One Match Fire

by Lissa Linden

  For the first time in my history at this camp, I don’t bother wrapping the towel around my waist as I make my way through camp. Part of me hopes that I catch Paul. Pants down. Dick in his hand. Waiting for me to take over. And part of me hopes I don’t—that whatever happens between us, if anything happens, comes as a surprise. The last years of my life have been so filled with planning and details and running interference that Paul’s refusal to follow my deal was actually exciting.

  Until I remembered why I’d made the deal in the first place.

  How he’d made me think that he liked me, but he hadn’t. Not really. He’d just liked the new curves that my sixteen-year-old body was carving out from under the spare tire I’d carried throughout my youth.

  And that had wrecked me. The feeling that what was under my skin would never be as appealing as my boobs and ass. That my favorite person in the world didn’t care about me anymore. That he was too distracted by my new body to remember who was inside it.

  But I can’t deny that it’s his body I want. So, if he wants mine, now, well. Fair trade. As long as he agrees to one little compromise.

  “Knock, knock,” I call as I push the door open. “Sorry, but not sorry, to interrupt your—Oh. Well, that’s no fun.”

  Paul puts his guitar on the couch next to him. He’s in the same clothes as before. Not flushed. Not sweaty. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says. “But tell me more about this not-being-sorry thing.”

  I throw my towel onto the living room’s sole armchair and let him take a good look down my top when I bend to pet Chuck. It’s not until he shifts in his seat and casually pulls at his jeans that I straighten up. “I have a compromise to propose.”

  His eyes skim down my body and drag their way back up. “Go on.”

  “Even if we knew each other as kids, we still clearly want each other as adults. So, let’s hang out and see what happens.”

  “That’s it? We’ll see what happens?”

  “Almost.” I clasp my hands behind my back. The move draws his attention to the swell of my cleavage, and I’m hoping he’s distracted enough to agree. “You’re right. We’ve known each other for too long to pretend we’ve never met. We share all those memories, and we could make some really, really interesting new ones. But we can’t talk about the end of that last week. Not directly, not with vague references to campers we used to know. Not at all.”

  He closes his eyes, and when they reopen, they’ve locked on my face. “But what if I want to?”

  I shake my head. “You have to let me call the shots on this one, or the whole deal is off. No seeing what happens. Just the very clear line that you’re the outgoing camp director, I’m the incoming one, and we only need to interact enough to make sure I don’t crash and burn in this new job.”

  My fingertip sneaks under my bikini top and skims the curves beneath. Paul’s eyes lose the battle to stay above shoulder level. The pad of my finger creeps deeper into my top and my nipples bud with what could be.

  His eyes darken and he gets off the couch. Crosses the room. Stands so close that there’s no doubt about why he was tugging at his jeans. “The only crashing around here,” he whispers against my ear, “will be me into you. And the only burning,” he pushes my hair off my neck and drags the tips of his fingers down my flesh, “will be the heat between your legs.”

  “So.” I lick my lips. “Is that a yes?”

  He backs away and shrugs. “Could be. I guess we’ll have to see what happens.”

  *

  The swim dock has had a few boards replaced, but the buddy board is exactly as I remember it. Crooked nails. Peeling paint. Function over style.

  “I’m pretty sure this thing has been on its last legs since I was about eleven,” I say.

  “Yet it still works.”

  I hook my finger around one of the nails. “So, campers still get wooden name tags?”

  “Yeah. I started getting them to cut their own, though. You know, creating some cabin bonding by sending them a branch and a saw.”

  The nail comes loose and I press it back in with my thumb. “And you don’t think that’s a little dangerous?”

  Paul’s hand grazes mine as he takes over and pounds the nail in with the heel of his palm. “Oh, it could definitely go really wrong. But kids are different these days.”

  “How so?”

  “When we were kids, we did stuff without thinking about it, just because it seemed fun. You know, scaling boulders, or climbing trees, or mixing all the juice crystals to form one disgustingly sweet swamp mix. But kids don’t take those kinds of risks anymore. They’re so analytical. It’s like, if Google doesn’t say it can be done, they don’t even try.”

  My forehead creases. “So you give them a saw?”

  “Yeah. It makes them step outside of their comfort zones and shows them that they can do things up here that they would never do at home. It’s a reminder that I trust them, so they should trust themselves, too.”

  “It’s a nice sentiment. But, what if one of them cuts through, I don’t know, their femoral artery?”

  He grins. “Natural selection?”

  My jaw drops and I laugh. “I’ll be sure to mention that on my call home to their parents.”

