Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
A circle of rope drops around my body from the heavens.
It tightens at once.
I fling my hands out with a gasp, then crash to the hard, dusty ground as the rope tightens around my feet, just above the ankles.
It all happens so fast, the air is knocked right out of me.
Chad is upon me in seconds. “You alright?? Shit, you went down hard!”
I roll onto my back and stare up at him. “What the hell do I look like to you, Landry?” I spit back, a playful smirk on my lips. “Some fragile, porcelain doll?”
Then I proceed to kick the rope off my ankles.
I’m unsuccessful.
Chad, with a belt of laughter, pounces on me and proceeds to wrap the rope around my legs. As I feebly (and laughingly) try to fight him off, the rope monster Chad’s weaving around my body soon takes claim of my arms too, binding them against my sides. Then, faster than I’d ever expected, he’s got me bound up tight.
Chad straddles my chest, his knees pressed to the dirt on either side of my head, and the tight crotch of his jeans nearly in my face. He puts his gloved hands on his hips, then laughs as he stares down at me with a victorious, cocky, lopsided grin.
“Looks like you’re all mine, Goodwin.”
I squint up at his pretty face, my eyes fighting the bright, hot sunlight over our heads. “I guess I underestimated you.”
“You’ll learn pretty quick not to underestimate me.”
“So what now?” I taunt him. “You just gonna sit there on top of me like a playground bully with your nuts in my face?”
Chad lets out a deep bellyful of laughter, then shakes his head. “Nah. I’m gonna collect my rewards.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “You’re going to what?”
He hops to his feet, grabs ahold of my body, and in one strong and very impressive maneuver, slings my roped-up, bound-up self over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I shout out in protest, playing my role as the unwilling victim, while he carries me back to the house. His answer to my feeble cries is a few swift smacks to my ass and another bout of mocking laughter.
When I’m dropped down on his bed, he enjoys me for a while longer, all bound up haphazardly. The rope has loosened enough for me to easily break free, but I don’t; I let Chad slowly seduce me by putting his kisses (and his hands) everywhere on my body. He gropes my cock. He squeezes every part of me. He devours my neck with his ravenous mouth, grinning the whole time, as I squirm against the ropes and pretend to put up a fight.
But ultimately, I love being his prize.
Soon, the ropes come off—as well as our clothes—and during a perfectly good Monday when Chad should be tending after all his hands and his ranch, he spends the better part of an hour having his way with me instead.
Alright. Maybe it’s two hours.
Who’s keeping track?
Every day is something of an adventure on the Landry ranch. As Chad takes a few hours to handle his men, women, and animals, I hole up in his house with a notepad, a few colored pencils, and an idea, and get to work.
For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about what Vanessa Evans said to me at the party. I consider what kind of events the ladies of Spruce might attend, and how many gowns and dresses and stylish outfits I might make and sell. Then I think about all the men and how self-aware they’ve become with their images. Ten years ago, the guys might’ve been happy wearing half a burlap sack to a party. But I saw a surprising number of guys making an effort to look chic and full of swagger Saturday night.
Maybe there’s something here, after all.
I sketch away, fired up on an idea.
Wednesday night, Chad and I are in the main house after having enjoyed a nice dinner and a couple glasses of wine. He just got off the phone with Jo, who had a question about something, and he rejoins me on the couch, throwing an arm around my back.
My head is nuzzled into his chest, cuddling against his side. We’re both wearing a pair of gym shorts and matching t-shirts—heather-gray varsity wrestling team shirts from his high school days. He lent me one from his closet, since I didn’t bring enough clothes to last a week. Now I feel like just another jock on his team, lounging on his couch and recuperating after a match. The shirt he gave me is somewhat loose and comfy, while the one he wears hugs his body in a deliciously tight way, stretching across his pecs, the sleeves clinging to his arms.
“Somethin’ is up with her.”
I frown. “With Jo?”
“Yeah. Somethin’ is up. I can tell.”