I wanted a woman who knew she liked sex, not one who hadn’t made her mind up due to lack of experience.
So, yeah. I considered lying. But I decided against it. I didn’t want any lies between Jenn and me if I could help it.
But I did gentle my voice. “Ideally, I’d like someone who has, if at all possible, a good amount of experience.”
Her face fell and she lowered her eyes to the wood floor.
A twinge of regret originating in my chest tightened my throat. “Jenn—”
“No. It’s fine. I guess, ideally, I want the same thing. I don’t want to be with someone who is looking to me for direction. I don’t know what I’m doing, so I guess I’d like someone who wouldn’t mind teaching me.”
Unbidden, a flash of what that would look like appeared in my mind’s eye. Jennifer Sylvester divested of clothing and gazing at me with trust. My hands on her waist, hips, thighs while I kissed my way down her soft, warm, pliant body . . .
The flash of imagining forced an equally sudden and visceral reaction in my body. One that drove most of the air from my lungs and left an uncomfortable stiffness in my pants, especially since the images didn’t stop there.
How would it be when she was experienced? When she asked for what she liked? When she whispered a request in my ear during a jam session break and we snuck off someplace private? When she gazed at me with confidence and knowledge of her own desires?
I’ll have to get a bigger car. And a desk. I’d like to take her on a desk.
“Cletus?”
I shook myself, coming back to the present, and realizing with some disappointment that we still had our clothes on and there wasn’t a desk in sight.
But there is a kitchen counter.
“Pardon?” I asked, frantically fighting against the torrent of seductive imagery.
She frowned at me and involuntarily my eyes darted to her chest. Like a cheeseball.
Dammit.
I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyeballs.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded and made a mental list. I made a very unsexy list of chores that needed doing around the homestead, including but not limited to cleaning out the chicken coop, sharpening the knives in the shed, and chopping wood. I definitely needed to chop wood. Definitely. Even though Jethro had chopped all our wood while in a snit about Sienna. And before that Billy had chopped a pile of wood while in a snit about Claire.
. . . Claire!
“Claire!”
I dropped my hands from my face and snapped my fingers.
“Claire? You mean Claire McClure?”
“Yes. Claire McClure. You should discuss these matters with her. She’s very smart. And a woman.”
Jenn’s eyes lowered to her now empty teacup and she leaned forward on the counter in much the same way I’d been doing moments prior. “Do you think she’d mind talking about this stuff? She doesn’t even know me.”
I grabbed my jacket, needing to leave right now.
Right. Now.
The first few buttons of her housedress were undone, which meant the top most edge of her lace bra was visible. It was red.
Her bra was red lace. My educated guess was that her underwear was also red lace. I was officially fixating. I needed to leave before I attempted to confirm my educated guess.
So I announced. “I’m leaving.” And pulled on my jacket.
Jennifer looked at me with surprise. “You’re leaving? Now?”
“That’s right.” I fumbled for my zipper. Thank God tomorrow was Tuesday. Tuesday morning was my morning in the upstairs bathroom, and I was going to need it.
“Oh.” She frowned her confusion as her eyes moved over me. “I have the crème puffs and cake all boxed up. Let me grab them.”
I nodded, heat rising up my shirt collar.
“Um, will I see you at the jam session this Friday?” she asked as she bent into the refrigerator to retrieve the baked goods.
I tore my eyes from her backside and stared unseeingly out the kitchen window because I was plagued by thoughts of lifting her skirt while she was bent over and everything that entailed, including but not limited to: skimming my fingers up her smooth, bare thighs; parting her legs; reaching into the front of her dress with one hand and pulling down her bra while slipping the other into her red, lace panties . . .
Yep. That’s what I was thinking about. And, as an aside, I now understood the popularity of housedresses in the mid-twentieth century.
A cold shower was in order. And yoga. And then another cold shower.
“Cletus?”
“Yep?” I answered tightly, trying and failing to make another unsexy list of chores.
“Are you going to be at the jam session?”
“No. Not this week.” I just decided—just this very moment—I would skip the jam session.
“What about next Friday?”
“No. I can’t. I’ll be down in Nashville. Claire and I have the talent show.” I couldn’t wait any longer. I bolted for the back door and powerwalked to my car.