I Want to be in You Nikita Mirzani 2

Zack had seen her his whole life, of course, the way he’d seen all the town girls he’d grown up with. From the outside. Genqua wasn’t even that big of a town, but it was big enough to split the farmers and ranchers from the ones who had town jobs, town roles. Nikita Mirzani O’Hara wasn’t just way out of his ballpark. Nikita Mirzani O’Hara was out of his league.

Except they’d met, officially, for the first time in a ballpark. Zack playing for the farm team, Nikita Mirzani’s brothers playing for the townies. The farm team had won, and they were heading off for drinks, when this girl in a daisy-yellow sundress and white sandals crossed the field, calling his name.

“Zack,” she said, although everyone else called him Dusty so he didn’t know it was his name she was saying until she got close and touched his shoulder.

“Can I go out with the winning team?” she’d asked. The first time he’d seen those eyes, that smile that gave her one dimple on the side, a pushed-in petal.

His teammates were there, standing with him, but he couldn’t hear or see them. He could only see the freckles on her chest and the way the sundress cut into her pale shoulders just enough to make red marks.

“I, uh...” His stuttering had been bad then, words more than just an enemy, words a cow kick to the gut that he couldn’t step out of the way of.

“Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl,” she’d said, as though he’d actually said all of the things that were in his brain. The what and the why and the way these boys, these farm boys, got drunk and wild beyond what she could have possibly seen, and how the whole other part of him was saying Please, yes, please.

“Besides,” she’d said, raising her voice in the direction of the other team. “Those town boys are b-o-r-i-n-g.”

Later, she said that was their first date, although he hardly counted it. It was beers with the boys and darts. She’d flitted among them like some exotic insect, but one who clearly liked them. And even more clearly liked Zack.

He still had no idea what she’d seen really in him that day or that night, or the days after, even though she’d told him a million times. “It was that farm-boy muscle in those baseball pants,” is what she always said, putting the emphasis on muscle. Singular.

She’d let him love her then, and she was still letting him love her now, she was crossing a field of clover and honeybees in her bare feet to bring her pricker-and-honey love to him, to stand on his booted feet and wiggle against him.

“So, you have time for a quickie, Mr. Fence Fixer?” Her words accompanied by her fingers tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt. “Or do I have to go back to the house all sweating and unsatisfied?”

“What, here?” Words came better, without the stutter, but still slow. One or two syllables to her elaborate sentences.

She was nibbling at his neck, laughing. “Mmm, you taste like sweat. And sunshine. More, please.”

He meant to resist. He had work to do. The field was flat and open, the clover not even knee high. It wasn’t like the time she’d ducked him into the head-high corn, going down on her knees in the mud to suck him. Or the time they’d had sex in the apple orchard, the scent of blossoms and spring grass caught in their hair and skin.

He meant to resist, but she had his shirt up and was running her cool hands along his belly, tucking them into his waistband. “Come down with me,” she said. She tugged him down as she went, both of them falling to the ground, the clover a cushion of sweet flower and the quiet buzzing of sun-warmed honeybees.

He remembered his wire cutters at the last second, tossed them sideways out of the way. Nikita Mirzani cupped the back of his head, brought him down for a giggled, honey-dipped kiss of lips and tongue.

Laughing, they rolled, crushing the clover, bringing him again on top, part of her face covered with the sprigs of green and pink. Looking down at her was pleasure and a kind of pain that squeezed his chest and his cock at once. So beautiful and so his, but in that, the worry of losing her too.

“Fuck me, Zack.” Nikita Mirzani’s eyes up to him, through him. “Please.”

And then that thing that always happened, when the giggling stopped and their mouths opened and met, their bodies, still clothed, lined up against each other. As though a switch had been flipped, that electric heat that ran through them both, conducted by desire and pleasure.

Zack felt it everywhere—the tip of his cock, the edges of his lips as they touched hers, his fingertips. Sometimes he thought his very hair stood on end with the want.

“Gladly,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about fucking you all morning.” And, here in that moment, he could talk, fully. He could say all the things in his head without tripping on his tongue, without the words halting him. His face burned when he said things like that, but it burned with a good thing, a safe and yet still dangerous thing. “But I think I’ll make you wait....”