by Julia Kent
The orgasm was right there, waiting impatiently, tapping its feet and eager to begin the festivities. Last night their lovemaking had been slow and generous, sleeping and explorative, with as much time as they liked and a reconnection from being torn apart by obligations and her dad’s need to steal Jeremy away and put him through various litmus tests.
Now? Now she just wanted to get fucked, and fucked well, and for Jeremy to drive the dream out of her via cockhammer.
“You feel so good,” he rasped; Lydia’s ears perked for the telltale sign all men release before they come. Their couplings had been so few since getting together (though copious for such a short time period), yet this eluded her. She needed more time, more lovemaking, more—
More.
Unable to catch his tell, her own climax slammed into her by surprise, transporting her to ecstasy via first-class upgrade, the sweetness of this orgasm in this moment so pure and eternal she could love in this state forever, Jeremy whispering her name until he tensed and poured into her, friction and passion and adrenaline most welcome cabinmates.
A blast of cold air cut her pleasure short as Jeremy arched his back up, still in her though fading, and planted one kiss on each of her achingly pert nipples, the peach nubs fused into near steel by the cold.
“Are you crazy?” she squealed, hopelessly flailing to find the cover’s edge with hands too short to reach. A smack on that beautifully rock-solid ass was her only defense.
“Crazy about you.” With a simple twist and grab he pulled the covers over them, a shiver that made him fall out of her taking over that never-ending body, so male and tall and relaxed—a mixed message of humanity she enjoyed getting to know.
Cuddling under the covers, they sat in silence, Jeremy blowing puffs of air that turned to translucent white clouds.
“Holy shit. I didn’t realize it was that cold.”
“October in Maine. It could snow.” A light punch on the shoulder made him laugh.
“If it snows, does this cabin have a fireplace?”
“Wood stove.”
“Coffee maker?”
Lydia pointed to the tiny “kitchen,” a table with a mini-fridge, microwave and a coffee maker. “Yep. Mom put them in a few years ago.”
“Coffee?” His hopeful tone made her laugh.
“Something from the grocery store. I’m sure she stocked a small can.”
“Then I have everything I need.” A light kiss on her nose made her heart swell.
“No beer.”
He pretended to clutch his heart. “Dealbreaker! I’d have to go out in the snow, then.”
“You have to go anyhow. Talent show, remember?”
Propping up on one elbow, he turned to her, a half-smile stretching his face from amused to perplexed. “Your dad is really gunning for me to be in this thing.”
She couldn’t help it—the laughter came. “He does that to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”
“Why does he want me to eat marshmallows shot out of someone’s nose?”
“It’s a litmus test.”
He cocked one eyebrow.
“If it’s too gross, then don’t—”
Jeremy snorted. “I’ve eaten way worse in Southeast Asia.”
“Then a snot-covered marshmallow shouldn’t be too bad.”
“Will your brothers promise not to beat me up if I do it?”
“My brothers? You’re afraid of them?” she scoffed.
“Not afraid, but that Miles…”
“Miles is a big baby.”
“Emphasis on big.”
“He’s your size!”
“That’s big to me. Iceland freaked me out. You live most of your life avoiding eye contact on general principle and find it easy because everyone’s shorter than you. And now you throw not one, but two men my size my way…”
“Wuss.”
“I punched a guy out for you! How can I be a wuss?”
He had her there.
Another cold blast. Geez, the guy didn’t understand Maine weather. Who wasted perfectly good body heat like that?
A guy who’d spent the better part of ten years in the tropics.
So why wasn’t he cold? The crisp, cold air seemed not to bother him in the least. Which was good, right? It boded well for the future.
Whatever that might be.
The rustle of kitchen supplies and then, within a minute, the beginning gurgles of a coffee maker made Lydia deliriously happy on top of being ridiculously satisfied.
“There’s no cream or sugar in here, so I hope you’re okay with black,” Jeremy said, walking from around a large hutch in the single-room cabin, completely naked and holding two hot mugs of coffee, and shivering.
