Fleece (First Time Tales Book 2)

By: Jax Lusty & JJ Lusty
1





One ~ Vince





The creature I have trapped between my legs demands my full attention. Sure, there’s a struggle. She’s desperate to be free of my hold, but she doesn’t always fight. Sometimes, she surrenders to the way I move her and it becomes almost a dance, the two of us swaying in unison even though I’m the one with all the control. Her eyes are wild when I choose her, pulling her from the safety of the group she’s huddled with. It’s better for both of us once she understands fighting me is futile because in the end, she will submit.

They always do.

When I’m done with her, once she’s turned 180 degrees between my legs and I’ve attended every inch of her body, she’ll leave my hold, a little shocked, but relieved. Dismissed with a slap on her naked pink ass, she’ll make a beeline for the chute she’s had her eye on ever since I dragged her between my legs.

Today we’re doing a pre-lambing shear of the Ravenscleugh Station ewes, but my focus isn’t entirely on the sheep.

In the corner, talking to the wool classer, is the person I haven’t seen since she was in her early teens. Five years on, Rebecca Arlington is a young woman, and if she discovers I’m here I’ll most likely be escorted off the station. For my uncle’s sake, I need to keep my head down, both to do a good job on the sheep and to stay out of the sights of Rebecca and her father.

Our history is painful, and I shouldn’t be here. This is a favour to Uncle Gary. He is a shearing contractor, running gangs who travel from farm to farm around the Central Otago region of New Zealand’s South Island through our seasonal shear and placing anyone who wants it overseas for the off season. New Zealand shearers are in a class of their own and sought after worldwide so there’s always plenty of work.

Uncle Gary picked me up when I was at my lowest ebb, taught me to shear, then sent me overseas for a few years to get rid of my anger and have some fun. I’ve only been back in New Zealand a couple of weeks. Shearing isn’t my life’s calling. In fact, it’s bloody hard but well-paid work. My intention wasn’t to come back to shearing, but to find a farm to buy or manage. But Gary called this morning to say that one of his shearers had broken his wrist after fifteen minutes on the job. He didn’t have anyone spare, so could I step in.

When he told me the shear was at Ravenscleugh Station, I tried to turn him down until Gary reminded me it wasn’t the owner, Robert Arlington, I was doing a favour for, but Gary. I owe the guy, even though he’d never look at it that way, and he is the only family I have, so I agreed.

In truth, I shouldn’t be detected. Ravenscleugh is onto its second manager since I left, and he wouldn’t know me from the next tussock bush. I presumed Rebecca would have been at university, and even if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t have foreseen her being in the shed. But here she is, and nothing has prepared me for the way I react to her.

She was a fun young teenager when I left. Someone I grew up with, thought of as a little sister in a lot of ways. Now? Holy fuck, she’s a beautiful woman.

A stand is where one shearer works, and this is a six-stand shed. It’s a shearer’s altar, a place where nobody approaches unless they’re invited in with a glance or a hand signal. Talking is futile over the constant noise, the beats coming from the old stereo, the sound of the clippers, the complaints from the sheep. It’s oddly peaceful once you find your rhythm.

I steal another look at Rebecca. There’s no opportunity to study her properly, to see how she’s changed from the kid who tagged after me like a puppy. I taught her to ride her first pony and train her first sheepdog. Her hair was golden, like sun-bleached hay, and I’m pleased she still wears it long, although it seems lighter than it was. There is a wayward strand intent on escaping to fall across her face. Twice I’ve seen her tuck it behind her ear—a gesture that stops my breath. She does it again, and the man alongside her, the one in the sharp European clothes, the swarthy complexion and the grooming that’s more suited to an outside table at a smart French café than a shearing shed, leans in close to Rebecca and says something.

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