Cream of the Crop Read online

  He held my hip in one hand, my breasts in the other, running his fingertips over the taut peaks and teasing. Then his mouth was on me again, on my breasts, using that same tongue and those same teeth that had coaxed that wild orgasm from me just moments ago to make me scream again at the exquisite feel of him sucking at me.

  Sucking and fucking and biting and scratching as my nails scored his back, determined to bring him deeper into me, which was impossible, as his thrusts alone were ready to split me in two and it was still not enough.

  “You. Again.” His brief words spoke volumes as he dragged one hand down between us, licking his fingers, then sliding them against me, knowing already exactly how I liked to be touched.

  My back bowed off the bed as I came again, ridiculously loud and long and fierce, him following only a moment after, his own groans filthy and primal.

  He collapsed onto me, his head on my breast, my arms and legs wrapped around him as I held him to me. And we panted heavily, a shuddering pile of “sweet fuck, that was good.”

  Oscar’s house was old and rustic, with wide-plank floors, wainscoting, beadboard—all the architectural details you’d look for in such an old farmhouse. He’d told me it wasn’t nearly as old as the barn but still from the last century, and had been in the family he’d purchased the farm from for generations. It had the requisite farmhouse sink, the farmhouse kitchen table, the Franklin stove in the corner, and even an old outhouse hidden behind a stand of old trees.

  And there were things all over the place that just didn’t look like Oscar. A series of framed pictures depicting black-and-white-spotted cows shopping for groceries, mowing the lawn, and look, here’s one of the cows playing poker. In the hallway bathroom there were tiny cow figurines dancing down the counter, black-and-white-cow-printed wallpaper, and little paper Dixie cups with—you guessed it—black-and-white cows.

  And hung over every single doorway were sprays of dried flowers. You know the kind: dusty eucalyptus, big sunflowers, mauve roses; gathered together with raffia, and tied into a big floppy bow.

  None of these things looked like something Oscar would have paid money for, much less walked around his house and deliberated which he’d put where.

  They looked suspiciously Missy-like.

  We’d returned downstairs after the shower, and I’d made a beeline for the giant comfy couch in the family room. Wrapped in a fluffy blanket from the back of the couch, I’d made a little nest for myself. Once I was settled, Oscar tucked himself behind me, his head pillowed on my behind. His sigh of contentment made me smile broadly.

  There was something good about a guy who liked a big, comfy butt.

  “Hungry?” Oscar asked, his voice a bit muffled.

  My stomach rumbled. “I’m famished.” I’d texted Roxie earlier, letting her know where I was and not to worry. She texted me back that the key was under the mat, to have fun, and to use a condom. That’s a good friend.

  “I don’t have much to eat in the house,” he said, running his hand absently along my bum. “Want to go into town? There’s a great pizza place on Main Street.”

  “Great pizza, huh? I’m from New York, sweetie. You can’t say such things to me.”

  “We’re in New York,” he said, lifting his head.

  “You’re adorable,” I replied, patting it sweetly. “Gimme a few minutes to get dressed, and you can take me out for pretty good pizza.”

  “I’ll make you eat those words, City Girl,” he growled as I jumped off the couch and danced out of reach of his grabby hands.

  “I’ll make you eat something else,” I teased, relishing the look I got in return. Then I gasped when I saw how fast he could move—he was already halfway across the room with a devilish expression.

  His playful attack stopped when his phone rang. Like any new “friend that was a girl,” I motioned to him that I was heading into the kitchen for my purse . . . and then I stood right around the corner and listened in.

  Though I could only hear his side of the conversation, I could make out most of what was going on.

  “What’s up? . . . Again? . . . I’m telling you, that thing needs to be replaced . . . no, not a problem . . . nope, nothing that can’t be postponed . . . sure . . . twenty minutes . . . no, I’ll pick something up on the way . . . yep . . . yep . . . on my way.”

