Pumping.

Up.

Down.

Hands.

Wrapped.

Around.

Wood.

Cream.

Splashing.

Tongue.

Poking.

Out.

Concentrating.

Rhythm.

Thrusting.

Sweating.

Eyes.

On.

Me.

The.

Entire.

Time.

Is.

It.

Hot.

Or.

Is.

It.

Just.

Me?

(This is Roxie . . . it’s not just you.)

If it was possible for someone to spontaneously combust from watching a grown man churn butter, then I’d be the first to do it.

After he won, I managed to tug him behind the stone barn afterward and cop a few good feels, enough skin to tide me over until tonight, at least, when I planned on riding my champion until I’d brought him right across the finish line.

The day was perfect, one that if you could watch from above, could pull back to a wide camera shot and observe, you’d think you were watching an ad for the New York Tourism Board, or at the very least a small-town council’s print ad in a regional magazine. Shiny, happy people—and now we were dancing.

No, really, there was even a square dance in the middle of all this Martha Stewart meets Norman Rockwell visual perfection.

While my sore back kept me from allemanding left and promenading right, Oscar and I did manage to sneak in a slow dance when the bluegrass band played its own version of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” We swayed back and forth under the October sky, eyes seeing only each other, his hands trying his damnedest not to be full of my sweet ass. Every few bars his hands would start to slip down, and I had to remind him that we were on display here, with kids everywhere.

We saw every stall, visited every booth, chatting with everyone I’d come to know in the few short weeks since discovering this wonderful town. Eventually we nabbed a picnic table, filled it with Leo and Polly and Chad and Logan, and Roxie and I headed to a stand to grab hot dogs for everyone.

“You two seem cozy,” Roxie said, bumping my hip on the way to the hot dog stand.

“We do, don’t we?” I replied, feeling my cheeks creak as I grinned for the thousandth time that very day. “I gotta admit, it’s pretty great.”

“That’s obvious.” She jumped into line right before a gaggle of junior high kids beat us to it. “So where is this headed?”

“Can it, Callahan.”

“Shut the fuck up with your can, this is me. Give me the deets please.”

“The deets are that it’s an impossible question to answer. Besides, who says we have to decide where it’s heading right now? I’m heading in the direction of the biggest hot dog I can find.” This placated her for a moment, and we moved up another space in line. But then she simply couldn’t resist . . .

“At least tell me something about his hot dog,” she said, shooting me a conspiratorial look.

“It’s in the direction of the biggest hot dog I can find,” I repeated.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” she cackled, squeezing my arm. “Sometimes it’s like God handed out great bodies and beautiful faces, but then absolutely nothing in the trouser department, and it’s just the worst! And Oscar is so beautiful, I was afraid for his trousers.”

I laughed in agreement. It was rare that someone so blessed above was so blessed below. And some of the least attractive guys could have the most talented cock out there. But not often did the two converge. And I was beyond delighted to have that convergence occur between my thighs.

I leaned in close. “Be not afraid of his trousers, for it is good and we are well met.”

“I love when you go all Middle-earth on me,” she said, just as I heard one of the kids behind us ask—

“What the hell are trousers?”

“I think they’re some kind of old-timey pants,” one of the other ones answered.

She caught my eye, and we silently agreed to keep the rest of our conversation trouser-free as long as we remained in line.

“Three hot dogs, please,” I chirped to the guy behind the counter.

“How d’you want them?” he asked, gesturing to the array of condiments.

I had no idea. When in doubt, go bold.

“One with just mustard, and put everything on the other two.” I grinned as I watched him pile them high with all kinds of goodies, thinking that Oscar seemed like an everything kind of guy.

Once we were headed back I looked up over the hot dogs I’d procured for my man, and his eyes met mine. Pure heat burned across the barnyard and made my pulse once more go crazy fast.

Then my gaze shifted a smidge to the right, and the heat turned to fury. Because seated next to Oscar, sandwiching herself right in the middle of the bench, was none other than ex-wife Missy, looking decidedly wifelike as she set a tray of hot dogs right in front of my guy.

“Oh, sister, did you pick the wrong seat,” I seethed, and Roxie looked where my eye daggers were landing.

“Oh boy,” she muttered, and tried to step in front of me. “Take a breath, Nat. Just—”

“I’m calm,” I said through my teeth as I continued toward the table. “Perfectly calm.”

So calm, in fact, that when we reached the table, I stepped up onto the bench between Leo and Polly, stepped up on top of the table, stood in front of Oscar with my tray of hot dogs and smiled down sweetly at Missy.

“Thanks for saving my seat, Missy.”

I set my foot down between them on the bench, turning at the last minute to place my posterior directly in her face, then wiggled down into the space she suddenly had to vacate.