Page 49 of Buried Roots

“Shit. Are you okay?” Owen rushes over and into the mud to help me out.

“I’m fine.” I laugh, wiping my face. “I landed on my good arm.”

When he realizes I’m not hurt, his mouth curves, and he makes this snorting sound, which I realize is from suppressing a laugh. He says, “Sorry, but you should really get a look at yourself right now.”

“Oh, really? Me?” I inch closer to him before grabbing his leg and giving it a good tug. When he tips over, mud splashes inside his open mouth.

“Christ,” he utters, spewing out dirt.

I burst into laughter. So hard, tears form in my eyes. Finally, when I can speak, I say, “You should see yourself right now. There’s something up your nose.”

“I see how this is gonna be.” He splashes mud into my hair, mouth, nose, and I think even inside my ears.

“Hey!” I grab a clump and throw it at his ear, and he returns with a toss. Before I know it, there’s not an inch of our bodies that isn’t wet and coated in mud.

Owen manages to put Raven back in her stall, faster than I’ve ever seen, and returns to me before I’ve even stood up. And I can’t help but notice how magnificent he looks standing over me, wet, mud-streaked, and with his clothes clinging to his body.

“Come to our house for dinner this Sunday,” he blurts, a vulnerable look on his face.

Oh, jeez. The family dinner thing again. I know I should go, but I’m just not there yet. I need more time, so I say, “I’ll think about it. Oh, and thank you for the Fig Newtons. They were lifesavers.” Then, I pull him back in the mud with me, and this time, he doesn’t complain because his mouth crashes into mine. His lips are soft, his wet hands are slick and strong as they roam my body. There’s no sweetness in his touch this time.

My heart galloping in my ears, I tug his shirt until it peels away. He slides his hands under mine and practically rips it off, and I melt from the liquid heat emanating from his fingers. “Owen,” I murmur, pulling away to run my hands up his chest.

His chest. My god, that beautiful chest, streaked with mud, soaking wet, and heaving. My hand stops, feeling the thumping of his heartbeat that matches my own. Frenetic and wild.

Over the past weeks, I’ve fantasized taking Owen countless times, but it was never in the mud. And this is better than any fantasy.

I grab his belt, and it jangles as I struggle to unlatch it. He strikes his tongue over every inch of my mouth.

“I need you,” he rasps.

I need him too, fast and furious, rocking over me. But all I manage to say is, “The horse shower.”

Owen scoops me up and carries me inside, flipping on the water overhead. Then he sets me down before tugging his jeans off. I do mine before tossing them both outside.

Completely naked, his mouth meets mine again as we move under the lukewarm water. I’m on fire, every cell in my body quivering with anticipation.

When the water grows hot, we soap up, rushed, desperate.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his lips hot on the side of my neck as his sudsy hands move over my breasts.

My body electrifies at his touch, my bones liquefying and any semblance of composure I thought I had is a distant memory. With mud pouring off us, we scrub our hair. Our lips never stop touching as Owen soaps his way over my shoulders, my arms, and slides his hand over my hips. It seems like forever before he finally slides them between my legs. “God, you feel so good.”

His mouth is hungry on mine before his tongue traces over my neck. With wet, slippery hands, he toys with my nipples as I run my fingers down his body. I’m caught between nervousness and excitement as I stroke him, but there’s something nagging at me from the back of my conscience. He closes his eyes and exhales, saying, “Slow down, baby.”

I stop, looking into his eyes clouding with desire. With the air filled with steam, the two of us discover how to drive one another close to the edge and back. I’m not going to be able to keep this up much longer, that’s for sure. But it’s more than that—I don’t want to go all the way with Owen when something is needling me.

Gazing up at the night sky above and inhaling, the fresh, sweet vanilla scent is thick in the air, and it triggers a clear memory in my mind. “Stop, Owen.”

He pulls his lips away from my neck, a concerned look on his face. “What is it?”

“That smell in the air. Those are the black-eyed Susans that grow between my property and yours. They bloom late, which is why they smell so strong right now.”

How in the world do I know that? I look at him, my eyes wide. “I remember something. Ifinallyremember something.“ I’m bursting with joy when I say, “I’ve been here before.”

18

The Trip

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