The Taste of Summer
Even now, all these years later, a single sip of strawberry wine can stop time. I was at a backyard barbecue in Dallas last summer—some neighbor’s Fourth of July thing, the kind where the air smells like charcoal and chlorine, and everyone’s a little too loud. Someone handed me a plastic cup of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, chilled just enough that beads of condensation rolled down the side. I brought it to my lips without thinking.
The sweetness hit first—cloying, artificial, nostalgic—and then the memory slammed into me like heat lightning. My throat closed around the swallow. I could almost feel the hay scratching the backs of my thighs again, hear the cicadas screaming in the dark, taste the salt on his neck. One cheap bottle of pink wine, and I was seventeen again, barefoot on my grandparents’ farm, heart hammering because a boy named Cade was looking at me like I was something worth discovering.
I set the cup down untouched after that first sip. Some things are better left as memories. But God, they burn bright.
It was the summer I turned eighteen—technically on August first, but the calendar didn’t matter much out there. Days blurred into one long, sticky haze of heat and chores and the low drone of farm life. My parents had shipped me off to Gran and Grandpa’s place outside a nowhere town in east Texas for “fresh air and responsibility.” I hated the idea at first. I was city enough to miss malls and boys who knew how to text, but rural enough to recognize the difference between a good kiss and a great one. Mostly, I was restless. My body felt too big for my skin, full of questions I didn’t know how to ask.
Then Grandpa hired Cade.
He showed up the second week of July in a beat-up Chevy pickup that rattled like it was coughing up its last breath. Twenty years old, home from his sophomore year at A&M, working summers to pay for the next one. Tall—six-two at least—lean from farm labor, dark hair always falling into his eyes, and a quiet smile that made my stomach flip the first time I saw it. He smelled like sun on skin, motor oil, and something faintly sweet, like the hay bales he tossed around without breaking a sweat.
I caught my first real look at him that afternoon. Grandpa had me hauling water to the horses while Cade was out by the east fence line, shirt off, repairing barbed wire. The sun was brutal, turning his shoulders bronze and making sweat trace sluggish, glistening trails down the ridges of his back, disappearing into the waistband of low-slung Wranglers. Every time he pulled the wire taut, the muscles in his forearms flexed, veins standing out against tanned skin. I stood there longer than I should have, bucket forgotten, watching the way his jeans hugged his ass when he bent to grab another staple.
He turned and caught me staring.
Instead of looking away, he held my gaze for a long beat, then gave me that half-smile—slow, knowing, like he’d just figured out a secret I hadn’t told anyone yet. He lifted a hand in a lazy wave. Heat crawled up my neck that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Need help with that bucket, darlin’?” he called.
I jerked my head side to side, sloshing water over my sneakers. “I’m good.”
He chuckled—low, easy—and went back to work. But I swear he flexed a little harder after that.
The next few days were torture in the best way. Small moments stacked up like dry kindling. He’d pass me in the barn, arm brushing mine, and leave goosebumps in ninety-degree heat. He’d offer me the last swallow of his iced tea, watching my throat move when I drank. Once, when I tripped over a root carrying a basket of tomatoes, he caught me by the waist—big hands steady, thumbs pressing just under my ribs through my thin tank top. He held me a second longer than necessary.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice close enough I felt the warmth of his breath on my cheek.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Just clumsy.”
“Nah.” His thumbs gave the tiniest stroke before he let go. “You’re just distracted.”
He wasn’t wrong.
We started finding excuses to be near each other. Chores turned into shared ones. Berry picking in the blackberry patch behind the old smokehouse became our thing. The canes were thick, thorns sharp, but the berries hung heavy and dark, bursting warm against your fingers. We’d work side by side, elbows brushing, pretending it was accidental.
One afternoon, the sun was so hot the air shimmered. I wore cut-off denim shorts and a white tank top, already clinging to my skin with sweat. Cade had his shirt tied around his waist, chest bare, a thin silver chain glinting against his collarbone. We filled our buckets in silence for a while; the only sounds were the soft pop of berries leaving the vine and the distant lowing of cattle.
I reached for a cluster just out of reach. He stepped behind me—close, not touching—and stretched over my shoulder to pluck it. His chest brushed my back; I felt the heat of him, the faint dampness of sweat. He dropped the berries into my palm, then—unhurried—smeared one across my bottom lip with his thumb. The juice was warm, sticky, and sweet.
I froze.
He watched my mouth like he was starving. “You got a little…” he said, voice rougher than usual.
Before I could wipe it, he brought his thumb to his own lips and licked it clean, never breaking eye contact. My thighs clenched so hard I almost whimpered.
“Cade.” My voice came out small, breathless.
