Title: Second First

Fandom: South of Nowhere

Pairing: Ashley/Spenser

Author: Harper

Rating: R – for the use of a naughty, naughty word

Archiving: This will be at www.realmoftheshadow.com/harper.htm with the rest of my drivel. Kim is kind enough to house it.

Disclaimers: I do not own them. I’m not making any money from this, and I hope the creators don’t get overly offended at my hi-jacking of their creations.

A/N: This is un-beta’d, so please ignore all mistakes. Comments are always welcome, no matter the flavor. I’ll be at xfjnky2@yahoo.com.

She could have crawled up into those innocent baby blues and died.


Died from some kind of internal combustion driven by an overload of unadulterated lust, and she’d never seen herself as a horse-riding kind of girl, but for Spenser, she’d even buy the outfit.

Jodhpurs and all.

Who gave a fuck if she looked ridiculous if it meant that she’d get soft girl kisses mixed with the earthy sweet smell of hay, and cornsilk blonde hair under her fingertips as they sank into a kind of sticky, kind of hot bed of what amounted to dried up grass.

She’d never wanted a palomino more, not even when she was 6 and it seemed like the thing to do.

And if Spenser wanted another first time, one that wasn’t over before it really began and one that sure as hell meant something (because Ashley wasn’t planning on scrimping on the love part of the equation), then she’d get her could-care-less parents to assuage their guilt through a membership for two at the nearest, most deserted riding stable she could find. She’d erase the memory of fumbling boy fingers and too sloppy kisses and a second and a half of not even close to Heaven.

Clear the calendar, she was claiming the whole day.

If she’d been trying to seduce Spenser with her steamy hot tale of first time girl on girl action, then she’d been outclassed by a rank amateur. Shyly wry disappointment and eyes begging for the promise of more still left her a steaming puddle of mush on her bedroom floor, even after the 76th private viewing of her supposed documentary. Slick, that, her oh so subtle introduction of sex into their relationship, blanketed under the cover of teenaged dreams of auteur fame.

So slick that she’d tripped herself, falling headfirst into something she didn’t even want to try and define. Something more, something fatally alluring, something she hoped wouldn’t break her heart.

Something she was going to get. No excuses allowed.

The End


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