too. And some, uh . . . other animals. She lives close to me. I want to ask her to pop around in the morning to feed them, let the dogs out.”
“First, I think it’s cool you’ve got a mind to your pets, and second, I’d think you were stupid if you didn’t have a mind to yourself and let a girlfriend know where you were and who you were with.”
That was his response. He knew why I was calling Deanna, and that reason wasn’t only because I wanted someone to have a mind to my pets. And like getting me a glass of water between drinks, it showed that he, too, had a mind to me.
So yes, definitely yes, he started out great and kept getting better.
I texted Deanna with this information, and although the anxiety sheared away at his earlier comment, it came back because we went out of town. I lived out of town in the opposite direction on three acres with my house, my small stable, my two dogs, three cats, two birds and two horses, but I didn’t live as far out as he did.
Deanna might have my text but she wouldn’t know who he was, where he was taking me, and as he turned into a dirt road that was surrounded entirely by woods I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
Serial killers, I was sure, lived on dirt roads in wooded areas.
And maniacs that forced you into underground bunkers and kept you captive while forcing you to make babies so they could build armies (or whatever) also surely all lived on dirt roads in wooded areas.
When his headlights finally fell into a clearing that had a two-story building made of stones in varying shades of mellow cream, tan and brown (the water wheel was on the other side so I hadn’t seen it), flanked by a large creek, I felt nothing but the panic because we were in the woods, nothing around us, and I had a long way to run to get to anything if I had to run away.
And he was tall and fit, he had very long legs, so I had the distinct feeling if I had to run, he’d catch me.
He got out, came around and opened my door (mostly because I was frozen in my seat).
He also took my hand, and when I turned my head, I could feel through the dark that he was looking into my eyes.
It was then he said softly, “Izzy, baby, there’s a good possibility I’m gonna bite you. But just to say, trust me, you’ll wanna get outta my truck, because I can guarantee you’re gonna like it.”
A tingle drifted between my legs that must have been a lot more powerful than it felt, because it forced those legs to the side.
Johnny got out of my way as I got out of his truck. He guided me to some wooden, open-slat steps at the side of the building, and he stopped me halfway up to kiss me.
The rest was a haze of nothing but goodness.
During that goodness, on more than one occasion, he had bitten me.
And he’d been true to his word.
I’d liked it.
And after three times of having sex (but four orgasms for me), I fell asleep naked in his arms.
Now there I was, still naked in his bed, and he was deep in contemplation of the creek and woods that surrounded his home, cocooning it in nature, looking a part of it with his bearded-man-because-he-was-a-man-who-wore-a-beard, sweats-wearing, coffee-drinking casualness in his space.
I looked away and spied my panties tangled with my jeans on the floor by his bed, and not far away from them was the T-shirt he wore last night.
I scooched to the edge of the bed, holding the sheet to my chest, and kept scooching, and reaching, as I extended out a leg as far as I could stretch, toes pointed, to drag his T-shirt my way.
I managed this, leaned over, grabbed it and pulled it over my head.
Only then did I get up.
I was tall. He was taller but I was tall. He had very broad shoulders, so the shirt bagged at mine and down my chest, but it barely covered my rump.
That wasn’t the only reason I bent and nabbed my panties.
I slid them on, surreptitiously looking out the windows only to see Johnny had moved, but only to be in the act of lifting his coffee mug to his lips. His eyes were still trained to the