“I hope your memory is good, because that’s not happening again.”
He nipped at my earlobe, and I tensed even more. “No?”
“Nope. Onetime only performance.”
He inched closer, and his body pressed against mine, his chest and belt buckle pressing against my arm and my hip…and something else, maybe. Something harder, thicker, longer.
“So, you’ve never thought about a repeat?”
“Nope. Not interested.”
“You’re telling me,” he whispered in my ear, “that there’s no part of you interested in slipping that warm, soft, strong little hand of yours in my jeans? You’re not at all interested in wrapping your hand around my cock? Just thinking about it, I’m getting hard. You remember, don’t you? Pushing me into that room, shoving me down into the chair, and dropping to your knees? I know you remember. You ripped my jeans open so fast I didn’t know what was happening.” His voice dropped, and I strained to hear. “You stroked me twice and then you were going to town. Or rather…going down. Your mouth was so hot, so wet, so tight.”
“Shut up,” I hissed. “One time. One.”
“Yet I haven’t forgotten it.” He pressed his hips against my thigh, and I definitely felt him, now. Not quite all the way hard, but growing. “You remember?”
“Nope. Forgot about it completely.”
He laughed. “Liar. I bet you’ve thought about it.”
“Nope.”
“I bet you considered putting those lips of yours around my cock at least once since we’ve been hiking. Probably after I got done eating your sweet little pussy until you screamed.”
“Have not,” I breathed.
He laughed again, a quick sarcastic bark. “Lies,” he whispered. “You’re full of shit.”
“I am not.”
“Are too.” He writhed against me. “You’re thinking about it right now. You’re thinking about my cock. You can feel it, can’t you? I’m getting hard. In a few more seconds, I’ll be so hard I might pop out the top of my jeans.”
“Good for you,” I snapped, determinedly not looking at him or his jeans or his fly or the assuredly giant ridge behind it.
“You wanna know a secret?” he whispered.
“Nope.”
“These jeans are a little too big. The belt is necessary, because without it, they’re easy to just yank off without even unbuttoning. One little tug is all it’d take.”
“Well then, get to tugging, if that’s what you’re into. I’m not touching you.”
“Oooh, so stubborn.”
My temper flared.
Who the fuck did he think he was, calling me stubborn?
I glared at him then, giving him the evil eye. “You’re a dick.”
“Nah—you’d be sucking me if I was a dick.”
Oh, fuck, no.
I felt my arm moving—my temper was in control by that point, and I was powerless against it. Fuck him. I felt my hand crack across his cheek with a loud slap that echoed in the forest.
He just grinned at me, rubbing his cheek. “Gotcha.”
I made a sound that was somewhere between a scream of rage and an animal snarl—and before I could stop myself, I smacked him again. He let it happen, the bastard. He saw my hand coming, and just let me slap him again.
“Does that mean I get two miles?” he asked.
“You are such an asshole,” I snapped.
He grinned even more broadly. “Yep. But I won.”
I narrowed my eyes. “All of that…the whole…” I waved a hand vaguely, “cock-sucking stuff…all that was just to get a rise out of me?”
“Not just—I knew it’d work, especially if I managed to work a nice insult in there somewhere…” His grin shifted to a lascivious smirk, hooded eyes, smoldering promise and lust. “It was nothing but the raw truth.”
“Which part?” I asked.
“All of it.” He shrugged. “Except the part where I said you’d be sucking me if I was a dick—that was a joke, meant to get a rise out of you.”
“A joke?”
“Yep.”
“Because it kind of sounded to me like you were insinuating I’d suck any dick that came my way.”
He moved to stand in front of me. “I know it did—that was the point. It got you pissed off enough to slap me.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I didn’t think this through, huh? Now you’re actually pissed.”
“Um, yeah.”
“It was a joke. Meant to win the bet, that’s all.”