“Are you insane?” she said, enjoying the eye candy. “Everything’s smaller in the cold, isn’t it?”
“Hey!” He recoiled, as if offended. “I resemble that remark.” He looked down. “Really resemble that remark. Now get over so I can get under the covers.” Setting the hot mugs of coffee down on the end table, he scurried under, ice-cold hands sliding between her thighs, making her yelp. “Consider that payback,” he growled, and then nipped at her neck.
His thighs pressed against her, calves entangled between, their feet jockeying for warmth. That smaller, shriveled member rose up as her own heat infused his body, and she realized once again her power. Snuggling under the covers, she wanted nothing more than this. He kissed her neck, sat up and handed her a cup of coffee. “We both need this and we should drink it before it’s too cold.”
“This is nothing like the coffee in Iceland,” she said, suddenly wistful.
“I’ll bet if you asked your parents to build you a garden-top lounging area with a coffee shop underneath, they’d do it.” He snickered, and the first sense of unease on this trip, other than the drive into the campground, hit her.
“What do you mean by that?” she said, trying to cover it, using a jocular tone that was more fake than sincere.
“I mean your dad adores you.” His voice went husky. “And your mom…God, I got the third degree last night.” He rubbed his eyes and took a sip of the coffee, staring straight ahead.
Lydia didn’t know what to make of it. Was this good? Was this bad? Was he afraid? Was he going to run away? Everything was so new, and unlike with Matt, this felt more like real life. Everything during her short time with Matt—no, Mike—had been a wonderland, completely divorced from who she really was and how she really lived. Having Jeremy here in her bed, naked next to her, having just made coffee and bringing it to her, making comments and asking questions along with astute observations—it all struck home. Home. That was what this was about. She was home.
She’d never been home with Mike, had she? Never had a chance to see how he would operate with Pete or Sandy, or Miles, or any of them. There was no awkward meshing of her past and her present. That she was forging with Jeremy, wasn’t she? The unease, then, was the feeling of letting a man in. Bringing him here was an enormous step, and one that Sandy had acknowledged, and Krysta, and Miles, and Pete, and all of them. Because Lydia didn’t do that.
She drank her coffee and stared straight ahead. The silence was overwhelmed by the chatter of birds and squirrels, and other forest critters. Leaves wisped against the cabin, falling softly to the dirt ground outside. The shouts of small children running about, and the occasional whir of a bike wheel flying past, were all she heard.
Something dull and checked out in Jeremy’s eyes faded as he turned and looked down at her. Sitting up in bed, with the comforter pulled up to their chins, one arm looped out for the coffee mug. She felt like a couple, like a settled couple, and yet what was she supposed to do with the dreams?
It was not as if Mike and she and Jeremy were going to live in some happy, unconventional polyamorist vision of perfection, right? Gulping her coffee, she damn near burned the back of her mouth, Jeremy’s eyes questioning, but his mouth remaining firmly shut.
“Where are you taking me?” Jeremy demanded, Lyd
ia’s silence driving him nuts. The campground was growing on him—especially the crisp autumn air and making love under the thick down comforter in their cabin last night. And this morning. And, hopefully, tonight…
He hardened at the memory of her soft moans and hips rising up to meet his tongue, how her hands roamed his back and squeezed his ass while he pumped into her, the way her eyes closed and lips parted in deep concentration right before an orgasm…
A man could definitely get used to this.
The Lydia she’d become in one short day was remarkable. A blend of the woman he’d met and who had unfolded before him in Iceland with someone more textured, more centered, Lydia scampered ahead of him on a trail that seemed abandoned, the skeletal echo of foot traffic reflected only in a thin strip of bare ground, not quite the width of his foot, that snaked between overgrown brush and tiny pine trees. Whoever had traversed this path last had done so with light feet.