He stepped closer, crowding me against the canes. One hand braced on the wire behind me; the other lifted to trace the line of juice still glistening on my lip.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
I didn’t.
He leaned in—slow enough I could have pulled away—and licked the strawberry from my mouth. Just the tip of his tongue, warm and deliberate, tasting the sweetness and maybe a little of me. My knees went weak. I grabbed his forearm for balance; his skin was fever-hot, slick with sweat.
He pulled back an inch, eyes dark. “You taste better than the berries.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I wanted to say something clever, something flirty, but all that came out was a shaky exhale.
That night I couldn’t sleep.
The house was quiet except for the box fan rattling in the window and the crickets outside. My skin felt too tight, restless. I lay on top of the sheets in just a pair of cotton panties, the ceiling fan doing nothing against the heat. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his mouth, felt the ghost of his tongue on my lip.
My hand drifted down almost without permission.
I’d touched myself before—quick, fumbling experiments in the shower—but never like this. Never with someone else’s face in my mind. I slipped my fingers under the elastic, and found myself already wet, slippery. I teased my clit in slow circles—light, teasing—and bit my lip to keep quiet.
But in my head, it wasn’t my hand.
It was his.
Big, calloused fingers parting me, stroking, pressing. I imagined him kneeling between my thighs in the berry patch, shirtless, looking up at me with that same hungry stare while he licked me open. The fantasy made me arch off the mattress. I pictured his tongue—hot, flat, relentless—lapping at me until my hips bucked and I came in shuddering waves, muffling my cry against my forearm.
When the aftershocks faded, I lay there panting, sticky and flushed, staring at the ceiling.
I didn’t feel guilty.
I felt awake.
And I knew—deep in the marrow of me—that this summer was going to change everything.
I just didn’t know how completely.
Stolen Sips & First Touches
Change for this section: None. No direct lyrics or phrases from the song “Strawberry Wine” by Deana Carter appear in this section that would require modification to avoid potential copyright issues.
Stolen Sips & First Touches
After that afternoon in the berry patch, everything felt different. Charged. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of us to break first.
We didn’t talk about the almost-kiss—just that slow drag of his tongue across my lip—but we didn’t need to. The next morning, when I came out to feed the chickens, Cade was already there, leaning against the fence post with two mason jars of sweet tea sweating in his hands. He held one out without a word. Our fingers brushed when I took it. Deliberate. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist for half a second before he let go.
“Thanks,” I said, voice smaller than I meant it to be.
He smiled that slow, crooked smile. “You’re welcome, darlin’.”
From then on, we found ways to steal time. After chores, when Gran was napping, and Grandpa was out checking the back forty, we’d slip away. The riverbank became our first real hideout—a narrow strip of sandy shore shaded by willows, the water slow and green-brown, perfect for dipping bare feet or pretending we were just cooling off.
One afternoon it rained—sudden, hard summer rain that turned the dirt roads to red mud in minutes. We ran for the hayloft instead of the house. The barn smelled like dry grass, old wood, and motor oil. Rain hammered the tin roof like drums while we climbed the ladder, laughing, soaked through.
Up top, the hay bales were stacked high, soft underfoot. We collapsed onto one, breathing hard. My white tank top was plastered to my skin, practically transparent. I could feel my nipples tight against the wet cotton, and when I looked down, so could he.
Cade’s eyes darkened. He reached out slowly, like he was giving me time to stop him, and brushed a wet strand of hair off my cheek. His fingers lingered, tracing my jaw, then down the side of my neck. Goosebumps chased his touch despite the heat.
“You’re shivering,” he murmured.
“Not from cold,” I whispered back.
That was all it took.
He leaned in and kissed me—properly this time. No hesitation, no teasing. His mouth was warm, firm, tasting faintly of sweet tea and rain. I opened for him immediately, hungry. Our tongues met, slick and eager, and I made a small, helpless sound into his mouth that made him groan low in his throat.
His hands found my waist, pulled me closer until I was half in his lap. I straddled one of his thighs without thinking, the pressure against my aching center making me gasp. He slid one palm up under my tank top, rough fingertips skimming my ribs, then cupping my breast. His thumb circled my nipple once, twice—deliberate—then pinched lightly.
I arched into his hand with a whimper. “Cade.”
“God, you’re so sensitive,” he breathed against my lips. “Love how you react.”
He kissed down my neck, sucking gently at the spot where my pulse hammered. His other hand slipped under the hem of my shorts, fingers tracing the elastic of my panties. When he cupped me through the damp cotton, I jolted.
“You’re soaked,” he said, voice rough with awe. Not mocking—reverent.
I buried my face in his shoulder, embarrassed and turned on in equal measure. “Been like this since yesterday,” I admitted in a whisper. “Since you licked that strawberry off my lip.”