  By the time he walked into the kitchen, I was nonchalantly sitting at the farmhouse table, twisting my damp hair up into a bun and admiring his black-and-white cow-shaped salt and pepper shakers.

  “Gotta take a rain check on pizza, is that okay?”

  “Sure, everything okay?” I replied, swiping on a coat of fresh red lipstick and looking unconcerned.

  “Yeah, just gotta go take care of something,” he said, reaching for his coat and shrugging it on. “Can I drop you back at Roxie’s?”

  “That’d be great,” I said lightly, and meant it. This was new and exciting, sure, but new was the operative word. Play this one too clingy, and it could crumble before it even became anything.

  But as he held my jacket open and helped me put it on, I planted a surprise deep, searing kiss on him, letting myself get lost in our combined warm scent.

  “Oops, look at that!” I pulled away, leaving him panting and looking a bit wild. “I got some lipstick on you—let me fix that.” I took a tissue from my purse and quickly dabbed it around with a laugh. He chuckled along with me, clearly grateful that I’d cleaned him up.

  Which I did—a bit.

  When he dropped me off at Roxie’s, I made him call me so I’d have his number.

  “Now I can text you dirty words whenever I want to,” I teased as he held open my door once more, catching me on the way down.

  “Don’t send me anything too dirty until midmorning. I’m driving in for the farmers’ market,” he explained, his hands lingering on my waist. “And if I’m thinking about you, I’m liable to drive right off the highway.”

  “Of course,” I replied, reaching down to tangle my fingers with his.

  “When are you heading back home?”

  “Not until Sunday.”

  “I’ll text you when I get back tomorrow, see what you’re up to?”

  I wanted more than anything else to say That sounds great, and then maybe we can have more of the naked.

  But what I said was, “I’ve got a pretty full day, sightseeing with Chad and Logan, and meeting some more business owners who couldn’t make it this morning.” All true, and all decidedly unclingy.

  I didn’t kiss him again when he dropped me off at Roxie’s, making a joke about my red lipstick. But he kissed me; on my neck, under my ear, on my nose, on each eyelid, and the center of my collarbone, his breath tickling at my skin as it bloomed frosty and white in the chilly air.

  When I said good-bye and waved him back into the car, breathless and silly, I snuck a last glance at his lips, and checked that there was still a noticeable lipstick stain . . .

  Rain check, indeed.

  Chapter 14

  “I love that that is what you’re wearing for a walking tour,” Logan said when I opened Roxie’s front door. He laughed, motioning to my wedge-heeled boots.

  “What? Chad said boots,” I rebuffed, pointing a toe forward. I waved a hand at his getup. “Are we stopping by Lands’ End for a catalogue shoot?”

  “Har-har. Let’s get moving.”

  “Where’s your equally gorgeous other half?” I asked, looking around him to see the porch and car empty of Chad. Logan smoothed his hair back, giving me a view of those damn cheekbones. Good Lord. I’d only seen them together, as some kind of Gorgeous Team. But Logan was the kind of good-looking that stood on its own. “He’s ordering at the coffee shop while I fetched you.”

  With Oscar in the city, selling his wares and getting his swoon on (I was under no illusion that I was the only one in his line swooning), I was he
ading out with Chad and Logan to see the must-sees and -do’s of Bailey Falls. It was something that I’d been meaning to do, but when given the choice between spending free time being pranced through town or being bundled up in warm dairy farmer . . . not so much of a choice.

  The tour would afford me incredible insider information—and not to mention uninterrupted time with my two new favorite guys.

  By the time we pulled in front of the café, I was as in love with Logan as I was with his husband. We parked and were joined by Chad, carrying a few bags and a tray of coffee.

  “Is it coffee or tar?” I asked warily, sniffing the cup, grateful when he assured me that it was the former.

