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He motions toward my backpack. "You bringing that?"

My cheeks flame as I nod.

He doesn’t say anything, just closes the front door, guiding me with a brush of his hand on my shoulder toward the backdoor, then swings it open, the heat of the day adding heat to my cheeks.

I remember his truck well. A lifted older Ford F250. Diesel. Steady, rumbling, strong.

Like him. I struggle with the first step until his hands are on my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, helping me up without a second thought.

The blush on my face spreads down my neck and blooms over my chest as his fingers dig into my waist. The reassuring firmness that connects to something deep inside me. My heart, maybe. My pussy for sure. He doesn’t let go right away.

"You’re smaller than I remember. I’d have expected you grew up a little. A big girl, right? After all, you’re an adult now."

I choke on a laugh. "You trying to flirt with me? A big girl…you know how to pile it on, cowboy.”

His gaze drops to my chest. Lingering. Something dark flashes in his eyes.

"Well, I’ve never been one to not call it like I see it," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "But not every part of you is smaller.”

My tits respond with a burning tingle, the same familiar let down feeling I would get when Morgan would cry.

I run my fingers along the v-neck of my denim cami. “Bet there are parts of you that aren’t getting smaller right now, either. Am I right?”

He snorts, eyes flicking to mine. “Still a brat, I see.”

He slams the passenger door shut and walks around the hood with that insanely sexy swagger only a man of his stature can pull off.

My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe.

I clutch the backpack with my pump inside to my lap, legs pressed tight together, as the truck rumbles to life and pulls onto the dirt road, praying the shop is close and I can beg off fast and take a pumping break. My body is on a Morgan the Voraciousschedule, and without Morgan, my tits are a disaster waiting to happen.

I press my upper arms against the sides of my breasts on a little wince as Cal dangles his arm across the back of the seat, the tips of his fingers brushing on my shoulder whenever we hit a bump.

I remember his hands well. That first night when mom came home from her Vegas trip with her new husband in tow, it wasn’t his height or the size of his thighs or his chest I noticed first.

It was his hands. Jesus, those hands. The one he has dangling over the top of the steering wheel right now as only guys can do, with the veins shifting under his skin, is about to make me moan out loud.

As we chug down the dirt road to RR1, he doesn’t say much, but his eyes aren’t just on the road.

Every time he looks over, I can feel it in my dang nipples. Because he’s not looking at my bruise now.

His glance dances between my bouncing boobs and the exposed skin of my thighs.

Like I’m the Country Buffet and it’s all you can eat night.

My thighs clench. My nipples burn and tighten against the saturated cotton pads. I shift in the seat, but it only makes it worse as my backs of my legs sweat, sticking to the leather seat, pulling at my skin.

What would he do if I climbed into his lap right now? Pulled my shirt down and showed him my secret?

Secretsreally. Plural.

Dripping. Aching. Sensitive.

Would he be shocked? Disgusted? Or would he latch on like his life depended on it? Tugging my nipple halfway down his throat and pulling, pulling, pulling the sweetness from me like it’s his saving grace?

God, I bet his mouth is filthy when he fucks. I bet he talksthe whole time. The big, burly silent ones are the dirtiest talkers, I bet. Not that I have any real-world experience in that department, but some things, a woman just knows.

He palms the wheel, turning toward town as I imagine him gritting out every nasty word right into my skin as he bucks every inch deep, taking what he wants.