Quiet. He’s going to turn any minute.

But he didn’t. So I did what any heroine would do in that situation.

“Ahem.”

Nothing.

“Ahem.”

Paul and Paula turned. Hank? He kept on pitching hay.

With words designed to seduce, incinerate, and level, I ordered, “Turn around, please.” Aw yeah.

He did turn. He did appraise. And how could he not? I was a vision in white, backlit perfectly by the setting sun for the ravishing of the century.

His eyes traveled down my body, and everywhere his gaze went, my flesh sizzled.

He tossed his pitchfork to the ground, and as he climbed down the ladder, each inch of skin revealed above his low-slung jeans was a present from the gods. He jumped the last three rungs, landing lightly on his feet with a predatory feline grace.

He looked at me from underneath impossibly long lashes, his tongue licking his lower lip. A flash of something crossed his face. Longing? Pure carnal need? Or did it border more on . . . amusement?

Amusement was good; simple pleasures and all that. It hinted at a deeper emotion. After all, one cannot live on lust alone.

The onion was finally peeled, much like my clothing would soon be.

He rested his hands on top of the buckle. “C’mere,” he said, his voice silky smooth and perfectly orchestrated to make me swoon.

Swoon I did, and I closed the distance between me and my destiny. I left behind my perfect lighting, but the closer I got to my perfect cowboy, I couldn’t tell if the sun rose in the east or the west. I was now within inches of miles of beefcake, and I wanted to sink my teeth into every layer.

He reached out one hand, fingertips seeking and finding my mouth, which instantly parted. He pressed his thumb against my lips, tasting of salt and earth and man. He pressed further, and I took him in. He was inside of me, finally. I suckled at his thumb, and his eyes darkened.

“All right. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said.

Huh?

“You want me, don’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “Say it. Out loud.”

Did he just quote Twilight? No matter.

“Ah wah ooo,” I managed. Not as sexy when you’re sucking someone’s thumb. But that’s okay. This was happening.

And now he was pushing me up into one of the stalls. My back thrust up against a hay bale. Still, with the thumb. Aw yeah.

As I bounced off the hay, my entire field of vision was filled with Hank, and it was good. He removed his thumb, dragging his hand down the center of my body to wrap around my waist. Then he leveraged my lower body up and around him, my legs finally where they belonged. Ahhhhh. There is something about being wrapped around hot man that feels exactly right.

His eyes stared into mine, piercing my soul and seeing my innermost thoughts and secret desires. He seemed to be mapping my face, memorizing every feature, committing it to his memory to take with him to the end of his days.

“You look like that girl from the dancing movie. With the freaky black shit around her eyes.”

“Um, you mean Black Swan?”

“Yeah, that one. Natasha Portland. Anyone ever tell you that?”

I am pretty sure no one had ever told me I looked liked Natasha Portland before.

I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want him speaking anymore. I used my feet to push against him, rocking his manliness against my secret flower, feeling this beautiful man. He got the message; a gleeful look coming over his face as he felt me, wanting and needy below his giant man hands.

His left hand rose to my cheek, sweeping my hair off my face. Burying his hand in my hair, he grasped me firmly by the nape of the neck, angling me to deliver the First Kiss.

He leaned in, the scent of sweat and sun and . . . hay . . . filling my nostrils.

I’d thought my tummy would be fluttering in “please hurry up and pound me silly” excitement. But I guess when something this epic happens, your body shuts down a bit, probably getting ready to redirect energy to the sexy parts.

Yeah, that must be why I’m not feeling anything here . . .

He licked his lips.

Here it comes!

I licked mine.

The romance of the century, ladies and gentlemen!

And then he kissed me.

Correction.

Cowboy. Ate. My f**king face.

His mouth opened wide enough to swallow me whole. His tongue slapped and slobbered. His lips, wet and mushy. His breath? Stale beer and horror show.

My eyes? Wiiiiiiide open. Like my legs, which quickly began to shut.

Pressing against his chest, so sweat-slicked that I couldn’t gain traction, I finally pulled his mouth from my neck, where it had begun to suck.

His eyes were filled with lust, and now confusion. “Where’d you go, baby?” he asked, licking my cheek. Like a motherfucking cat. Shudder.

“Slow your roll there, cowboy,” I said, climbing down and tugging my T-shirt over my bottom.

“What the f**k, dude?”

“Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.”

I sighed, feeling the weight of everything I had pinned on this crashing down on me. What a f**king idiot I was.

“Cocksucker,” I swore.

“Sounds good to me,” Hank said.

I stared him down. Rising to my full height of five feet, two inches, I asked, “Why now? I’ve been throwing myself at you for weeks.” Shit, the things I’d done to get this guy to notice me.

He ran his hands down his chest, then adjusted his dick. “Your tits look great in that shirt. I figured, eh. What the hell.”

And there it was.

Hank was not a pirate, not a rogue prince, not even a cowboy. He was not the hero, nor was he the villain.

There were no layers to peel here. He was just a phenomenally good-looking guy who would always be attractive, even when he got a bit of a gut and that gorgeous hair started to thin. And there was nothing in the world wrong with being a hot, dumb guy. He just wasn’t ever going to get to see how fantastic my tits really were.

So he should stick to his big, dumb, blond girls. Tiny tattooed brunettes were too much for him.

I left him confused and alone in the barn, and headed back toward the house. The dark clouds had gathered, and my mood now mirrored the weather. As I crossed the yard the wind blew my shirt up over my torso, and I didn’t even care. I made it to the back porch just as the first fat drops of rain started falling.

I climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier and heavier. Was it possible to have sad feet? They felt sloppy and slow, drudgy and draggy. I let the door bang shut behind me and went to the kitchen sink to rinse the spittle from my face. And neck. How had I played this so very wrong?