One Match Fire

by Lissa Linden

  I close my eyes, still elbow-deep in my pack. “God dammit. This can’t be happening.”

  “Forget something?”

  Paul’s voice sends me jumping back. I wrench my hands from my pack, still clutching whatever I’d last grasped in my quest to find a swimsuit. I turn and whack him with the fabric, over and over. “Do. Not. Sneak. Up. On. Me.”

  He holds his hands up. “Jesus. I called your name and you didn’t answer. I surrender, okay?” I pull back and he lowers his hands. His mouth quirks up on one side. “Think you can put away that thong now? I mean, those things can be dangerous, but that’s normally when they’re, you know. On.”

  My cheeks heat and I ball the slick fabric in my fist. “What do you want?”

  Paul leans his shoulder against the doorjamb and I eye the space next to him. I could probably sneak out. But it would mean rubbing against him, and once I started… I blink fast and force myself to focus on what he’s saying. “…wrong impression. It gets a little lonely up here and I haven’t talked to anyone since our last rental group left a few days ago and took the cook with them. So. Sorry for going all puppy on you.”

  I stuff my underwear into the locker beside the bed. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, actually, that’s not really why I came out here.”

  “Then why are you here?” I cross my arms under my breasts and his hand stalls. His entire being freezes, voice included. I raise my eyebrows and flex my thumbs to push my boobs together. Busted.

  He clears his throat and raises his eyes. “You’re right. About me not getting it. I don’t know why you want to stay in a staff bunk instead of in what’s about to be your own house.” I open my mouth to respond but he holds up a hand to stop me. “And I don’t understand why you stood me up when we were counselors-in-training, then never spoke to me again. Well, didn’t talk to me until today. But I kind of got the sense that you were as surprised to see me as I was to see you.”

  I swallow hard. He brought it up. He remembers. And he was happy to see me, anyway. Then I had to go and throw ancient history at him. The history born of the childish naivety and unrestrained optimism I shed in my tears and left behind when I climbed onto the bus that last time.

  But I let him get to me. Let it get to me. The ancient hurt that prepared me for all the guys who came after him. That crushed my innocence and thickened the very skin I’d let him touch. And now I’ve left him hanging with some cryptic, passive-aggressive allusion to our teenage years. And passive isn’t who I am. Not anymore.

  “I didn’t know you were up here. Asking who I was taking over for wasn’t my priority. It all happened so fast,” I say.

  Paul nods. “Yeah, that’s my fault. Not staying for the summer was kind of a last-minute decision.”

  “Why are you leaving, anyway?” I bite the inside of my cheek and look at him. Really look at him. Fighting past the resurging teenage hormones and a very adult dry spell to see the man beneath the body. To see the person I used to like more than anyone else in the world.

  He tucks his hands into his pockets. “I need a change. You know?”

  “Yeah. I definitely know what that’s like.” I turn back to my pack and continue the search for my swimsuit. But I deserve more than this. More than tiptoeing around like the kid I was. I may have gifted my pencil skirts and pumps to charity, but the driven woman they housed is here. And nothing makes a simple business relationship messier than an unwillingness to speak frankly. “You really don’t know why I wasn’t at dinner that last night?”

  “No. I’ve never been able to figure it out. I thought… Never mind.” His voice has lost its gruffness. Its manliness. In an instant he’s turned into the boy I used to know. The guy I spent hours with, chatting while I waited for my friends to blow-dry their hair and paint their toenails. Getting inside each other’s heads while he waited for his girlfriend.

  I keep my back to him so I don’t revert to my teen self along with him. So this conversation stays focused on facts. Just two employees clearing the air and creating a working relationship. I crack a knuckle. “Do you remember the overnight hike we did on the second-to-last night?”

  “Of course.” His voice lowers. “The counselors were blocking the campers in at one end and we were at the other. Everyone was asleep except us. You saw your first shooting star. Then I kissed you.”

  “Yeah. You did. God, we were so young and I was so inexperienced.” I look over my shoulder. “You were my first kiss, you know.”

