Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
When I can’t be with Milo or gaze at him on his horse from a distance, I help Micah tend to the gardens and beehives, and I talk to the plants like Ruthie did. It’s my second favorite place to be. Birds sing. Gates squeak in the distance. And I always hope it’s Milo. My eyes stay peeled, watching for dust puffing under his boots as they plod toward me. But it’s usually not him. It’s usually not him when I hear the scratch of knotted rope or the creak of a harness.
Yet my heart always hopes it’s him. I yearn for every tiny glimpse, a grin, a wink, the tipping of his hat, or my favorite: when he tries not to smile because Fletcher’s watching him. I think I’m his weakness, the tiny crack in even his most stoic expression.
While the years flip the pages of my life, I learn to raise myself. I make friends. And I honor Ruthie as best I can by not hating Fletcher. It’s not easy. Faye says she and Grandma Hill remind him too much of Ruthie, which angers him. So they don’t come around very often when I’m home to visit.
I think I too remind him of Ruthie. I’m not sure why he didn’t sell me after she died.
There’s not a day that passes that I don’t thank Jesus and his godly father for Milo, especially today since it’s my fourteenth birthday, which Fletcher has forgotten. I bolt out the door, barreling toward the barn on the sweltering July evening, praying Milo remembers and maybe has a cake waiting for me.
“Milo?” I call, throwing open the door to his living quarters, gulping one breath after another.
No one answers.
He isn’t in the bathroom either, but his truck is parked out front. Maybe he went for a ride on his horse. I trek around to the backside of the barn that’s used for barn things like storing hay, tools, tack, and Milo’s horse, Ranger, a beautiful blood bay quarter horse with a white blaze.
Creeping past the stall, I hear something—labored breathing. Milo must be shoveling manure or moving bales of hay around. The sweet scents fill the stagnant air. Fletcher has other guys to do the “shit” work, but Milo doesn’t like anyone else in his barn.
However, that’s not what he’s doing.
That’s not at all what he’s doing. Milo’s doing something else. And he isn’t doing it alone. The taut muscles of Milo’s back form an uneven terrain while his equally firm butt muscles flex and contract.
Holy shit …
His hands grip two long legs, holding them on either side of his hips while said hips rock against the naked female body he has pressed to the wall.
Sex.
Milo Odell is having sex.
I should turn away, but I can’t.
My all-girl school is pretty sheltered and strict. I don’t get to see movies with mature content, and my internet searches are monitored. I still don’t have a smartphone (because Fletcher is an asshole) or access to the internet outside of school and the library. But I’ve read books—very descriptive books on sex.
God bless public libraries.
Yet nothing in the public library could have adequately prepared me for this. As old as time itself, the saying “a picture’s worth a thousand words” has never been truer than it is now while I watch Milo having sex.
Good sex. Or so I assume. Milo makes little grunting sounds like he’s enjoying himself. And the woman’s fingernails dig into his back, and she’s chanting “oh god” so many times I lose count.
Oh god indeed.
Heat fills my cheeks, and my breathing accelerates. I’m fourteen today, starting my second year as an official teenager. I came to the barn for cake, but it no longer seems like the best time to ask Milo if he’ll make me a coffee mug cake. And if I’m being completely honest, the view before me is a better gift.
Do I want to watch Milo having sex? It isn’t a question that’s ever occurred to me. But as I do, in fact, watch him, the answer quietly comes to me.
Yes.
I want to watch Milo have sex. I like watching Milo have sex. Does that make me a pervert? Is that even the right word?
I prefer curious.
Milo and this woman are teaching me a few things. And I’m diligently taking mental notes. Do I wish it were me having sex with Milo? I mean … kinda. When I’m ready. But I don’t think today is that day.
The woman yells his name, and it startles me. My hand flies to my mouth to cover my yelp. He expels a low growl, a sound I’ve never heard him make. Then he says the F-word three times before he presses his hand to the wall next to her head and eases her to her feet.