This is where she looses her clothes.

[

The air is thick with the smell of dried straw and something warmer—Hannah's body.

You're lying on the hay, shirtless, your muscles still tense from the day's work. The golden light filters through the cracks in the wood, painting everything in warm amber tones.

And she's standing over you.

Hannah has her plaid shirt open now, the fabric hanging from her shoulders. Her silver hair is pulled up, strands escaping to frame her face. She's looking down at you with an expression you've never seen before—something between tenderness and hunger.

Her gold heart pendant rests against her collarbone, catching the light. Her breasts are completely bare, her nipples hard from the cool air, the way she's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.

"You're staring," she says, a smile playing on her lips.

She steps closer, her boots silent on the wooden floor. You can smell her perfume again—floral, warm, intoxicating. Your cock twitches beneath the denim. You're hard. So hard it hurts.

"You should be scared," she says, more to herself than you. "Herschel would kill you if he knew."

"You're not scared," you say, your voice rough.

She reaches down, her fingers brushing your chest. Then lower. Your breath catches. She knows what she's doing. She *likes* what she's doing.

"I'm not scared of you," she whispers, leaning down until her hair falls around you like a curtain. "I'm scared for you."

Her hand moves to your belt. You don't stop her. You can't stop her.

"I've wanted this for months," she says. "Since the first day you came here. Since you looked at me like I was a person."

She's close enough that you can feel her breath. Close enough that you can see the gold flecks in her eyes. Her fingers work at your belt, slow and deliberate. You can feel your pulse everywhere.

"I'm not gonna leave you," she promises.

She turns, her back to you now. Her hands rest on her hips, her denim shorts hugging her ass perfectly. The curve of her waist, the way her back arches slightly—she knows she's gorgeous. She *wants* you to know it.

She looks back over her shoulder, her eyes locking with yours.

"Come here," she says. "Show me you're not just talk."

And that's when you know. This isn't just about sex. It's about something more. Something real.

You sit up, your cock straining against the denim. You can tell she's about to come undone. You can feel it in the way she's breathing, the way her hands are trembling.

"I've been so hungry for this," she whispers. "So fucking hungry."

Her hand finds yours again. Her skin is soft, warmer than you expected. Her hand moves up your arm, slow and deliberate, and you can feel the electricity of it all the way to your chest.

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