakily, straightening. It took every ounce of self-mastery Shooter possessed to make himself let go of her. He closed his eyes, afraid of what she'd see if she looked into them right now. Nadine's footsteps moved unsteadily kitchenward; he heard the refrigerator door open and close. Opening his eyes, he watched her fill a glass with amber liquid from a pitcher, taking several thirsty swallows.
He couldn't keep staring at her, mustn't show her how she'd affected him. Stooping, Shooter retrieved the remains of his cornbread, wincing at his own lust. (Reckon you'd best go home and take care of that. Fast.) He walked over to her, staying at arms length, holding the crumbs. "Trash?" She opened a cabinet door, and he chucked it into the bin.
"Sweet tea?" she offered, hand on the pitcher.
John Shooter was sorely tempted. Iced tea and more cornbread, and maybe he could talk her around to satisfying his needs. Look at her, hard little peaks were standing up on the luscious swells of her bosom. He could almost taste them, sweet as cornbread, rough beneath his tongue as he yanked her sweater up and suckled them.
(No. You are not gonna do her that way.) "Miss Nadine, I got some business I need to be taking care of. I'm glad you're all right." He permitted himself to reach out and brush his fingers against her rippling tresses.
Then he hurried for the door, and almost made it. He was only a few steps away when someone knocked.
==========
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Read.
Read who?
Read the next chapter, silly, and find out!
===========================
Pumpkins, John Shooter was discovering, were a lot less easily disposed of than corn. He had pumpkins on the counter, pumpkins on the table, and that wasn't counting the five carved into jack o' lanterns on the back porch. He'd roasted the seeds -- had a whole bagful of them -- and he was trying to figure out what to do with the surplus. It occured to him that it would be a neighborly gesture to take a few over to Miss Nadine, who after all, had brought gifts over twice now. He pecked out her phone number without the sense of unease he'd felt last time. He was ready for that machine of hers this time.
"Hello? Miss Nadine?"
"Hey there, Rainey. How's every little thing?"
Her voice was like melted butter and honey on hot biscuits. Was there anything better? "Doin' good, doin' good. I was hoping I could drop by and bring you a little something."
"What kind of little something did you have in mind?" she asked slyly.
Heat coursed through him at her teasing words, his imagination yielding vivid thoughts of what he really wanted to give her, all those fine, soft curves of hers, just meant to be made love to. "Pumpkins," he managed to say through the knot in his throat. "I've got more pumpkins than I know what to do with. You wouldn't happen to have any good recipies, would you?"
"Bring 'em on over," she invited with a chuckle. "I'll think of something."
Shooter loaded the trunk of Rainey's car with the orange orbs. Eight pumpkins to Miss Nadine made a fair dent in the pumpkin population. He found her driveway without much trouble --- it was the one with the brand new mailbox standing at the roadside --- and followed the not-yet-rutted tracks to her yard.
Her kitchen had a lot more countertop than Rainey's -- the bountiful harvest wasn't quite so overwhelming in this setting. Shooter looked around curiously. Clean and orderly, he noted. Not fussy, not a bit. Peaceful.
A row of pegs ringed the main room; most with hats of all kinds hanging on them, hats, in every shape and color imaginable: top hat, sunbonnet, fedora, pith helmet, hard hat, viking headdress and several styles of cowboy hat. There.were elegant high-church hats and baseball caps. They were made of straw and leather, of felt and fabric, embellished with lace and feathers, sequins, beads and ribbons. At least fifty of them, Shooter noted in bemusement -- but she doesn't have a hat like mine, does she?
As if she'd heard his thought, Nadine plucked the hat off his head at that moment, and he looked over at her, startled. She grinned back mischeiviously and walked over to the wall where a small mirror hung beside the back door. She rested the hat on her head, adjusted it, took it off and fiddled with her hair and tried again. It was much too big. "Nope," she said, returning his hat to him. "Looks great on you, darned silly on me."
"Don't you be messin' with a man's hat, Missy," he mock-growled, feeling --- what? Playful? John Shooter was generally about as playful as a mountain lion, but then again, this wasn't like having to deal with Rainey's spoilt missus. Nadine appealed to him in ways that were a mystery even to him. And she'd be good for Rainey, too -- the poor bastard needed to have his creative juices stirred up some, and this one could do it. Yes, indeedy...she could stir up all manner of things.
"My apologies to your hat. I made some cornbread yesterday, would you like a piece?"
"I sure would like a piece," he drawled. The color brightened her cheeks at that, but she strolled into the kitchen and came back with two wedges of cornbread. Shooter savored the treat. When had he last had cornbread? A long time, surely. This was sweet and moist and perfect, just perfect, and he told her so.
"Baked in Me-maw's cast-iron skillet," she said proudly. "That's the secret to good cornbread. Bake it in cast-iron." Then Nadine began to cough and gasp beside him, and he discarded the treat, moving swifty to reach around her for the hug of life.
His arms went around her waist, and he was about to bring his fists up under her diaphragm when he heard her gulp in a lungful of air, ribcage heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. Leaning back against him, she tilted her head back into the angle of his shoulder, catching her breath. Sweet-scented, silken hair tickled his cheek. The curves of her fanny were pressed up tight to his crotch -- which was, surprise, surprise, responding. He was powerfully aware of the weight of her generous breasts resting on his forearms. (Take her. Right now. Bend her over the table and -- )
"I'm okay," Nadine said shakily, straightening. It took every ounce of self-mastery Shooter possessed to make himself let go of her. He closed his eyes, afraid of what she'd see if she looked into them right now. Nadine's footsteps moved unsteadily kitchenward; he heard the refrigerator door open and close. Opening his eyes, he watched her fill a glass with amber liquid from a pitcher, taking several thirsty swallows.
He couldn't keep staring at her, mustn't show her how she'd affected him. Stooping, Shooter retrieved the remains of his cornbread, wincing at his own lust. (Reckon you'd best go home and take care of that. Fast.) He walked over to her, staying at arms length, holding the crumbs. "Trash?" She opened a cabinet door, and he chucked it into the bin.
"Sweet tea?" she offered, hand on the pitcher.
John Shooter was sorely tempted. Iced tea and more cornbread, and maybe he could talk her around to satisfying his needs. Look at her, hard little peaks were standing up on the luscious swells of her bosom. He could almost taste them, sweet as cornbread, rough beneath his tongue as he yanked her sweater up and suckled them.
(No. You are not gonna do her that way.) "Miss Nadine, I got some business I need to be taking care of. I'm glad you're all right." He permitted himself to reach out and brush his fingers against her rippling tresses.
Then he hurried for the door, and almost made it. He was only a few steps away when someone knocked.
==========
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Read.
Read who?
Read the next chapter, silly, and find out!