He made a hungry sound and pressed the heel of his palm against my clit, rubbing in lazy circles. Even through the fabric it felt electric. I rocked against him instinctively, chasing the pressure.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, lips brushing my ear.
“I don’t know. Just don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He kept that steady rhythm with his hand while his mouth returned to mine, kissing me deep and dirty. I could feel how hard he was against my thigh—thick, insistent—and the thought of it made me clench around nothing. I wanted to touch him, but I was too shy, too overwhelmed.
He seemed to sense it. “You can touch me,” he murmured. “Whenever you want. I want you to.”
My hand shook a little as I slid it down his stomach, feeling the ridges of muscle tense under my fingers. When I reached the bulge in his jeans, I hesitated.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Just feel.”
I palmed him through the denim. He was so hard, so hot, the shape of him obvious even through layers. I traced the length with tentative fingers, fascinated by how he throbbed under my touch. He hissed through his teeth.
“Fuck, baby.”
The endearment made my heart stutter. I squeezed lightly, and he bucked into my hand.
“Like this?” I asked, voice small.
“Exactly like that,” he groaned. “Keep going.”
We stayed like that for what felt like forever—kissing, touching, grinding. His fingers finally slipped under my panties, finding bare, slick skin. He groaned again when he felt how wet I was.
“So fucking perfect,” he muttered.
One finger parted me, stroked up through my folds, and circled my clit with devastating precision. I cried out against his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kept rubbing—slow, then quicker, then easing off—until my hips were jerking, thighs trembling.
“Come for me,” he whispered. “Let me feel it.”
I did—harder than I ever had alone. My whole body seized, pleasure crashing through me in waves. I bit down on his shoulder to muffle the cry, nails digging into his back. He held me through it, fingers still moving gently until I whimpered from oversensitivity.
When I finally went limp against him, he kissed my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“You’re beautiful when you come,” he said quietly.
I laughed shakily. “I’ve never, not with someone else.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes soft. “First of many, I hope.”
We stayed tangled in the hay until the rain slowed to a drizzle. Before we climbed down, he stole one more lingering kiss.
That night, he showed up at the back porch after dark with a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill tucked under his arm.
“Borrowed it from the barn fridge,” he said with a grin. “Figured we could share.”
We walked out to the creek, found our blanket under the willows. The moon was fat and silver, turning the water to mercury. We sat close, shoulders touching, passing the bottle back and forth. It was cloyingly sweet and went straight to my head. Two swallows and the world felt softer, warmer.
He took a long drink, then leaned in and kissed me, mouth full of wine. It spilled between us, cool and sticky, running down my chin. He licked it off, then poured a little from the bottle directly onto my collarbone. The cold made me gasp. He followed the trickle with his tongue, deliberate, sucking lightly at my skin.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured.
I shivered. “More.”
He grinned against my neck. Poured another thin stream between my breasts, right over the damp cotton of my tank top. The fabric turned sheer. He bent and licked the wine from the valley between them, then closed his mouth over one nipple through the shirt. The wet heat, the suction—it made me moan out loud.
“Cade.”
He pulled back just enough to peel the soaked tank over my head, tossing it aside. Cool night air hit my bare skin, tightening my nipples even more. He looked at me like I was something holy, then leaned in again, taking one peak into his mouth. Tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch.
His hand slid between my thighs again, rubbing me through my shorts while he sucked and licked the wine from my skin. I was dripping, aching, desperate.
When the bottle was half gone, he set it aside and pulled me into his lap. I could feel him hard beneath me, straining. I rocked against him instinctively, grinding down on that thick ridge.
“I want,” I started, then faltered.
“Tell me,” he urged, voice hoarse.
“I want to feel you,” I whispered. “Without anything between us.”
His breath hitched. “You sure?”
I nodded. “Not tonight. But soon. I want all of it. With you.”
He kissed me fiercely then, hands gripping my hips, guiding me in a slow grind that had us both panting.
“Soon,” he promised against my mouth. “Real soon.”
We didn’t go further that night—just touching, tasting, losing ourselves in the wine-sweet haze. But when I crawled into bed later, lips swollen, skin marked with faint red from his mouth, body still humming, I knew there was no going back.
Summer had me now.
And so did he.
The Riverbank Revelation
Change for this section: Replaced “under the hot July moon that saw everything” with “under the sultry July moon that witnessed it all” to avoid similarity to the song lyrics of “Strawberry Wine” by Deana Carter.
The Riverbank Revelation
The July moon that year hung full and low and fat over the fields, as if it knew exactly what we were planning. It turned everything silver—the river, the willow leaves, the sweat on our skin. I still remember how it caught in Cade’s eyes that night, dark and molten, like he could see straight through every layer of shyness I had left.