  He smiles. “And your second.”

  The corner of my mouth turns up. “And my third. But, yeah, I thought you liked me.”

  His forehead creases and his eyes search my face. I suddenly feel like I’m wearing nothing more than the strip of fabric I’ve tossed into the locker. I turn back to my bag.

  “But that was a long time ago,” I ramble. “I shouldn’t have thrown that in your face earlier. I mean, I should have known you didn’t like me. I was just—”

  “Amy. Stop.” His breath blows warm against my shoulder and every nerve ending stands at attention. He’s moved so close behind me that the heat of his body seeps through my clothes. “I did like you.”

  I shake my head and step around him, sliding between him and the lockers. I almost make it through without touching him, but he finds my hand. His rough fingertips tease my skin, convincing me all of my high school biology texts were wrong. That there is in fact a direct connection between my palm and clit.

  His eyes bore into mine. “Amy. I liked you.”

  And I don’t doubt that part of him wants that to be true. The part of him that I’ve caught checking me out today. Maybe the part of him I felt through his jeans earlier. But I give him a sad smile. “No. You didn’t.”

  He grips my hand tighter. “Why don’t you believe me?”

  I detach my hand from his ribbed-for-pleasure hold and rest it on his shoulder. I mean it as a friendly gesture. Some kind of contact to comfort and make peace. To touch him like an old buddy should, with a barrier between his skin and mine. But he leans into it, and his T-shirt is no protection.

  My fingers curl into his muscle, and I wish to hell that I didn’t know what I do. That I could believe him. That I’d been asleep and wouldn’t have recognized his voice anywhere. “Because,” I say. “I was just the resident fat kid. And you had Tanya.”

  He backs away like I’ve punched him. “The resident fat kid? What does that even mean?”

  I drop my hand and roll my eyes. “You know exactly what it means. I had all the curves. Like, too many of them. But Tanya? Hers were in all the right places.”

  He rakes his eyes up my body. My nerve endings buzz under the intensity of his gaze. “Not that last summer. And now…”

  My shoulders creep up and I curse the traitorous tug low in my belly that wants more of Paul’s eyes. More of his anything. I swallow hard. “Now I’m here. To work. But I was serious earlier. I can show myself around, re-familiarize myself with camp. I’ll let you know if I can’t figure something out.”

  Paul shakes his head. “Not going to happen unless you plan on starving for the next week. The director’s house has the only working kitchen in camp right now, so we’ll have to hang out at least a little.”

  He’s leaning against the wall. Totally relaxed except for that decidedly not-keys outline in his jeans. The outline that makes a part of me want to slide him a sultry smile and an invitation to drop his pants right there even though he’s Paul fucking Harding and he thinks I’m the Amy he knew.

  “Crap.” I shift my eyes to the motionless spiders and force that part of me into the back corner of my mind. That part of me that’s softness and curves under a glossy veneer. “The house really has the only food?”

  “Really. I know I said you could run this place on memories alone, but that might have been a bit of an exaggeration. There are actually some behind-the-scenes things we never saw as campers that I have to show you.” He hooks his th
umbs into his pockets. “So, dinner at six?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. The sound of a mouse scampering through the rec hall reaches my room and I flinch before I can stall the muscles. I rearrange my face. Force my shoulders down.

  Paul smiles. “It’s been a long time, Amy.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t tear my eyes from his. “It has.”

  He pushes off the wall and comes closer to me. “I’m getting the sense that you might need a bit more of a reintroduction to camp than you’re letting on. I mean, a mouse, Amy? What are you going to do when the raccoons interrupt campfire, or the bobcats are out stalking?”

  I clasp my hands together and swallow hard. “I hate to say it, but you might be right. I mean, I’m a pro at chasing off small dogs and drunkards, but I am a little out of practice with anything wilder than a seagull.”

  He chuckles. “That settles it. It only makes sense for us to hang out,” he says. “Explore camp together.”

  My neck cracks when I roll my head from side to side. “Maybe.”

  “Plus, I won’t lie. This job can be pretty isolating. I could use some human interaction.”