  We air-kissed quickly before he planted a solid one on his husband. In the middle of the town square on a Saturday morning, while families of all kinds passed by on the crowded sidewalk. Another mark in the plus column for Bailey Falls, and one worth mentioning. Having a place city couples could escape to in the country, and still enjoy their lifestyle without scorn and scuffle, was something I felt very happy to be selling.

  “So, where are we off to first?” I asked around a mouthful of banana nut muffin.

  Chad handed his coffee to his husband and pulled out a list from his pocket.

  1.Stroll through town

  2.Bryant Mountain House

  3.The Tube

  “The Tube?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Swimming hole.”

  “I don’t have a suit. And it’s a bit nippy.” I thrust my chest out to further cement the idea.

  “Trust me,” Chad insisted.

  “And we’re doing this by foot?” I asked, seriously rethinking my choice of footwear.

  “Mostly,” Logan said knowingly. “We’ve got a carriage taking us up to Bryant.”

  Oh, thank God.

  “Where are we starting?”

  Chad pulled out his keys and unlocked his car. Grabbing a camera bag, he said, “We’re getting more of those photos that you wanted for the campaign around town first. Then heading up to Bryant to tour the grounds.”

  We finished our quick breakfast and started out. The town was just opening up its shutters on a lazy, cool Saturday morning. Chad and Logan walked beside me, answering any questions I had about a business or a townsperson. With the sunlight coloring the town just right, we stopped every few feet to take a photo. Some were just signs; others were of the owners in the doorways. Anything to illustrate just how special this town was.

  By the time we reached the pickup spot for the carriage, I was happy to sit.

  Bryant Mountain House was as much a part of this community as anything else around here. One of the original Catskills resorts, it was built back in the mid-1800s when city folk were beginning to realize the benefit of traveling out to the country and “taking the air.” Built into the mountain, the place had every amenity that a vacationing New Yorker would need. I took notes in my phone as they gave me its history, and I sent myself a text to make a reservation for a few nights to see what the fuss was all about.

  On the way back down the mountain, we stopped so I could change my shoes before heading over to The Tube.

  “It’s a little cold for us to skinny-dip. Or are you two going to hop in and give me a show while I stay warm on the shore watching?”

  Logan laughed. “You wish.”

  It didn’t hurt to ask.

  We traversed the hill down to the swimming hole, following the voices. We found a few groups of people situated around the water, picnicking. It wasn’t until I was at the shoreline that I realized just how big this place was. I’d assumed that the “swimming hole” was going to be an actual tiny hole, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was an oasis, canopied by trees, shielded from everything man-made.

  Chad pulled out a blanket large enough for eight people and spread it on an empty patch of grass. Then we sat and just stared out into the water.

  “This is great,” I murmured, turning my face up to the sun. The area was large enough that despite the other people, it was quiet and peaceful. “What is it about trickling water that makes you just want to curl up and take a nap?” I asked, closing my eyes and leaning back. It was soothing. I could almost feel the water sliding over me.

  I opened my eyes when I heard the first click and saw Chad standing over me, taking my picture. “Oh no, mister. I’m not going to be in the campaign. Let me take one of you two snuggled up by that big ol’ tree.”

  “Are you kidding? You looked gorgeous. Very Zen. What better sales pitch for crazy busy New Yorkers than to see one of their own totally zoned out?”

  He had a point.

  I let him click away while I soaked up the autumnal sun, happy to be in the middle of nowhere.

  This town was killing me.

  The day was very fruitful but long, and by the time we finished up at the swimming hole, I was plumb tuckered out. So the boys took me back to their place for tea and cookies.

  “Your home is beautiful,” I remarked, sitting in their warm and cozy kitchen as they bustled about.

  “Thank you! It took some work, but it was worth it,” Logan said.

  “Some work? It took a shit ton of work,” Chad exclaimed by the stove, waiting for the teakettle to whistle. “But yes, totally worth it.”

  I could tell. On the main drag in town, it was a restored Victorian complete with a turret and widow’s walk. Inside, several of the walls had been removed and doorways widened, creating a much more open, livable space. Painted in creamy whites and muted grays, with pops of teal and aquamarine scattered throughout, it was a very sweet home. And big!