“You’ll see in a minute,” she called back. Worn jeans cupped her ass like a man’s grateful hands, the faded denim contouring in all the right places. He nearly drooled, marveling at that lush ass and the flannel shirt that flew with her movement, the tails behind her, flapping as she half-ran to her destination. She wore boots purchased in Iceland—strong, black things that she’d fallen in love with on her second-to-last day in Reykjavik, babbling a series of words involving hiking details as if speaking another language.
For Jeremy, boots were boots. They covered your feet and made it easy to manage trails. Done. End of discussion.
Sure-footed and swift, she moved with a catlike grace that surprised him. Accustomed to seeing her in Iceland, in the city, a fish out of water, the ownership she possessed here at her family’s campground was so different. Lydia didn’t walk in the woods like someone on a simple stroll. She claimed the land with each footstep, dominating it the way someone who has memorized every inch of territory demonstrates mastery without needing to try.
Just like she did in bed.
The morning’s activities took over his body like a flash mob of lust, his dick hardening and blood pounding. That made hiking more of a challenge, and he lagged behind as he willed himself down just enough to keep walking at Lydia’s determined clip.
“Slowpoke!” she called back.
If only you knew.
Long legs gave him an evolutionary advantage, and with a few tight squeezes that made his testicles cry “Uncle!”, he contorted his body under some brush to catch up to her, finding her perched at the edge of a breathtaking alcove, the ocean’s water like rippled mirrors against the backdrop of a burnished gold island behind it, the sun still muted in the sky. Saltwater-flavored air licked at his lips, and when he inhaled deeply, it was as if he took her in along with the ocean’s taste. The Lydia he’d met at that charity ball, the one he’d known in Iceland—was she the real self? Because the woman he’d been shown this past day was more layered and nuanced than he’d suspected.
And it pleased him.
She snuggled against him, tucked nicely at his rib, and he welcomed the affection as much as the warmth. “How are you so hot?” he asked, surprised by the volume of body heat she emanated.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the women,” she said in a seductive voice.
“Only the ones who wake me with morning sex in the equivalent of an igloo.”
“Given your travels, that makes me the third?”
He snorted, completely taken off guard. “That makes you the only.”
Her grip on him tightened, her shoulders relaxed, and they melted into each other’s warmth, the sun poking its head out from behind a cloud. In the still of the woods, at water’s edge, the ocean lapped a quiet, meditative chant against the shells and jagged rocks on shore, birds in the distance and the scent of burning firewood making its way to them.
Both inhaled deeply, the rise and fall of Lydia’s chest under his fingertips so lovely he almost couldn’t stand it, then he heard a muffled “That’s what she said.”
Unable to leave that unchallenged, he turned and kissed her fiercely, pulling back and achieving his goal: a shocked, aroused Lydia stood before him, arms wrapped around herself, cheeks pink and eyes wide, as he pulled her to the ground on a bed of leaves, her body pliant and willing.
More willing than he’d thought.
“Again?” She laughed, the sound throaty and seductive, making him hard again, making him sure of himself and of her. “You ever make love outside, Jeremy?” His name rolled off her tongue like a lick of his cock, like the feel of her mouth wrapped around him, the hot, wet truth of the universe in one package.
Lydia.
Plenty of times, he thought, but he didn’t want to say that. Ten years of enjoying the carnal side of life dissolved into a sense of a past age, a time when following his dick seemed passé. Why buy drugstore chocolate when you could get fine cacao from an exotic, shade-grown artisanal estate?
“Never at a campground in Maine,” he murmured against her neck, fingers diving into her hair, sliding the long, silky strands behind her ear, reaching up to kiss her neck. She shivered, half from the air’s chill and half from—
Her hips pressed into his thigh, finding his own arousal. “You really are ready,” she whispered, the surprise drained from her voice, a new infusion of interest making him shut up and just kiss her, stopping all the words that were getting in the way of sinking into her and being enveloped by that gorgeous body, curves so womanly and making him want her more than he knew he could want anyone.