We had been building to this for days. Every stolen kiss, every brush of fingers, every time he had made me come with his hand between my legs had only sharpened the ache. I wanted more than touches now. I wanted him inside me, wanted to know what it felt like to be filled, stretched, claimed. The thought alone made me wet just walking across the field to meet him.
He was waiting at our spot on the riverbank, a blanket already spread, the half-empty bottle of strawberry wine glinting in the moonlight beside him. He had changed into a clean white T-shirt and faded jeans, hair still damp from a shower. When he saw me coming through the tall grass in my little sundress—no bra, thin cotton panties already damp—he stood up slowly, like he was savoring the sight.
“Jesus,” he breathed when I got close enough for him to touch. His hands went straight to my waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin just under the hem of the dress. “You look like a dream.”
I smiled, nervous and bold at once. “You gonna wake me up?”
He kissed me instead of answering—deep, slow, possessive. His tongue slid against mine, tasting faintly of mint and anticipation. I pressed my whole body to his, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach. He groaned into my mouth and backed me toward the blanket until my calves hit the edge and I sank down willingly.
We knelt facing each other in the moonlight. He reached for the wine bottle, took a long swallow, then offered it to me. I drank too—sweet, dizzying, warming my blood. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back, held my gaze, and tipped it slowly over my chest.
A thin, cold stream poured between my breasts, soaking the thin cotton instantly. The fabric clung, outlining every curve, my nipples peaking hard against it. He watched the wine trail down my sternum, over the swell of my belly, darkening the dress in wet patches.
Then he leaned in and followed the path with his tongue.
Unhurried. Deliberate. Starting at the hollow of my throat, licking upward to catch the droplets, then down again—open-mouthed kisses along the sticky trail. When he reached the neckline, he tugged the straps down with his teeth, baring my breasts to the night air. The wine had pooled in the dip between them; he lapped it up like he was dying of thirst, tongue swirling, then closed his mouth over one nipple.
I gasped, fingers threading into his hair. He sucked hard—wet, rhythmic pulls that sent jolts straight between my legs. His hand cupped the other breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching just enough to make me arch.
“Cade, fuck.”
He hummed against my skin, the vibration making me whimper. Then he switched sides—more sucking, more licking—until both peaks were swollen, red, glistening with his spit and traces of pink wine.
He pulled back just enough to peel the dress the rest of the way off, leaving me in nothing but soaked panties. Moonlight painted my skin pale and glowing. He looked at me like I was something sacred and filthy all at once.
“Lie back,” he said, voice gravel-rough.
I did, stretching out on the blanket, heart hammering. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties and dragged them down my legs, slow enough to make me squirm. When they were off, he spread my thighs wide, settling between them on his stomach.
The first touch of his breath against my pussy made me flinch—hot, teasing. Then his tongue—flat, broad—dragged up the entire length of me in one long, luxurious lick.
I cried out, hips jerking.
He groaned like I was the best thing he had ever tasted. “So fucking sweet. Better than the wine.”
He did it again—long, savoring licks from entrance to clit, relishing every inch. Then he focused—tip of his tongue circling my clit in tight, relentless spirals. I fisted the blanket, thighs trembling. When he sucked the little bud into his mouth, flicking rapidly with the tip of his tongue, I nearly came right then.
“God—don’t stop—please.”
He didn’t. One hand slid up to pinch my nipple while the other pushed two fingers inside me—slow at first, then curling, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. He pumped them in time with his tongue, sucking and licking and fingering until I was writhing, babbling his name.
I came hard—shattering, clenching around his fingers, thighs clamping his head. Pleasure rolled through me in endless waves; I think I screamed, but the cicadas drowned it out. He kept going until I was shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
When he finally lifted his head, his chin glistened, lips swollen and red. He crawled up my body, kissing every inch on the way—belly, ribs, breasts—until he was hovering over me.
“Your turn,” he whispered.
My hands were already fumbling with his belt. He helped me, shoving jeans and boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free. Thick, veined, flushed dark, the head slick with precum. It bobbed against his stomach, heavy and perfect.
I wrapped my fingers around him—hot, velvet-hard, pulsing in my grip. He hissed, hips twitching. I stroked slowly, learning the shape, the way the skin slid over the shaft. A bead of precum welled at the tip; I swiped it with my thumb, then—bold in a rush—brought it to my lips and sucked.
His eyes went black. “Fuck, baby.”
I leaned forward and licked the head—tentative at first, tasting salt and musk and the faint sweetness of wine still on my tongue. Then I took more—lips stretching around him, tongue swirling. He groaned, hand cupping the back of my head, not pushing, just guiding.
