Chapter 23: Cold Water, Hot Hands
The mud clung like cold, gritty clay. Rupert stood dripping in the June sun, the once-warm sludge now chilling rapidly on his skin. Felicity surveyed him, hands on hips, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "Right," she declared, her voice cutting through the stunned silence that followed their mud-bound climax. "Can't have you tracking half my pen back to Margot. Hose it is."
She strode towards a sturdy metal tap fixed to the weathered barn wall, dragging a heavy-duty green hose coiled beneath it. With a grunt, she turned the tap. Water gushed out, splattering onto the dry ground near the barn door. She aimed the nozzle towards him. "Ready?"
Before he could answer, a jet of icy water slammed into his chest. Rupert gasped, the shock stealing his breath. It was like being hit by a thousand cold needles. The force stung, but it was brutally effective, sluicing thick clots of mud down his abdomen and legs, pooling brown at his feet.
"Christ, Felicity!" he sputtered, dancing back a step. "A bit of warning!"
"Warning?" she chuckled, adjusting her aim to his shoulder. "Where's the fun in that? Hold still, you're a right state." She advanced, the hose relentless. The water was painfully cold, numbing his skin even as it cleaned, tracing clean paths through the muck. His briefs, saturated and heavy with mud, offered little barrier. He shivered violently.
"Alright, alright!" he conceded, holding his ground as she blasted his back, the icy stream cascading down the cleft of his spine. "Enough! I'm freezing!"
She finally lowered the hose, the water jet dissolving into a splash at his feet. "Turn around." Her tone was still practical, but there was a new glint in her eye. He complied, facing the barn wall. She moved closer, the hose now hanging loose at her side, dribbling onto the dirt. Her hands, still slightly muddy themselves, came up to his back. Not to rinse, but to rub.
"Missed a bit," she murmured, her palms sliding over his shoulder blades, her thumbs working circles into the muscles beneath the rapidly chilling skin. It wasn't gentle. It was scrubbing, vigorous and thorough. Her fingers traced the contours of his ribs, the knobs of his spine, dipping lower towards the waistband of his clinging briefs.
Rupert flinched as her knuckles grazed a particularly sensitive spot near his kidneys. "Oi! Easy!"
"Quit squirming," she commanded, her hands moving around to his sides, then his chest. She scooped a handful of water from the stream still pouring at their feet and slapped it onto his pectoral muscle. Her palm followed, rubbing firmly, circling a nipple that hardened instantly beneath the chilly assault. "Got to get all this farm off you. Proper job." Her voice was lower now, huskier. The scrubbing slowed, becoming less about cleaning and more about exploration. Her fingers raked through the sandy hair on his chest, tracing the clean lines where the mud had been washed away.
He felt the shift. The practical farmhand was gone, replaced by the woman from the hayloft, from the muddy pen. Her touch lingered, possessive. Her thumb brushed over his nipple again, deliberately, sending a jolt that had nothing to do with the cold water.
Rupert turned abruptly, catching her wrists. Mud streaked her forearms, her neck. Her vest top and jeans were still bundled forgotten near the barn door; she was just as naked, just as coated in drying earth as he had been moments before. The icy water had plastered strands of dark hair to her temples and neck. Her eyes, meeting his, were dark and hungry.
"Your turn," he said, his voice rough. He didn't reach for the hose. Instead, he pushed her back, firmly but not roughly, until the wooden slats of the barn wall pressed against her shoulder blades. Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with challenge.
He scooped water from the puddle forming around their feet. It was shockingly cold, but he ignored it. He slapped the water onto her collarbone, mimicking her earlier action. Then his hands were on her, scrubbing the mud from her shoulders, her collarbones, his touch far less clinical than hers had started. He worked the grit from the valley between her breasts, his thumbs circling the firm curves, feeling the pebbled nipples tighten under the cold and his touch. He felt her breath hitch.
"Getting clean?" he asked, his voice a low rumble near her ear as he leaned in, working his way down her ribs, his hands slick with cold water and the remnants of earth.
She let out a shaky breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Getting… distracted." Her hands, freed, came up to grip his biceps, her nails digging in slightly.
He moved lower, kneeling now in the muddy puddle. The water soaked through the knees of his briefs. His hands slid down her belly, scrubbing at the smears of drying clay, following the curve of her hips. He lingered at the top of her thighs, his fingers tracing the crease where leg met torso, washing away the mud with slow, deliberate strokes that ventured perilously close to the dark, wet curls beneath. He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt the muscles in her stomach quiver.
"Rupert…" His name was a gasp, half-protest, half-plea.
He looked up at her, water dripping from his hair, his chin. Her head was tilted back against the rough wood, eyes closed, lips parted. Mud streaked her cheek like war paint. The fierce June sun beat down, warming his back while the cold water pooled around his knees. The contrast was electric.
He surged up. One hand cradled the back of her head, protecting it from the splintery wood. The other slid between her thighs, finding her slick and hot despite the icy water cascading around them. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, anchoring him, pulling him flush against her. He entered her in one smooth, urgent thrust, the shock of her inner heat against his chilled skin pulling a groan from deep within his chest.
"Fuck, yes," she breathed against his mouth, her hips already rocking against him, meeting his thrusts. "Harder. Like the mud."
The wooden slats dug into his shoulder, into her back, but it was a distant sensation. The hose still gushed beside them, the water hitting the ground and splashing their legs. The cold spray mingled with the sweat blooming on their skin. It was frantic, desperate. No slow build this time, just the raw need stoked by the icy shock and the rough wood and the overwhelming scent of wet earth and sex. Her nails raked down his back, scoring lines beneath the clinging wet cotton of his briefs. He pinned her harder against the barn, the rhythm becoming punishing, driven by the memory of her riding him in the muck, by the feel of her tight heat clenching around him now.
She came first, a sharp cry torn from her throat, her body arching, her inner muscles gripping him with fierce, rhythmic pulses. The intensity ripped his own climax from him moments later, a wave of heat crashing through the cold, his thrusts turning ragged as he emptied himself into her, his forehead pressed against the damp wood beside her head, gasping.
The sound of the gushing hose filled the sudden quiet. Felicity’s legs slid down, her feet landing with a splash. She slumped against him, her breath hot and fast against his neck. The water ran clear now, washing the last traces of mud from their tangled legs. Rupert pressed his face into the damp curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of clean sweat, sex, and the faint, underlying smell of the farm.
A contented sigh, almost a purr, vibrated against his chest. "Hose works a treat," Felicity murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She reached out a hand, not to touch him, but towards the still-pouring hose. She grabbed the nozzle and casually turned it off. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by their breathing and the distant cluck of a hen.
She gave him a slow, muddy grin, a flash of white teeth. "Better." She patted his dripping chest. "Still smell faintly of pig shit, but better." She bent, scooped up her bundled clothes, and turned towards the barn door without a backward glance, leaving him standing in the cooling puddle, water dripping from his nose, the echo of her warmth still thrumming through him. "Don't forget your kit," she called over her shoulder, already disappearing into the dim interior. "Derek won't wait forever."