I glared at him, giving him the evil eye so hard it was a wonder he didn’t burst into flames. “Well, congratulations, Ram, you won. And fuck you.” I shoved my fist, middle finger raised, right into his face. “Was it worth it?”
I stormed away angrily, fuming inside.
A joke?
He makes a comment like that, and it’s a fucking joke? What the hell was his problem? Did he really think I’d find that amusing? Like, oh, hahaha, you won, let me take off my top now that you’ve basically called me a cum-slut.
I heard him behind me, following at a safe distance.
I was still walking—or rather angrily stomping—fifteen minutes later when I realized I’d stormed off without my pack. I stopped abruptly and turned around, only to see Ram carrying my pack along with his own.
He arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Just realized you forgot something?”
I snatched it from him, swinging it onto my back and securing it. “Shut up.”
“Izz, it was a joke—a bad joke. I’m sorry.”
“You’re just such a fucking dick, Ramsey! I mean, yeah, of course I’m gonna smack you if you say some shit like that! Who wouldn’t?”
He moved closer. “You know, I don’t think you actually find that comment as insulting as you’re pretending.”
I blinked at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I think there’s another reason you’re pissed.”
“And what would that be, since you know so much about my emotions, oh infallible master of my feelings?”
He sidled closer yet, and once more he was in my personal space, staring down at me with those big deep bright blue eyes. “I think you’re pissed because I got a reaction out of you. You were on the lookout for me doing something, and I got you riled up anyway.” His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, and I physically flinched away at the unexpectedly tender touch. “I think you’re also pissed because I was turning you on, and you hate that I can turn you on so easily.”
“Not true,” I breathed.
He just kept his eyes on me. “True,” he countered. “You were turned on, hating that I could turn you on, and then I came out with that boneheaded comment. I mean, it worked, and I knew it’d work. I guess I just didn’t realize how well it would work.”
“Congratulations,” I said dryly, “you know how to piss off a woman.”
He laughed. “Oh, I’m really good at that. It’s basically my specialty.” He smirked, and then, in a move so unexpected and sudden, he touched his lips to mine, so fast and so light I didn’t know what happened and then it was over, leaving my lips tingling and my mind blank. “You’re just especially easy to piss off. The problem for me is, you’re sexy when you’re pissed. So I’m like a cat around you—drawn to pissing you off even though I know it’s a dumb idea. I just can’t help it.”
“I’m not sexy when I’m pissed,” I huffed.
“Are too.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I am not!”
“How do you know? You ever see yourself when you’re pissed?”
“No, it’s just fucking dumb! What about me being angry makes me sexy?”
“See? You’re getting pissed and it’s hot.” He smirked, shrugging. “Everything about it is sexy. Your cheeks get all pink and rosy, and you get this wild energy like oh shit, what the hell is she going to do now? Plus, you tend to stomp around a lot when you’re pissed and, baby girl, you get some serious bounce going on when you do
that. Coming and going, you pissed is a fine sight. The trick is getting you to cool off again.”
I glared. “I don’t cool off easily. Once I’m pissed, I tend to harbor it for a while. So, you know, good fucking luck.”
He laughed. “You drop more F-bombs than any chick I’ve ever met, you know that?”
“Blame my dad. He dropped F-bombs left and right. My folks rarely fought, but when they did, it was invariably about my dad cursing.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, but I absolutely could not believe I’d just said that.
I’d spoken more about my father to Ramsey in the last several hours than I had to anyone at all in the last ten years.
Ram just nodded. “I see.” He winked. “I happen to find it hot.”
I sighed. “Is there anything about me you don’t find hot?”
He pretended to think. “Nope, not that I’ve noticed.”
I wanted to keep being pissed, because it was a great defense against my other emotions, but that comment sapped the anger out of me. “Well, that makes you pathetic, then,” I said, falling back on snark as my first line of defense. “Because I think I’ve been kind of a world-class bitch to you.”
He laughed. “Yeah, kind of.”
“Nice.” I laughed. “Let me guess—you think it’s hot?”