“Like that… yeah… just like that.”
I bobbed slowly, taking him deeper each time, relaxing my throat until he hit the back. I gagged a little—tears pricking—but I didn’t stop. The sounds he made—low, broken curses—made me bolder. I sucked harder, hollowing my cheeks, one hand stroking what I couldn’t fit.
“Gonna come if you keep that up,” he warned, voice strained.
I pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him through my lashes. “I want you to. In my mouth.”
His control snapped. He guided me back down, hips rocking shallowly. I took him eagerly, humming around him. Two more thrusts and he stiffened, groaning my name as he came—hot, thick spurts coating my tongue. I swallowed it all, surprised by how much I liked the taste, the intimacy of it.
He collapsed beside me, breathing hard, pulling me into his arms. We lay tangled, sticky with sweat and wine and each other, moonlight washing over us.
After a while, he kissed my forehead. “You okay?”
“More than okay,” I whispered. “I want the rest. Soon.”
He smiled against my skin. “Soon,” he promised again.
But that night, under the sultry July moon that witnessed it all, we were already changed. No more pretending this was just summer fun.
This was real.
And we were only getting started.
Hayloft Hunger
Change for this section: None. No direct lyrics or phrases from the song “Strawberry Wine” by Deana Carter appear in this section that would require modification to avoid potential copyright issues.
Hayloft Hunger
The heatwave struck the week after that moonlit night on the riverbank, thickening the air into syrup and pressing down until even breathing felt intimate. Nights refused to cool; the house stayed stifling with every window open and the box fan roaring. Sleep became impossible. Desire refused to be ignored.
Cade texted me after midnight—old flip phone, no emojis, just plain words that still made my pulse jump:
Hayloft. Now. Bring the last bottle.
I slipped out the back door in nothing but an oversized T-shirt that barely skimmed my thighs and fresh cotton panties already damp from thinking about him. The grass felt cool under my bare feet, the sky bruised purple with heat lightning flickering on the horizon. Every step toward the barn felt like crossing a threshold I could never uncross.
He was already up there when I climbed the ladder—shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, leaning against a bale with the Boone’s Farm bottle dangling from two fingers. Moonlight slanted through the cracks in the boards, painting stripes across his chest and catching the faint sheen of sweat that never quite dried in this weather.
He looked at me like I was the only thing that could save him from burning alive.
I crossed the hay-strewn floor on shaky legs. He set the bottle down, reached for me, and pulled me straight into his lap without a word. Our mouths met hard—teeth clashing, tongues desperate, like we had been starving for days instead of hours. His hands slid under the T-shirt immediately, palms rough and hot against my bare back, then lower, cupping my ass and grinding me down onto the thick ridge already straining against his jeans.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasped against my lips. “About being inside you. How wet you get for me. How you taste when you come on my tongue.”
The words alone made me clench. I rocked against him, feeling the heat of his cock through denim. “Then stop thinking,” I whispered. “Do it.”
He froze for half a second—searching my eyes—then exhaled like I had punched the air out of him.
“Fuck. You sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything.”
He kissed me again, softer this time, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth. Then he lifted the T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside. Cool air hit my skin; my nipples tightened instantly. He looked at me—really looked—tracing the curve of my breasts with his gaze, then his fingertips, then his mouth.
He took one nipple between his lips, sucking with slow, deep pulls while his hand slipped between my thighs. Fingers found the soaked cotton, pressed, rubbed. I whimpered, hips jerking.
“So ready for me,” he murmured. “Always so fucking ready.”
He peeled my panties down, helped me kick them off, then stood long enough to shove his jeans and boxers to his knees. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. I reached for him instinctively, stroking once, twice, spreading the slickness over the head until he hissed.
“Baby… need to be careful. First time. Don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” I said, even though my heart pounded with nerves and want in equal measure. “Just go slow.”
He nodded, kissed me again—long, deep—then guided me down onto the blanket we had spread over the hay. He settled between my thighs, cock heavy against my stomach, and reached for the wine bottle.
“Trust me?” he asked.
“Always.”
He tipped the bottle, letting a thin trickle pour over my breasts, down my stomach, pooling in my navel, then lower—dripping onto my mound, sliding between my folds. The cold made me gasp; the stickiness made me ache.
Then he followed it with his mouth.
He licked the wine from my skin in long, greedy strokes—breasts, ribs, belly—until he reached my pussy. He spread me with his thumbs, exposing every inch, then dragged his tongue through the sticky-sweet mess he had made. The combination of wine and my own arousal made him groan against me.
“Tastes like fucking heaven,” he muttered, before burying his face deeper.
