My Wild Sexy Summer With Country Chicks... -hot -

“Depends on what’s in it,” I replied.

“You’ve been watching us,” she said, untying her flannel from her waist. My Wild Sexy Summer With Country Chicks... -HOT

Let’s just say I learned that country chicks don’t just like to share. They excel at it. Autumn came too fast. The leaves turned gold and crimson. The first frost kissed the fields. And I had a choice: go back to the city, back to the gray cubicles and the cold apartments and the women who thought “adventure” meant trying a new brunch spot. “Depends on what’s in it,” I replied

And every night, when the Kentucky sun sets in a blaze of orange and purple, I thank the Lord—and every devil I know—for the summer three country chicks taught this city boy exactly what “hot” really means. They excel at it

“You’re late, city boy,” she drawled, not even looking up. “And you’re lost. That’s a German car. It’ll last a week out here.”

June was nothing like her cousins. Daisy was a wildfire. Savannah was a deep river. June? June was lightning in a jar. She pushed me onto a saddle rack and took control in a way that left me breathless and begging. She was loud, unapologetic, and wild. She bit my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

“I’ve been learning,” I corrected.