  I laugh mid-neck-crack. “You always did need to be social. Feeling a little starved for attention, are you?”

  He gives me a lopsided grin. “You have no idea.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “What kind of starved?”

  Paul’s eyes darken. “All kinds.”

  My breath catches. “So starved I need to worry that you might lick my thigh?”

  “I’m not going to greet you for dinner by sticking my head between your legs.” He licks his lips and pushes his hands farther into his pockets. “Well, not unless you ask me to.”

  I bite my tongue and turn back to my pack. “See you at six, Paulo-bo-ballo.”

  Chapter Four

  Not unless you ask me to? Chuck snores from his bed while I stir the pasta sauce so hard it splashes onto the seventies-style brown-and-beige backsplash. I wipe it off the wall with my finger and lick it clean. The sauce is decent, but with Amy on my mind as I lick my own finger, my thoughts are anything but.

  I set the burner to low and brace myself on the counter. Cursing under my breath, I slide my hand into my jeans, running my palm over my cock. I’d spent the entire week like this when we were sixteen. Dick tucked into the waistband of my shorts. Waking up in a puddle of my own come every morning. Wanting so badly to touch her. To touch myself.

  But jacking off in a cabin full of ten-year-olds wasn’t exactly in the cards.

  I squeeze my shaft and my nerves buzz, melting my joints and hardening the heat in my fist. The heel of my palm grazes my head and I shift my hips involuntarily, sending ripples of want straight to my balls.

  I lock my fingers around my shaft and work my fist from base to tip.

  She has no idea the effect she has on me.

  My thumb swipes over the sensitive nerves on my head, grazing along the slit and finding my own lube. I slide my thumb down the underside of my cock.

  The effect she’s always had on me. Her laugh. Her tenacity. Her perfect fucking tits.

  I flick open the button at my waist and circle my thumb and index finger just above my balls. My dick pulses in my hand and I pump my fist up, gliding through the trail of lube. I press down. Up. My breath catches and my hips thrust my cock forward, wanting it to be sheathed. Looking for warmth and wetness and begging for release.

  “God dammit.” I push myself from the counter and turn off the burner. I can’t have dinner with her like this. Not when I’m fisting myself to her image and dripping my need for her all over my pants. I’ve been on edge for weeks, needing what I couldn’t have up here, and seeing her today… Fuck.

  I undo my fly on the way to the shower, pumping my fist hard without the constraints of my jeans. I don’t bother to wait for the water to heat before I step under its spray. The body wash is there. Right there. But that would mean taking my hand off my junk, would make me miss precious seconds of this bliss. And thoughts of her, all slippery and smooth, are all I need. My hand glides along the length of my dick, squeezing the base, rotating on the head—taking me to a place where my hips thrust in time with my fist and I name my fingers Amy.

  I rest my elbow against the tile and my head falls onto my forearm. I stop my frantic pumping and cradle my sack, kneading it in my hand, needlessly building and delaying the release I’m so desperate for as I replay the image of her ass in those shorts. Her boobs squeezed over her crossed arms. The way her eyes flashed and her hips shifted when I touched her hand.

  A drop of pre-come marks my forearm and I give my balls one last squeeze before I wrap the head of my dick in my calloused palm and twist, working the lube over my most sensitive nerve endings. My breath comes ragged and my hand takes over for my brain, twisting, sliding, and squeezing until all I can see is her and all I can feel is the pleasure she brings.

  My fist slows and I know I’m close. I pump up. Down. And pleasure shoots from me with her name on my lips. Ropes of come hit my chest and paint the shower walls. I thrust into my fist until I’m dry.

  I lean against the wall to catch my breath. One by one, my fingers uncurl and I reach for the body wash through a haze of satisfaction and knot of heartache, soaping myself up and washing off my walls. Her walls. Rinsing away my want and desire and carnal fucking need for the woman I’ve never been able to forget.

  *

  She lifts a forkful of pasta to her lips. “This is delicious. Did you make the sauce?”