“Nope. But the fact that you’re being a bitch in an effort to pretend you don’t like me and that you’re not attracted to me…that’s hot.”
“I’m not pretending,” I snapped. “And it’s not a game—I’m not playing hard to get.”
“You know, I tend to spend more time outside, on my own, than around people, and I think that’s made my bullshit detector super sensitive.”
“It’s not—”
“You said a few hours ago that you don’t hate me,” he interrupted.
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I like you.”
“You don’t want to,” he said. “So of course you’re not going to admit to it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yep.” He tapped me on the nose. “And you love it.”
And with that, he pushed past me, ending any reply I might’ve made, because I refused to shout my comeback to his absurdly broad shoulders as they retreated.
I stomped a foot and growled in irritation—which only made him laugh. Which just pissed me off all the more.
“I take it back!” I shouted after him. “I do hate you!”
He turned around to look at me. “Can you do the foot stomp again? Your tits bounce when you do that.”
I almost did just that out of sheer anger, but just managed to restrain myself.
I followed him, after a minute—I had to calm myself down first. It took about forty-five minutes for my temper to cool off, which meant I spent forty-five minutes mentally berating him, coming up with belated comebacks that I wish I’d said, plausible arguments for how not attracted to him I was, plausible reasons as to why I truly didn’t like him.
But then, once all that faded and I mentally returned to just enjoying the hike—despite my mounting exhaustion and bone-deep soreness—I started to see the humor in the whole situation.
He’d been one hundred percent right—he knew exactly which buttons to push, and how I’d react. He’d played me like a goddamn violin, and I’d responded precisely as he’d expected.
The bastard.
The smug, smug bastard.
Where the hell did he get off seeing me so clearly? How did he know my buttons so well? How could he play me like that?
I felt stupid for playing into his plan, but at the same time, it was kind of funny.
The longer I thought about it, the funnier it got.
I mean, if I hadn’t been turned on and fighting it, and then pissy about being turned on and fighting it, his comment about me sucking him if he was a dick would’ve been funny. I wouldn’t have been insulted by it in the slightest. If Kitty or June had said it, I’d have laughed and high-fived them. And probably agreed that, yes, if Ram was a dick, I’d suck him.
I couldn’t help a snicker of laughter as the hilarity built inside me. Eventually, I couldn’t hold it in anymore, and I had to stop to laugh.
Ram paused, glanced back, frowning, and then came to stand nearby, leaning against a tree, eyeing me. “What’s so funny?”
I choked down a snort of laughter. “The whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
“The bet, and you winning it. How you won it.” I breathed slowly and deeply to calm myself. “Oh man, oh man. I spent the last forty-five minutes raging inside, but now, suddenly, it’s just funny. I mean, you really did play me like Joshua Bell plays a violin.”
“Who?”
I shook my head. “Josh Bell? Violin prodigy? No? My mom was into classical music, and I still listen to it sometimes.” I waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “Point is, you played me. Well done. You won.”
He pushed away from the tree. “Yeah, well, I absolve you of the terms of the bet. I won unfairly.”
“Ram.” He stopped and turned, and I met his eyes. “You won fair and square.”
He shook his head. “I was a dick.”
“Yeah, you were. That was an asshole thing to say to me. But you were right in that, normally, I’d have found that funny rather than insulting. You claimed you could get me to smack you, and you did.”
“Izz, I said I absolve you—”
“Very chivalrous of you,” I said. “But I don’t accept your absolution.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
I sucked in a deep breath and held it—looked around to make sure the trail was empty, even though I knew I was going to go through with this regardless. With Ram’s eyes hard on mine, carefully watching my every move, I hooked my fingers into the neck of my T-shirt and the cups of my bra and yanked them both down to bare my breasts. Only, instead of just flashing and shaking them a little, I tucked the shirt and cups down underneath my tits. My heart thudded, adrenaline coursing through me.
