2
FINN
Horace Meecham was a lucky man. His bride was everything a man could want. Everything I could want. She was a tiny thing, barely reaching my shoulder. I'd lifted sacks of grain heavier than her. When I'd pulled her from the stage and lowered her to the ground and got my first good look at her, I tried to hide my amazement. In the bright sunshine, her hair was the color of winter wheat, her skin an equally pale shade as if never been out in the sun. Porcelain. White as cream. I remembered the feel of her body beneath my fingers, soft in all the right places. My hands were so big, they'd easily spanned her waist and my thumbs had brushed the underside of her very round breasts. It was her eyes, the wary, fiery looks she sent my way, that had me hooked. The combination was...arousing