He ate me like he was starving—tongue flat and broad, then pointed and flicking, circling my clit, dipping inside me. Two fingers joined his tongue, curling, stroking that spot until my hips bucked and I was begging.
“Please—Cade—need you inside—”
He rose over me, cock in hand, rubbing the head through my slick folds, coating himself in wine and wetness. The blunt pressure at my entrance made me tense, then melt.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Look at me.”
I did. His eyes locked on mine—dark, tender, fierce—as he pushed in.
Unhurried. So unhurried.
The stretch burned at first—sharp, unfamiliar—but he paused every inch, kissing me, murmuring against my lips: “You’re doing so good… so tight… fuck, you feel perfect…”
When he bottomed out, hips flush to mine, we both stilled. Full. Overwhelming. Connected in a way that stole my breath.
“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.
I nodded, tears pricking my eyes—not from pain, but from how much I felt. How safe. How wanted.
“Move,” I whispered.
He did—slow rolls at first, letting me adjust, then deeper, steadier thrusts. The burn faded into pleasure—hot, building, electric. I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him harder.
“God—yes—right there—”
He groaned, pace quickening. Skin slapped skin; hay rustled beneath us. Sweat slicked every inch where we touched. I could feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbbed inside me.
“Touch yourself,” he growled. “Come with me inside you.”
My fingers found my clit—swollen, slippery—and circled fast. The dual sensation—his cock hitting deep, my fingers frantic—pushed me over in seconds. I came with a broken cry, clenching around him so hard he cursed.
“Fuck—gonna—where—”
“Inside,” I gasped. “Please—want to feel it—”
He thrust once, twice more—deep, erratic—then buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural moan. Hot pulses filled me; I felt every one, felt him shudder above me, felt the way his arms trembled as he held himself up.
We stayed locked together, panting, hearts hammering in tandem.
He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my mouth—soft now, almost worshipful.
“I love you,” he whispered, so quiet I almost missed it.
The words landed like summer rain on fevered skin—shocking, soothing, impossible to answer in the moment. So I just held him tighter, let my fingers trace the sweat-slick planes of his back, and whispered back the only truth I had:
“Don’t let go yet.”
We didn’t.
Round two came slower—after he had cleaned me gently with the edge of the blanket, after we had shared the last swallows of wine straight from each other’s mouths. This time he turned me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and entered me from behind. Deeper angle. Rougher. His hand covered my mouth when my moans grew too loud—grandparents asleep in the house just across the yard—while the other slipped between my legs, rubbing my clit in time with his thrusts.
“Quiet, baby,” he breathed in my ear. “But don’t hold back. Come hard for me.”
I did—muffling my scream against his palm as pleasure ripped through me again. He followed seconds later, spilling inside me once more, collapsing over my back, both of us trembling.
After, we lay tangled in the hay—sticky, sated, hearts laid bare in the quiet.
He traced lazy circles on my hip. “This summer, it’s not just sex for me.”
I turned in his arms, met his eyes. “It’s not for me either.”
We didn’t say the rest—how summer would end, how college waited for him, how I still had senior year and a whole life I hadn’t figured out yet. We didn’t need to. The truth was already there, heavy and sweet in the air between us.
Like strawberry wine.
We stayed until the sky started to lighten, then slipped back to our separate beds—bodies marked, hearts bruised in the best way.
But we both knew: the hunger wasn’t gone.
It had only grown teeth.
Summer’s Fever Pitch
The weeks after that first night in the hayloft blurred into a fever dream of skin and heat and whispered promises we both knew we could never keep forever. Summer had turned possessive—every day shorter, every night longer, every touch more desperate because we could feel the calendar flipping pages behind our backs.
We became reckless in the most beautiful way.
Mornings started innocently enough: me carrying feed buckets while he repaired fence posts, our eyes catching across the yard, a secret smile that said last night is still on my skin. By noon, we found excuses—checking the irrigation line in the far field, hauling hay to the loft again, driving the old tractor to the back pasture just to be alone. Anywhere the house could not see.
One blistering afternoon, we took his Chevy out to the edge of the sorghum field, windows down, radio low. He pulled off onto a dirt track barely wide enough for the truck, killed the engine, and looked at me with that slow-burning stare that always made my thighs press together.
“Get in the back,” he said.
I climbed over the seat, heart already racing. He followed, pulling me onto my lap so I straddled him in the cramped space. The windows fogged over almost instantly from our breathing. His hands shoved my sundress up around my waist; my panties were yanked to the side without preamble. He was already hard, jeans open, cock thick and ready.
No words—just need.
I sank down onto him in one slow, slick glide. We both groaned at the stretch, the fullness. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise as I rode him—fast, frantic, the truck rocking on its springs. The windows were completely fogged; anyone driving by on the county road would have known exactly what was happening. That risk only made it hotter.
