I Want to be in You Nikita Mirzani 1

Down on his knees in the clover, Zack wrapped the electric wire around the insulator, pulling it tight. In the field next to him, the wind tickled the corn, making it rustle. The shiver of the tassels sounded like a woman undressing. And when Zack thought of a woman undressing, he always thought of Nikita Mirzani.

He cocked his head, listening. There was no wind today. It was bright and still as summer could be, as if the day was holding its breath, waiting. If it wasn’t the corn and wind making that sound, then it was Nikita Mirzani.

In another moment, he could make out the sound of her, the silky-corn swish of her sundress against her legs. He kept at the fence, letting the sound of her come to him in small waves of leg and fabric, and then the smell of her; beneath his own fresh sweat and the sweet waft of the flowering clover came her morning scent.

Tomatoes off the vine. Zucchini blossoms. The tang of the marigolds she used for pest control. She came up behind him and threw her hands over his eyes, and he pretended that she’d surprised him, that he hadn’t been anticipating her arrival by sound since she’d entered the field.

Her hands were rough with tiny cuts—she never wore gloves—and he reveled in the press of her palms to his eyelids, the momentary loss of light, the way her sounds and smells rose around him to block out the world. Her laughter tickled the edges of his ears.

It was dangerous, the things she did, sometimes. Like blinding him while he was working with fence trimmers and electric wires. But he didn’t have the heart to quell her enthusiasm, her childish delight. At least not for his own safety.

She was still laughing when he turned and lifted her a few inches off the ground. She was little but strong, half a foot shorter than him. He settled one hand on her ass, holding her up, loving the way her body filled out there, glorious curves. Not suns. Not moons or melons. Just Nikita Mirzani and the sweet globes of her ass.

She kissed him, grinding along the front of him as much as she could while he was holding her. Her mouth tasted like raspberries and cream. She wiggled along him, and he had to put her down, out of breath and bending backward. Her bare feet—the toenails painted like mini-suns—disappeared into the clover.

“Nikita Mirzani, you shouldn’t be barefoot out here.” He could hear the scolding in his voice, couldn’t help it. “You’re going to step on a pricker. Or a bee. Or worse.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Besides, I’m only interested in being stuck by this particular pricker.” He wondered, as he often did, if her daddy knew what a wild creature she was. He doubted it.

Her hand found the front of him, already half-hard, tickling her fingers over his zipper. The flash of her ring in the sunlight as she stroked him, lifting her head, laughing.

“Nikita Mirzani,” he said.

“What?” All innocent, that look, as her gaze caught his—she had deep brown eyes, big and dark, lightly flecked with gold in the centers, and thick dark eyelashes, a sharp contrast to her lighter hair.

On one of their first dates, he’d told her, “You have eyes like a Jersey calf.” He hadn’t meant to say it—words were his enemy, mostly, things that bit at his tongue and made his cheeks fire. But Nikita Mirzani hadn’t laughed at him; she hadn’t gotten angry at being compared to a cow.

She’d said, “I don’t have to moo when we have sex for the first time, do I?” He’d never thought a woman could say things like that. She said things like that all the time. Words loved her. And he knew then that he wanted to love her like that.

The crazy thing was that she let him do just that. Madeline O’Hara, daughter of Fire Chief O’Hara, Queen of the Country Fair, she of the proper “Please” and “Thank you,” she of the gold-brown corn-tassel hair and the calf-brown eyes.