Of all the inappropriate shit I’ve done in my life, public nudity wasn’t up there for me. I’ve fucked a lot of guys, but I never went on spring break, and so never got the opportunity to drunkenly flash my tits at anyone.
Right now I was stone-cold sober, and had my tits out in public. Holy shit.
Ram was staring. Unabashedly, openly ogling my breasts.
I wiggled them at him. “Get a good look?”
“No, I think I need a closer one.” He took a step toward me.
I held out my hand to stop him. “Whoa, hold on. This isn’t an invitation to touch.”
He just laughed. “Fine. Be that way.”
“I will. I’m honoring my end of the bet.” I pointed at the watch on his wrist. “I expect you to be honorable and tell me when it’s been one mile.”
He glanced at his watch, and then nodded at me. “One mile, starting now.”
I started walking.
HOLY SHIT.
I’ve never appreciated a sports bra as much as I did, then. Every step sent the girls bouncing, flopping, and jiggling so hard that during a jagged little downward curve I ended up having to hold them in place simply to stop the pain.
Ram kept pace with me, of course, and essentially never stopped staring.
“Is it a mile yet?” I asked, after about fifteen minutes.
He laughed. “Nope. Half.”
“Shit.” I couldn’t help a laugh, then. “This hurts.”
“Your pride, or literally?”
“Literally.” I glanced pointedly at him. “If anyone’s pride should be dinged, it’s yours. You’re the one with zero control over his eyes. It’s like you’ve never seen tits before.”
“None as perfect as yours,” he said. “Besides, you yourself have said any number of times there’s no guarantee of anything happening between us, so I’m just soaking it in.”
I snorted. “I see.” I eyed him. “Again, you used that word—perfect.”
H
e shrugged. “I use the words that seem to fit.” He indicated my breasts, which were bouncing as we slogged up a long, shallow hill. “Those are perfect.” He leaned backward to look at my butt. “That? Perfect, too.”
“You’re an idiot. They’re just butt and boobs, Ram. Seen one, seen ’em all.”
He shrugged again. “True. But seeing actual perfection is rare.”
We kept walking, then. For how long? Another fifteen minutes? Half an hour? I was focused on my feet, picking my path up another hill, and so I didn’t hear them until they were right on top of me: cyclists, or mountain bikers, or whatever they’re called, coming up behind us.
“Passing on your left!” one of them called, as they approached from behind.
I didn’t have time to cover up, which I’d have done regardless of my own rule. But they were zipping past us in a blur, two young, buff, hot college guys in expensive helmets and riding expensive bikes, with expensive backpacks and expensive sunglasses. The second rider to pass twisted to glance back at us, out of curiosity or habit, or whatever; he saw me with my pale, freckled, DD breasts casually plopped out over my shirt.
He rode off the trail, crashed into a downed tree, and flipped straight over the handlebars and into the bracken.
I covered myself with my hands. “Shit!”
Ram was laughing hysterically as he hopped over the downed tree to help the poor guy up—he seemed more shaken than hurt, and more worried about his bike than himself. He thanked Ram as he climbed over the tree and righted his bicycle, bringing it back onto the trail and checking it over.
“I’m really sorry about that,” I said, still clutching myself with both hands.
The rider just eyed me. “I mean, if I’m gonna wipe out, that’s a great fuckin’ way to go.”
His friend was stopped a few feet away, standing with his bike between his legs, twisted to watch the whole thing. “Dude, Jake, let’s go. Quit ogling the hot topless chick and get your ass back on the fuckin’ bike. She’s out of your league, son!”
Jake, the cyclist who’d crashed, flipped his friend off with both hands. “Fuck off, Hank.” He winked at me. “Can I get another look before I go?”
I glanced at Ram, who just shrugged, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Sure,” I said. “But it’s gonna be fast. Ready? One…two…three.” On three, I dropped my hands for a split second, and then replaced them. “There you go. Just to make up for causing you to crash. Now shoo. Go ride your bicycle, sonny.”
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