  “How many bedrooms do you have here?” I asked as Chad poured water into a teapot.

  “Five, but one is an office,” he answered.

  “And the turret room is a second office, on the third floor,” Logan chimed in.

  “A big house for just two boys. Planning a family?” I asked as the first swirls of chamomile came wafting through the air. The two exchanged glances. “Sorry, too personal? Feel free to tell me to shut it—I always stick my nose in where I probably shouldn’t.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. We’re trying to make some decisions about exactly that. Lots of pressure, you know,” Logan said, setting down a plate of shortbread. “Everyone has an opinion on when and how.”

  “Don’t talk to my mother, then,” I said, leaning over and grabbing my own cookie. “If she had her way, everyone would have kids—several of them. The gays, the straights, the singles, the mingles, everyone breeding round the clock.”

  “That’s exactly like my mom!” Chad rolled his eyes. “You buy a house, and as soon as the housewarming presents stop, the baby talk begins.

  “When exactly is that happening, by the way?” Logan asked, slapping at Chad’s hand as he tried to snatch a cookie.

  “Longer than you think, if you keep trying to bogart the shortbread,” Chad answered promptly, dodging another slap successfully and biting into butter heaven. “Fuck me, these are good. Roxie?” he asked, little shortbread crumbs puffing out.

  “Roxie,” Logan said, nodding. “You went through all the trouble to get that cookie, you should consider keeping some of it in your mouth.” He leaned across and immediately began wiping up Chad’s puffs.

  “Quiet, you,” Chad warned, lifting the lid off the teapot and calling it good. Pouring a round for all three of us, he carried a tray loaded down with cream and sugar, and more of the shortbread cookies, into the living room at the front of the house.

  From that vantage point, nearly all of Maple Street, only a block south of Main, was visible. Pumpkins on every porch, leaves raked into tidy but very jumpable piles in every front lawn, golden retrievers being walked by adorable children as far as the eye could see.

  “Was that a good sigh or a bad sigh?” Logan asked.

  “Hmm?
”

  “You sighed. Good or bad?”

  “Good sigh. For sure, a good sigh.”

  “Pleasantly tired, perhaps?” Logan asked. Both of them leaned forward slightly, and I got the vaguest impression of two mountain lions fixing on their prey, just before they jumped.

  “Well, you two did drag me all over creation and back,” I said.

  “Of course, a busy day with us. But any . . . other reason you might be feeling a little . . . tired?” Chad asked.

  Hmm, maybe mountain lion was the wrong spirit animal here. Vultures perhaps? Really sexy vultures? “Ask what you want to ask, I have no secrets,” I replied, sipping at the good hot tea.

  “Word on the street is you’ve been seen coming and going from Bailey Falls Creamery, usually wearing boots belonging to a certain kids’ football coach. Care to comment?” Logan asked.

  “I do like boots.” I grinned, extending my current kicks for inspection. New Manolos, slouchy suede, Alaska gray. Paired with black cashmere leggings and a fluffy pink Mohair sweater I’d found in a Chelsea vintage store—I felt extra cute today.

  “Oh, she’s as bad as Roxie was when she and Leo started shtupping,” Chad said, giving me a firm look. “Okay, it’s like this. If we guess the dish, then it’s not really dish—got it?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” I said innocently, giving him my best Cheshire cat.

  “Fair enough,” Logan said, eyes twinkling. “If you don’t take another cookie, that means you really did just borrow a pair of Oscar’s dirty work boots—boring, boring, boring. But if you do take another cookie, that means that you’ve been . . . well . . . wearing Oscar’s boots, if you know what I’m saying.”

  He held out the plate of cookies, looking innocent.

  I waited a few seconds, then a few more, as they watched me with bated breath. Then I finally . . . reached out for a cookie.