Home > Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley #2)(5)

Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley #2)(5)
Author: Alice Clayton

I was confident around men of all sizes, shapes, colors, and political persuasions. I prided myself on being a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and never felt “lucky” or “grateful” when a man dated me.

I overheard a beautiful man once say that fat chicks give great blow jobs, because they needed to make sure a guy kept coming around. That same man gave me incredible head three times a day for a solid week, and I never once sucked his dick. He was lucky. He was grateful. I was grinning.

I dedicated my days to becoming one of the youngest advertising executives in the business. I dedicated my nights to indulgence in all the things I never thought I could have, figuring out what made a man tick and then taking him home with me.

Yet there was one guy who reduced me to mush every time I saw his gorgeous face and heard his gorgeous voice say that one gorgeous word to me, every week at the farmers’ market.

The first moment I’d laid eyes on him, I’d been dying to lay thighs on him. My thighs. On his shoulders. I’d been hit with an instant wave of lust. Months ago I’d been visiting my favorite farmers’ market, visiting my favorite stalls, chatting with some of the producers I’d come to know, as I was here almost every Saturday. A new stall caught my eye: Bailey Falls Creamery, Hudson Valley, NY. Thinking I might have stumbled onto a new source for yummy local dairy treats, I headed over, drawn by the chalkboard sign advertising butter, milk, cream, and . . . oh!

Behind the counter was the best-looking man I’d ever seen. Six feet six inches of stunning. His skin was a deep golden color, tan but swirled through with the lightest caramel. Thick chestnut brown hair was caught back in what looked like a leather tie, but a few wavy pieces had escaped and were strewn about a chiseled face. That perfectly tousled pony would have cost forty dollars at any decent blow-dry bar, but you know he just tugged it back in the morning and ran with it.

The hair framed a sinful face, deeply set gray-blue eyes shone out from under heavy brows, one of which had a slashing scar through the middle. Very Dylan McKay. Except this guy could have broken Dylan McKay with his ponytail alone.

His features were dark and, coupled with the golden skin, hinted at sun-swept island beaches and South Seas waves. I’d ride those waves.

But the ink! Sweet mother of needles, the ink. From across the market I could see the swirls of red, green, orange, and black coating him in full sleeves, stopping just above his wrists.

I’d dated bad boys, and I’d fucked my share. But this guy was like . . . hmm. Cross a bad boy with a supermodel, add a dash of linebacker with a big scoop of Polynesian love, and then you might, just might, have an appreciation for the wet dream across the market from me.

And then he—oh lordy—he pulled a tall bottle of purest white milk from the cold case, twisted the cap, and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sweet—”

“—Christ,” I finished for the woman next to me, standing there with her mouth hanging open, who’d been lucky enough to witness the same glory I had.

“Almighty,” a third slack-jawed bystander added to the mix, this time a tall stockbroker-looking type, his own mouth falling open in worship.

I immediately pinched myself, certain I’d fallen asleep somewhere and was experiencing some kind of wonderful, but imaginary, dream.

Ouch. Not dreaming.

I began looking around, trying to find the hidden camera, as this was surely a prank show of some kind. The city of New York would never let someone this beautiful just walk around loose like this; it could start a panic.

The two people I’d been staring with had already gotten in line, so it was time to strike, before someone else claimed him.

I straightened myself up to my full height, glad I’d worn something casually sexy this morning. A silky summer shift, it was a little like a bathing suit cover-up, a little like a nightie, and a lot like sexy. I threw my hair back over my shoulder, breathed in deeply, and strutted over to his stall.

I waited in line. I looked over his wares. I was convinced we’d be horizontal before noon. I tasted a few of the samples he’d thoughtfully provided for his customers. I tasted sweet grassy clover in the buttery Camembert, deliciously twisted dark in the Stilton, and was bowled over by his strong cheddar, finally selecting a lovely Brie. I was convinced we’d be vertical before midnight.

I watched and listened as he interacted with his customers, picking up little hints here and there about the man. He was commanding, forceful, short on words but long on brooding, and the furthest thing from a natural-born salesman. His products must be good enough to stand alone, because clearly this guy wasn’t winning anyone over with his conversational skills. Would I go in strong, and knock him down a few pegs? Or soft and demure, thinking he liked a soft, sweet girl who turned into a crazy one in bed?

Didn’t matter. Because the closer I got to him, the strangest thing happened. My skin flushed, my knees wobbled, and my heartbeat got all fluttery. It was my turn in line next—what would I say? I tried to will my racing heart to calm down, to tell the butterflies inside me to shut it, it was time to snag this guy. But when his eyes fell on me, those beautiful blue piercing eyes, and they traveled the length of my body and back up again, the eyebrow with the scar rising in (Appreciation? Admiration? ­Carnal frustration?) question, he merely said one word.

“Brie?”

“Oh. Yes,” I whispered, not trusting my voice to go any louder. He nodded, wrapped up a package, and handed it to me. For one instant, one glorious fireworks-filled instant, his finger brushed mine.

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