  I use a piece of garlic toast to collect the remaining sauce from my plate. “If by making it, you mean cooking the meat and opening the jar, then yes. Yes, I did.”

  “And here I hoped that living alone in the forest somehow turned you into a gourmet chef. I could have used that kind of side effect.”

  “You could teach yourself to cook, if you want to. You’ll get to place food orders for the house along with the orders for the camp kitchen, so you can really order whatever you want. And you’ll definitely have enough time to pick up a new skill or two, but you do get to eat at the dining hall when there’s a camp in session, so it might not be your best choice of hobby.”

  She takes a sip of beer. “Is there really enough downtime to actually get good at a hobby?”

  I pry my eyes away from the way her lips circle the bottle. “It depends. You’re in for a full couple of months with summer camp running, but the rest of the year can go from busy to dead and back real fast depending on how many rentals we get from school groups and stuff.”

  She puts her fork on her plate and pushes it away, even though it’s still half-full. Chuck’s nails click across the floor and he drops his head into her lap. “No human food for you, buddy.” She scratches the lucky bastard’s head. “Chuck, right?”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. That’s him.”

  Her fingers glide through his fur. “A bit of an odd name for him, don’t you think?”

  “Not really.”

  “But this guy is such a dog. I mean, nose up my shorts earlier. Chin on the goods now. I’d have called him Goofy, or something.”

  I take a swig of beer like it’s in any way strong enough to stop the attention my dick is giving to the thought of having my own chin anywhere near Amy’s goods, her hand working through my hair. “He was called Bruiser at the shelter, but it, I don’t know, felt less ridiculous to have a conversation with a Chuck than with a Bruiser.”

  “You talk to him?”

  “Like I said.” I miss the table and catch the bottle halfway to my lap. “It gets lonely up here.”

  She plays with Chuck’s ears. “So you keep saying.”

  I eye her plate. “You sure you’re done?”

  Amy glances at her plate. “Oh, yeah. I’m stuffed. Do you want the rest?”

  I shake my head and she pushes her plate farther out of Chuck’s way. He wanders off and flops onto his bed. “So, what hobby did you pick up if it wasn’t cooking?” she asks.

 
I lean back in my chair. “Guitar.”

  She tilts her head. “How come?”

  “I liked the noise. It took a while to get used to the quiet up here. And, well, it’s a useful campfire skill.”

  “Nobody ever played guitar when we were campers.”

  “Nope. But those camp directors also didn’t have YouTube and all the tutorial videos they could ask for.”

  She stalls with her drink halfway to her lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve infected camp with Wi-Fi.”

  “Just in the house. Not like we let the kids keep their phones, anyway. They have to check them in when they get here, and we give them back when they leave.”

  Her lips curve. “I’m sure that goes over really well.”

  “Oh, no. It goes terribly. But all it takes is one kid jumping into the lake with their smuggled phone still hidden in their pocket for all the potential rebels to hang their heads and hand over their gadgets.” I roll my bottle between my palms. “I’m surprised you hadn’t figured the Wi-Fi thing out, though. Not a phone addict like other city folk?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not a city girl anymore.”

  I nod slowly and take her in. Stretchy hoody zipped to just under her breasts. Hair pulled into a ponytail, still damp from her swim. Her ass-hugging leggings tucked under the table. She looks completely camp, except for her shoulders, pulled high against her neck. “Why did you take this job, Amy?”

  “I needed a new job. This one came up. I got it.” She shrugs. Freezes when she realizes her shoulders are already near her ears, and pulls them back down to their proper place.

  “What were you doing before?”

  She leans her elbows on the table. Her breasts are probably squeezed together, creating a valley in their softness. My palms itch and I use all my strength to keep looking at her face. “I worked in event planning. Weddings,” she says.

  “Fred hired you based off that? With no camp experience? Shit.” I drag my hand down my face. “That didn’t come out right. You always picked things up fast, so I’m sure you’ll do a great job, but I guess I thought you at least had a background in, I don’t know, education? Parks services? The fact that you’ve never worked with kids, or at a camp, it’s kind of—”