“Fuck, baby—you feel so good,” he growled, thrusting up to meet me. “Tight little pussy squeezing me like you never want to let go.”
I didn’t. I never wanted to let go.
I came first—clenching around him, biting his shoulder to muffle the cry. He followed seconds later, spilling deep inside me with a choked curse, holding me down so every pulse stayed buried.
We stayed like that afterward, sweaty and tangled, foreheads pressed together while our breathing slowed.
“I don’t want this to end,” I whispered.
He kissed me softly—too softly for what we had just done. “Me neither.”
But we both heard the lie underneath. College started in three weeks for him. I still had a senior year, college applications, and a life mapped out that did not include following a boy two states away.
We didn’t talk about it. We fucked instead.
Behind the barn one evening, while Gran called us for supper—quick, dirty, me on my knees in the dirt, his cock in my mouth until he came down my throat, then bending me over a hay bale and taking me from behind while I braced against the rough wood. His hand covered my mouth again; I bit down on his palm to keep from screaming when I came.
In the river at midnight—water cools against fevered skin. He lifted me, legs wrapped around his waist, fucked me slow and deep in the shallows while moonlight danced on the ripples. I came twice—once on his cock, once on his fingers after he pulled out and rubbed my clit until I shook.
In his truck bed under the stars, blanket beneath us, wine bottle between us. He drizzled the last of it over my pussy, licked me clean, then fucked me face-to-face so we could watch each other come undone. That night he whispered things I will never forget:
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I think about you when I’m supposed to be studying.”
“If I could stay here forever, I would.”
Each confession felt like a knife and a caress at once.
We got inventive. One afternoon in the hayloft, he slid a finger into my ass while he fucked my pussy—careful, stretching me open while I whimpered and begged for more. The dual fullness sent me spiraling; I came so hard I squirted a little, soaking his stomach. He laughed low against my ear—“That’s my girl”—then flipped me onto my hands and knees and fucked me through another orgasm, hand fisted in my hair, calling me beautiful, perfect, his.
Another night we tried riding his face in the truck cab—I braced against the headliner, thighs trembling around his ears while he sucked my clit and fingered me until I shattered, dripping down his chin. He licked every drop like it was the last thing he would ever taste.
Through it all, the emotion grew heavier than the lust.
We talked in the quiet spaces—after sex, when our bodies were spent, and our hearts were wide open. He told me about his mom leaving when he was twelve, how his dad drank too much, how college was his ticket out, but also terrified him because it meant leaving everything familiar behind. I told him about feeling invisible in my own house, how my parents loved me but never really saw me, how this summer was the first time I felt truly wanted.
“I see you,” he said one night, tracing my spine while we lay naked in the hay. “Every part. The scared parts, the brave parts, the dirty parts. All of it.”
I cried then—not loud, just quiet tears that slipped into his chest hair. He held me tighter, kissed the top of my head, and didn’t tell me it would be okay.
Because we both knew it wouldn’t.
The end started creeping in like evening shadows across the fields. Grandpa mentioned offhand that Cade’s last day was the 20th—two weeks away. I felt it like a punch. That night we met at the riverbank again, no wine this time, just us.
We made love slowly—missionary under the stars, legs wrapped tight, eye contact never breaking. Every thrust felt like goodbye. When I came, tears slipped down my temples; he kissed them away, then buried his face in my neck and came inside me with a broken sound that wasn’t just pleasure.
Afterward we lay there, his weight comforting, his heartbeat steady against mine.
“I love you,” he said again—this time clear, deliberate, no whisper.
I swallowed hard. “I love you too.”
The words were true. They just arrived too late to change anything.
We stayed until the sky turned pink, then walked back separately—him to the bunkhouse, me to the porch swing where I sat until sunrise, tasting salt on my lips and feeling the ache settle deep in my bones.
Summer wasn’t over yet.
But the fever had broken.
And what was left was something sharper, sweeter, and infinitely more painful.
Sweet on the Vine
The last night arrived too fast, the way summer storms do—building quietly all day, then breaking without warning.
We did not plan anything elaborate. No grand gestures, no stolen bottle of wine. Just the hayloft again, because it felt like the only place that still belonged to us. The air was thick with the smell of dry grass and coming rain. Cicadas screamed their final chorus outside the open loft doors; inside, everything was hushed, careful, like we were afraid loud words might shatter what little time we had left.
I climbed the ladder first. He followed, slower, like every rung cost him something. When he reached the top, he did not speak—just pulled me into his arms and held me so tight I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs. We stood like that for a long minute, breathing each other in, memorizing.
Then he kissed me.