Leaves mixed in her hair as his hands plunged in, savoring the richness of her, bringing her closer to him, tongues dancing with a familiarity that said having more was fun and good and celebratory. Her name thrust into his thoughts like a chant, a mantra he couldn’t control, his entire life taken over by her as much as his body was consumed by her as well.
He was a goner.
Lydia.
The skin along his legs was chilling, her cold hands now snaking under his sweatshirt, sweater and thermal shirt, the clash of the cold outside air and her icy hands making him gasp.
“I asked if you’d ever done this before. Prepare to freeze parts of you that aren’t meant to be exposed to the cold,” she murmured against his mouth as his own frozen hands found her breasts. Her turn to gasp as he pushed the underwired cups up, popping warm, lush lobes out of their confinement, wanting his mouth on them but knowing even that would be too much.
Hands would have to do.
Her breath came in ragged swallows as she tried to continue speaking. “I…oh, that’s nice. What about…oh, God.” One hand found the waistband of her pants, and his mind paused. Logistics. How would they…? How could they…?
“What if someone finds us?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked as she writhed from his touch.
“No one knows about this area. People avoid it because of the poison ivy.”
Oh, fuck. “Ivy? You know I’m allergic, right?”
“All that twisting and contorting earlier that you bitched about? That was me steering you clear of it.” She cupped his bulge. “Do you really want to talk about poison ivy right now?”
“No.” The itch he needed to scratch was very different.
“Good.” Lydia took the upper hand here, skilled and swift as she unbuttoned his pants with an expertise that impressed him, then straddled him, her own pants unbuttoned but not yet pulled down.
“You ready to freeze your ass off?” Like a cellist playing a solo of notes so low the vibration could still his heart, Lydia’s voice went to a sultry place that tugged at the root of him, centered and in perfect pitch.
She wasn’t kidding—as her strong, icy fingers snaked under his pants at his hipbones and yanked his boxer briefs down, his ass was greeted with the shock of freezing, dry leaves, that crackling sound either the crunch of the woodland debris beneath them or his now-released cock breaking in two from the cold.
“Oh, look! The North Pole,” she said, staring at his tight erection.<
br />
“It’s about to become a melted Popsicle if you don’t climb on it,” he hissed, his own hands scrambling for her waistband; he wanted to thrust into her warmth as fast as possible. His ass clenched in reaction to the chill as she rose up, lifting one leg over him, and slid one creamy leg out of her pants.
And then, sweet mercy, she just took him right on in. Home.
I’m home.
The ceiling of empty tree branches, reaching for each other high in the sky, coupled with more than a few tall pines that creaked and groaned in the quiet morning diverted his attention for a split second from the gorgeous creature now riding him, his pole perfectly north now and buried nicely in her.
“I’ve been a naughty girl,” she whispered in his ear, bending over him, hiking her hips up just enough to make an inch of him exposed to the cold air, his own breath hitching.
The waves rolled and crashed a few score yard off shore, turning to gentle ripples that lapped at the ragged shore. Soothing and engrossing, it made for a soundtrack he didn’t anticipate, stretching time out in the repeated motion of the tide. He took her mouth with his and ran his hands under her layers, finding those abundant breasts again, wanting to taste them, wanting to pull out of her and savor her, to find ecstasy in her clit, her scent, to make the world go away and pinpoint to nothing more than shared sensation.
But it was too damn cold for that.
She rose up and her movements took on the urgency he’d come to recognize in her, his own release right there and ready, the burst of warmth and need as she flooded their coupling with hot juices and fevered grinding against his cock so welcome he burst into a grin watching her.
Home.
After three weeks of near-daily sea kayaking, Mike had developed the closest thing to a routine that he ever planned to have on vacation. Every morning he woke when his body wanted, and every evening he fell asleep when his mind let him. The in-between was his to invent as the day unrolled, lazy and free.
But sea kayaking was in there somewhere, a welcome retreat from his own head and from socializing on the campground. Out on the water, his body propelling him through the water via the torque and flow of his own arms’, shoulders’ and waist’s effort, he could just be.