  “In all seriousness, it’s not more dangerous than using a hatchet to make kindling, and the biggest injuries I’ve had have been slivers. But, well, it’s your camp now.” Paul takes off his watch and hooks it onto one of the nails. “And we don’t have name tags, but we can make do. Come on. You need to add something.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Don’t even tell me you’re going to blow a whistle and make us buddy up on the dock every half hour.”

  He nods. “Those are the rules, and you can’t expect me to break them. Lifeguard code and all. Nobody goes swimming without a buddy.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Mr. Lifeguard, but I already trampled on that rule.” I pull the elastic from my hair and slip it next to his watch. “Though, to be honest, I probably should have brought you. I definitely could have used some buddying up.”

  He splays his fingers on my lower back and pulls me toward him. My nerves come to life where his bare skin meets mine, but I slip from his grip and throw him a glance over my shoulder. “Race you to the water!”

  His yelling about no running on the dock fades as I drop my towel and dive into the roped-off swimming area. I kick back toward to surface. Slowly. Lazily. Letting the water cool my tingling skin and caress me from all sides. The water always welcomes me. Washes away my doubts and makes me weightless.

  Paul plunges in beside me, sending up a stream of bubbles that tickle my thighs. I break into the air just a moment before he does. Just long enough that I catch him with his eyes closed and corners of his mouth upturned. Water droplets drip from his hair to his neck, down his shoulders, mapping out a path that begs to be licked.

  He shakes his head and sprays water everywhere. “I’m surprised you didn’t cannonball. You always were the best at the biggest-splash competition.”

  I fight to keep my face from changing. From reverting to the day I pieced together that it was my human form and not my cannonball form that prompted my cabin to nominate me as the splash competitor year after year. I rearrange my face into a smirk. “I find that diving gives off a better view of my ass.”

  His eyes cloud over. “Oh really. Maybe you should climb out and dive in again. Just so I can test your theory.”

  I glide over to him. Stop just far enough away that my egg-beatering legs don’t tangle with his. “Didn’t get a good enough look?”

  His throat expands and contracts with the effort to swallow. “I could use another one.”

  I push onto my back and hold eye contact as I stroke toward the ladder. Each step out of the water is a chance to shake my ass. Give him the view of what he wants. What I want him to have. His jaw is clamped shut and his eyes are shooting fire when I hook my toes over the edge of the dock. Raise my arms above my head. And cannonball right next to
him.

  I reach for his arm and pull him down with me, dunking his head under water before meeting him at the surface, sputtering and laughing. “I deserved that,” he says.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s walk the plank.”

  We swim to the waterlogged wood attached to a weight on the bottom of the lake. It was once an old-growth tree, now relegated to having generations of kids challenge each other to walk from one end to the other without falling. Decades of mildew on the submerged side makes the seemingly straightforward walk the thing of camp legends, since the log always rolls at some point.

  I throw my belly over the log and wait for it to stop rocking. I carefully pull myself up and swing a leg over. Paul hooks one arm over the log. “I don’t want to walk the plank,” he says.

  “Lost your touch?” I tease. “This was your event! You could run the length of this thing faster than most of us could even get to our feet.”

  He’s on the log, facing me, before I can take a breath. I press my palms into the wood to steady myself as we rock from side to side. “My touch is better than ever,” he says. “But you always sucked at walking the plank.”

  I creep forward, pressing my core against the heel of my hands, inching close enough that Paul’s breath dries the droplets on my face. “Maybe I’m better at it now. All the days I’ve spent running around in heels have to have done something for my balance.”

  He shakes his head. “Walking the plank isn’t about balance. It’s about speed and risk. But a chicken fight? That you might stand a chance at winning.”

  “Paul Harding. Are you challenging me to a chicken fight?” The log rocks beneath me as he gets to his feet. I roll my hips forward, letting my very center get the benefit of every roll as my eyes stay level with the promise in his shorts.

  “I believe I am.” He extends a hand to me. “First one to fall loses.”

  My palm slaps against his as I take his hand and sparks shoot through me. My knees wobble when I get to my feet. My body is off center and my eyes are locked on Paul’s bare chest. Water trails down his pecks, over his toned stomach, and disappears into his shorts. I want to press my thighs together. Find some friction. But I need to keep my feet apart so I can rock with the log, my hips moving from side to side in time with the gentle bobbing. Paul is barely moving. He’s as grounded on this burling log as he is on dry land. It’s not a fair fight. Yet.

  I reach behind my back and feel for the clasp between my shoulder blades.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making this an even fight. If I have to stare at your naked chest, it’s only fair that you have to look at mine, too.” I slip my top down my arms and toss it onto the dock. My nipples tighten in the air and I press my palms to my hips, steadying myself while Paul comes unravelled before my eyes.

  “Damn.” His throat jumps. “You’re stunning.”