It was not frantic like so many nights before. It was slow, deep, achingly tender. His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as if I might disappear if he let go. I tasted salt—mine, his, I could not tell—and something sweeter underneath, the ghost of every strawberry we had ever shared.
We undressed each other without hurry. No ripping clothes, no desperate fumbling. Just careful fingers undoing buttons, sliding straps down shoulders, peeling denim over hips. When we were bare, he laid me down on the blanket we had claimed weeks ago, the one still faintly stained with wine and sweat and us.
He settled between my thighs, but he did not push inside yet. Instead, he kissed every inch of me—collarbone, breasts, the soft curve of my stomach, the inside of my wrists—like he was saying goodbye to each part in turn. When he reached my mouth again, his eyes were wet.
“I love you,” he said, voice rough. “I have loved you since the first time you looked at me like I was worth seeing.”
Tears burned my own eyes. “I love you too. I always will.”
He entered me then—careful, eyes never leaving mine. The stretch was familiar now, welcome, but tonight it felt different. Deeper. Like every inch connected, something that could not be undone. We moved together in long, measured strokes—his hips rolling, my legs wrapped high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him closer, deeper.
No dirty talk. No begging. Just quiet gasps, soft moans, the wet sounds of our bodies meeting, the rustle of hay beneath us. His hand found mine; our fingers laced tight. When I started to tremble, when the pleasure coiled low and bright in my belly, he pressed his forehead to mine.
“Come with me,” he whispered. “Please. Let me feel you one more time.”
I did—quietly this time, a soft, shuddering release that rolled through me like warm water. My walls fluttered around him; he groaned low, buried his face in my neck, and came inside me with slow, pulsing thrusts, spilling everything he had left. We stayed locked together afterward, breathing hard, hearts pounding in the same uneven rhythm.
He did not pull out right away. We lay joined, his weight comforting, his arms caging me like he could keep the morning from coming. Eventually, he softened and slipped free; I felt the warm trickle between my thighs and did not care. He cleaned me gently with the corner of the blanket, then pulled me against his chest, wrapping us both in what was left of the fabric.
We talked in murmurs until the sky began to lighten—small, fragile things. How he would call every weekend from college. How I would send letters with pressed wildflowers tucked inside. Maybe next summer he would come back. We both knew they were beautiful lies, but we told them anyway because the truth was too heavy to carry in the dark.
When the first rooster crowed across the fields, he kissed me one last time—soft, lingering, tasting of tears and goodbye.
“I will never forget this,” he said. “Never forget you.”
“Me neither.”
He dressed first, then helped me into my clothes with careful hands. We climbed down the ladder together, stepped out into the gray pre-dawn. His Chevy was already packed, parked by the bunkhouse. He opened the driver’s door, paused, and looked back at me standing on the porch steps in the cool morning air.
I lifted a hand. He lifted his in return.
Then he got in, started the engine, and drove away down the long dirt road. Dust rose behind the tires like smoke. I watched until the taillights disappeared around the bend, until the sound of the motor faded into birdsong and cicadas.
I stood there a long time after.
Gran found me on the porch swing later, an empty Boone’s Farm bottle beside me—pink residue dried on the glass. She did not ask questions, just sat down and put her arm around my shoulders.
“First love’s the hardest,” she said quietly. “But it’s also the sweetest.”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
That afternoon, I went back to the riverbank alone. Sat on our blanket, still faintly scented with him, and let the tears come properly. Not dramatic sobs—just quiet, steady crying that washed some of the ache away. When the sun dipped low, I walked home, barefoot through the grass, carrying the empty bottle like a talisman.
Summer ended. I went home. Senior year started. Letters came for a while—his handwriting was careful, full of stories about dorm life and classes and how much he missed the farm, missed me. Then they slowed. Then they stopped. I understood. Life moves on, even when your heart wants to stay stuck in July.
Years passed. I grew up, moved to Dallas, built a life—job, friends, a few relationships that never quite caught fire the way that summer had. I kept the memory tucked away like a pressed flower between pages, fragile but intact.
Then one Fourth of July, at a neighbor’s barbecue, someone handed me a plastic cup of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. I took one sip—cloying, artificial, perfect—and the years fell away.
I could still feel the hay against my back, taste the wine on his tongue, hear his whispered “I love you” under a fat July moon. My chest ached, but it was not all pain. There was warmth there too. Gratitude. A quiet pride that I had once loved so completely, so fearlessly.
I set the cup down after that single sip.
Some things are better left as memories.
But God, they burn bright.
I smiled into the Texas heat, raised my empty hand like a toast to a boy long gone and a girl who once burned so fiercely she left scorch marks on the summer sky.
Strange how those recollections endure. Like berry wine. And the sweetness on the vine remains unchanged.
