Page 16 of Stalked By the Farmer

I'll do anything for Misty. Even if it kills me.

* * *

The sun dips low on the horizon, staining the sky with vibrant oranges and reds. I lean against the loft railing, watching shadows lengthen over the farm.

Exhaustion seeps into my bones, but it's the good kind of tired. The kind that comes from a hard day's work. Usually I'd head over to Misty's, crack open a beer, and we'd sit on her porch shooting the shit as darkness fell.

Not tonight. I can't risk it, not when my self-control feels as fragile as rotted wood.

With a sigh, I scrub a hand over my face and head inside. The old farmhouse is quiet, empty. I rummage through the fridge, settling on a bowl of cereal for dinner. As I eat, my gaze drifts to the window, searching the darkness for any sign of Misty.

Nothing.

I wonder what she's doing, who she's with. If she's thinking of me like I can't stop thinking of her.

The spoon slips from my fingers, clattering against the table.Enough. I can't do this to myself, can't sit here pining for a woman who will never be mine.

Pushing away from the table, I storm outside into the night. The air is warm and humid, thick with the scent of turned earth and new growth. Crickets chirp a steady rhythm in the fields, their song as familiar as the beat of my own heart.

In the distance, a coyote howls at the moon and I throw back my head, releasing a wordless shout. It starts as a cry of frustration but dissolves into laughter. I'm being ridiculous, utterly foolish.

I think I'm finally going crazy over her.

My heart clenches as Misty's face floats through my mind once more, her smile brighter than the sun overhead. I grit my teeth against the surge of longing, fists clenching at my sides.

It's no use. The harder I try to push Misty from my thoughts, the more she lingers. I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, smell the sweet scent of her skin. A groan rumbles in my chest as desire coils hot and fierce inside me.

Christ, I want her. The need is a living thing, clawing at my ribs to break free. But I can't—I won't—jeopardize our friendship for the sake of sating this hunger.

Misty deserves so much more than my obsession. She deserves a man who can love her openly, without restraint or condition. A man less broken than I.

But try as I might to push her from my mind, a memory surfaces. Misty with her head thrown back, eyes bright with mirth. The sound is a caress, warming my blood until desire hums under my skin.

Christ, I'm a masochist. Why else would I torment myself so, clinging to memories that only intensify this craving inside me?

I picture Misty as she looks in morning, hair mussed from sleep and a drowsy smile on her lips. The urge to pull her close, to taste that smile, steals my breath away. My hands itch with the need to touch her, map the curves and hollows of her body until she's writhing beneath me, flushed and wanting.

A low groan rumbles in my chest as heat pools low in my belly. I'm hard for her again, aching with a need that gnaws at my restraint. How many times have I brought myself to the edge thinking of Misty, spilling over with her name on my lips?

Too many to count. Not enough to sate this hunger. Never enough.

I force the images from my mind through sheer will alone, jaw clenched tight. The desire remains, simmering beneath my skin, as constant as the sun in the sky.

As constant as my love for Misty. And just as impossible to escape.

* * *

I rise with a sigh, wiping the sweat from my brow. The sun beats down in a bright glare, scorching the earth and bleaching the sky. Not for the first time, I wish the heat would burn away these feelings inside me, leaving me empty and free of want.

But I know it's a futile hope. My love for Misty is woven into the fabric of my being, as intrinsic as the air I breathe. There is no escape, no respite to be found.

Resigned, I make my way back to the house in search of a cool drink. The familiar creak of the screen door opening is a comfort, a reminder of happier, simpler times. Of Misty's laughter echoing through rooms now silent, her smile lighting up this small space like the dawn.

The glass of iced tea is bitter on my tongue, a poor substitute for her sweetness. I yearn to lose myself in Misty again, to drown in the depths of her gaze and the taste of her kiss. My fingers tighten around the glass until I'm sure it will shatter.

Anything to escape this madness. This futile longing for a woman who will never be mine.

A sharp crack splits the air. I stare at the glass embedded in my palm, shards piercing pale flesh and crimson blood welling to the surface. The pain is a blessing, grounding me in the present, chasing the ghosts from my mind.

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