Page 53 of Breeding Clinic

Kat takes a long sip, then makes a sinfully throaty sound that makes all of us twitch. Then she sighs and smiles. “I know people think it’s basic, but there’s nothing better than the first pumpkin spice latte of the season. Even if it’s kind of hot for apple and pumpkin-picking today.”

Matthew pulls up the orchard’s website on his phone. “They have hayrides too. And a bakery.”

“And beer,” Gabriel adds, excited. “I want to try their pumpkin ale.”

I pull out onto the road and follow the GPS, my hand gravitating to Kat’s thigh. She’s so cute today. She’s wearing jeans and a loose plaid button up left open over a tight white shirt. Her hair is up in some sort of messy bun with lots of loose strands that frame her pretty face. She’s wearing glossy pink lip stuff that makes me want to kiss it off her. Muss her up.

“Ooh, look. They do haunted stuff in October,” Matthewsays, showing the others the photos of the orchard’s transition from seasonal to spooky. “There’s even a real headless horseman. On an actual horse.”

“We should come back for it in a few weeks,” she says, twisting in her seat to see the pictures on his phone.

My hand slips to her inner thigh and I give her a squeeze, my eyes never leaving the road. “Is that safe?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she asks. “I love haunted houses. So long as they don’t touch me. They don’t touch you, right?”

“They shouldn’t,” Matthew says.

“Your blood pressure’s been good, right?” Gabriel asks.

“Yeah. The doctor says everything is fine.” She takes another sip of her coffee, muttering the rest into her drink, “But if he calls this a geriatric pregnancy one more time…”

“I think it would be fine,” Gabriel says.

I still have my concerns. “Maybe we should call the doctor to make sure.”

“There’s less scary stuff for families,” Matthew adds. “The haunted house is an extra charge. There’s a spooky corn maze and a haunted graveyard. There’s also a photo booth where you can dress up like witches or vampires and get a sepia print so it looks old-timey.”

“Oh! Can we go? Pleaseeeeee,” Kat begs. “I haven’t done any of this stuff since I was a teenager.”

She covers my hand with hers, squeezing it, and I melt. It’s crazy how much I hate saying no to her. How she wraps me around her pinky finger. Makes me eager to please her. To see her lips curl in a smile or her eyes lose their focus with lust. There’s something about her presence that’s simply natural. Right. Like she’s been a part of us all along, but we didn’t know it. Like a limb that’s fallen asleep, but regains feeling a bit at a time before exploding back to your awareness. I fucking love this girl.

“Please?” Gabriel and Matthew echo in unison.

I cave. “Fine.” Their squeals of delight make me smile. “But nothing too scary.”

They spend the rest of the drive planning what they want to do today. Once we get closer, the traffic gets thicker. We fall into line and follow the parking attendant’s pointing, then park in the open dirt lot. It’s a short walk to the gate where I pay an astronomical fee for entrance which comes with a small paper bag for the apples. At least they don’t charge for the wagon I grab for our pumpkins and mums.

The orchard is crowded. Families, packs, and couples meander, some heading over to the orchards and others making use of their bakery, shop, and brewery.

“Apples first?” I ask.

“Apples,” Kat agrees. “The map says the Honeycrisps are over there. Oh, look. There’s a guide for which kinds are for baking and which are for eating. I’ve never heard of some of these varieties.”

“I could make a pie,” Matthew offers. “Or a crisp? Want to help me, Kat? You like baking.”

“Sure. That sounds like fun.” They debate which kind of baking apple would be best.

My mouth salivates from thinking about it. And the thought of Matthew and Kat huddled together in the kitchen in matching aprons with smudges of flour on both their faces makes me rock fucking hard. Makes me want to bend them over the counter and rut them.

I shift our empty apple sack to hide my hard on. There are families here. A small horde of children race each other toward the line for the tractor pulling the hay ride wagon behind it.

“Honeycrisp!” Gabriel points out, checking the tree’s colored ribbon against the map. They use a complicated sorting system of colors and stripes to mark each variety.

A lot of the trees in the front have been picked over. Discarded, mushy apples scatter the ground. A few apples dot the very tops of the short trees where nobody can reach. We head further back in the row until the pickings get less sparse.

“This one looks good.” Kat twists an apple off the tree and buffs it on her shirt. She takes a bite. “It’s good. Definitely a honeycrisp.”

“Are you illegally eating an apple we haven’t paid for yet?” I ask, equally surprised and amused. We’ve been a bad influence on her. It’s all the semi-public sex. She’s been deliciously corrupted by us.

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