Page 36 of Cabin Fever

TWELVE

Carter

"LIKE THIS?" OLIVIAbent over, the new jeans she bought yesterday were glued to her rear like maple syrup on a pancake. I stood behind her watching her cheeks shift behind the blue fabric.

"Carter? Are you watching?" she spoke again, but I barely heard as all the blood was rushing to my dick. My poor, sore dick. It had been pulled a lot over the past two weeks, almost as much as when I was in my teens.

If only I could use a pair of sweet, pouty lips instead.

"If I don't learn how to do this, the sheep might get cut."

The buzzing sound began, and I switched my gaze to Olivia's hand. She was attempting to shear a sheep. Not one of my sheep, not even a real ewe. It was a practice sheep my dad had made to teach me when I was young.

Even with being only several days away from March, it was still too cold for shearing. But I promised Olivia yesterday that I'd teach her all about raising sheep.

"You're going to cut one anyway," I said as my eyes flipped between the shears and her butt.

"Okay, Truck Butt, show me what I need to do."

Her new nickname for me. I was no longer Mr. Grumpington. After she noticed my license plate said TRK BUTT, there was no going back.

After the meltdown I had following the bank two days ago, she noticed the tank was low driving home. We stopped to get gas, and she insisted on filling the tank herself, which turned into me walking her through the entire process. She performed a bizarre dance after and told me that would be going on her list of talents.

Walking back to the driver's side, she glanced at the plate. There were many jokes about my truck butt on the ride home, all of them from her.

My dad said I would regret that custom plate, but I was eighteen and thought it was funny. He was right . . .

Olivia stood—effectively breaking me out of my fantasy about her butt—and shut off the shears.

"Well?" She pushed the shears at me.

Her lips curled with confidence. Not that she knew the first thing about removing wool from a sheep, but I was caught staring at her butt.

Was I ashamed? No. There was something about that smirk that made me want to kiss it right off her face. Then I'd work my way down her body until I could admire her backside in the flesh.

I couldn't do that for many reasons. One of which, we were in a barn with hay and dung on the floor. Not the cleanest of places for being intimate with my new farmhand.

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