Page 7 of Massive Size Lumberjack

My cheeks blush as I seat myself at the table because that’s exactly what I want: to be devoured by this man. I want to feel those huge hands on my curves as he teases me with his cock. I want him to nudge his shaft into my swollen folds, making me drip as he groans with desire. I want ... I want ...

You don’t even know how sex works, the voice in my head scolds.Besides, how do you know that he’d be into you? A lot of guys avoid virgins like the plague. They want someone experienced and confident, who knows how to suck dick and provide handjobs. You know nothing about those things.

I swallow hard because the voice is right. I don’t know how to perform, but I don’tnotknow either. It’s embarrassing but I’ve watched porn before, and I’m aware of how these things aretechnicallydone. I just haven’t done them myself, but this is my chance. Right? I swallow again because I’m quickly losing my nerve. Yet nothing’s even happened yet!

At that moment, Braden comes over before setting a tall glass of iced tea before me with a flashing grin.

“Sorry for the wait. I boiled the water last night, but forgot to steep the tea while the water was hot. So I had to start over again this morning,” he says with a quirk at the edge of that sensuous mouth. “Your drink might still be lukewarm as a result. Let me know if you like it. If it sucks, we can have Coke instead.”

I smile up at his rugged features, my fingers itching to run themselves through his beard.

“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” I laugh. “So long as there’s enough sugar mixed in, I’ll like it.”

“Oh there’s plenty of sugar,” he growls, taking the seat across from me with his own glass of sweet tea in hand. “There’s no shortage of that.”

I laugh.

“Good because I live for sugar. I know it’s wrong to say so because everyone thinks sugar is the devil these days, but a bit of sugar never killed anyone. Plus, I’m a baker,” I say with a smile. “So Ineedsugar. I crave it. I’m a fiend.”

A black brow quirks with amusement.

“A fiend? That seems a little extreme.”

“No, I’m a fiend,” I state in a confident tone. “Plus, I’ll let you in on a little secret. When the other ingredients are shitty, bakers add extra sugar to mask the otherwise low quality of the product. That, and extra butter too. It always seems to do the trick, although you have to adjust baking heat and times for the extra sugar and butter.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Braden growls thoughtfully. “The shit that you pick up at Costco and Wegmans is always insanely sweet, and maybe that’s why. They’re using low quality shit so they add massive amounts of sugar to mask it.”

“Well, Costco isn’t so bad,” I hum. “I think their ingredients are okay, but their problem is that they’re baking in huge quantities, and I meanhuge. It’s an industrial operation, what with giant rolling racks of pastries being shoved into massive ovens where the air circulation can be iffy. Wegmans, I’m not so sure about. I think they might use pretty good ingredients, but I don’t know because I don’t buy their bakery items, or really, any of their prepared foods.”

Braden nods, his blue eyes thoughtful.

“It’s because you cook, right? You have access to the best fruit and vegetables here in Tahoe, so you prepare food at home. I like that,” he adds in a deep growl, azure gaze flashing. “I’ve always appreciated a woman who’s good at the stove.”

I giggle a little, cheeks blushing.

“I do cook a lot,” I admit in a low voice. “Cooking and baking are hobbies of mine, and it seems like a crime to buy cheap fast food when the land is so fruitful. I mean, I literally run a farm. A cannabis farm, maybe, but the soil is fertile and loamy. Plus, California is a bread basket,” I state. “We might be known for Hollywood and Silicon Valley these days, not to mention the wholeBaywatchreputation, but there’s still a massive industrial agricultural machine in place.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Braden states. “I’ve traveled a lot as part of my job and there’s definitely a lot of farming in the state. Even roadside,” he states. “There’s no need to go inland. There are productive farms just driving up and down the Pacific Coast.”

“Yes, exactly,” I nod. “And those fields were originally tilled by laborers from migrant labor camps. Have you readThe Grapes of Wrath?”

The huge lumberjack smiles at me, tilting his head.

“I have, but I don’t remember it. Remind me,” he invites in a low tone. I smile because John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors, and I could go on and on about his books at length.

“Well,The Grapes of Wrathis about the Joad family. They’re poor tenant farmers who leave the Oklahoma Dust Bowl during the Great Depression and settle in a migrant labor camp inCalifornia. The camps were every bit as bad as you might think. There’s rape, violence, and someone even gets murdered. But it’s important because the book illustrates a huge part of California history: our place in the American economy as a bread basket, which is still relevant after all these years.”

Braden nods thoughtfully, one big hand loosely gripping his glass of sweet tea.

“You know,” he begins. “I think I read that book in high school, and haven’t thought about it in over two decades. I seem to remember being more focused on the family drama, as opposed to the role of farming in the tale. But I definitely didn’t realize I’d be discussing this with my new neighbor, who hardly looks out of high school herself,” he jokes.

I blush.

“I graduated high school!” is my protest. “With honors too! I just ... well, Jim and Robbie asked me to look over the farm, and I said yes. I owe them a lot, and need to pull my share of the load.”

The lumberjack’s expression is neutral.

“Meaning, you oversee the plants while they do ops and sales.”

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