  I wrap my fingers around the undersides of my breasts and squeeze. “What? These old things?”

  His eyes shoot fire and his tongue sneaks out to wet his lower lip. He lunges toward me, arms outstretched. I shift a leg behind to secure my stance and prepare for him to grip my shoulders. To throw me into the water with one go. But his hands don’t find my shoulders. One wraps around the back of my neck. The other cups my ass. And his lips crush against mine with a pent-up fury that sucks the air from my chest.

  My lips move against his, pressing and gliding without pause. Without breath. Without any thought except the feel of him on me and me on him and the pushing, pulling, pulsing flesh connecting us. His tongue nudges against my lips and I open to accept him, running my tongue against his. I close my lips around the tip and suck, feeding on the groan he releases onto my lips. His fingers flex on my ass and my hips respond on instinct, pushing closer, looking for him.

  But the shift in stance rocks the log and we plunge into the lake. Gasping and shuddering, we surface and reach for each other, our legs tangling as we tread water. He cups my ass and pulls me forward, positioning me against the hard apex of his shorts. I wrap my legs around his back and press closer, but I can’t get tight enough. I squirm and curse my weightlessness in the water, but Paul pushes us back toward the log, pinning me against it and trailing kisses down my neck.

  I tighten my legs around him and press against the log, straining to crush my core against his hard length. My head falls back and I groan in frustration. “I need more.”

  Paul nips the soft skin where my neck meets my shoulder. He slides his hand from my hip to my breast and drags his thumb over my pebbled nipple. “Like this?”

  I moan under his touch. “Out. We need to get out.”

  He grazes his thumb back and forth over my sensitive bud and my eyelids fall closed. I press my heels into his back and grind on what I can find. “Please.”

  His tongue traces a trail from my collarbone to behind my ear, then he’s gone. My limbs are heavy as they move to keep my head above water without him. He pulls himself onto the dock and his shorts cling to the hardness I so desperately need. My clit screams for mercy with each shift of my body as I kick towards the ladder. Then I’m out of the lake. Hands locked on Paul’s jaw. I pull his lower lip between my teeth and tease it with a lick. I swallow his groan and step forward, urging him back until he’s against the lifeguard chair. Until he can’t move anymore. Until I can get what I need.

  I hitch my leg onto the waist-level step of the chair and center my core over his tented shorts. I kiss him hard and drive my hips forward, hitting my clit against his cock with enough force that I cry out. He grabs my ass and holds me close, rubbing his rod over my slick bikini bottoms.

  “Jesus Christ. I don’t want to dry-hump you like some camper kid,” he pants.

  I grind against him harder and lick a trail up his neck. “I never did this as a camper.”

  He growls and meets my thrusts, claiming my mouth with a need that matches my own. He spins us and lifts me onto the step. His head dips and bathes my nipple in velvety warmth. He sucks and licks until I writhe and buck against him. “Condom?” I gasp.

  He shakes his head and kisses his way to my other breast. My head falls back and my hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer. I arch my back to force as much of my breast as possible into his mouth. He sucks my nipple in deep, tracing his rough fingertips in circles around the hard pebble of my other breast.

  I slip my fingers between our bodies and into my swimsuit. His heat warms the back of my hand as I zero in on the spot that can bring me so much pleasure. I draw a finger across my slit before pressing onto my clit. My head falls onto his shoulder and he releases my nipples, turning to pepper my cheek with kisses.

  His calloused fingers slide up and down the wrist that’s stretching out my bottoms. “Is this the way you want it?” he asks.

  “I want to get off,” I groan. “Hard. Fast. However I can make that happen.”

  His eyes flash and he lifts me off the step with one arm, wrenching my bikini bottoms down with the other. He keeps his hands on my hips, steadying me on the narrow perch, and drops to a knee. “I want to make you come,” he says. “Hard. Fast. On my tongue.”

  He loops my legs over his shoulders and presses his cheek to my inner thigh. His breath tickles my sensitive lips and I grab on to the lifeguard chair for support. “Oh God.”

  He smiles up at me before closing his eyes and taking a long, soft lick of my slit. “Fuck me. You’re so wet.”

  My hips roll, seeking him out, and he responds, licking a hard circle around my bundle of nerves. My thighs quake on his shoulders and he keeps his face pressed tight to my core, licking along my opening, circling my clit with the tip of his tongue. The coil starts to build low in my belly and I push my legs closer together. He increases the speed. The pressure. Adds a finger. I moan and buck. He groans into my pussy, kissing it deep, adding his tongue to his finger, moving so hard and fast that I can’t tell what’s finger, what’s tongue and where he stops and I begin. He probes and licks until the coil tighten
s to an unbearable level—until I’m moaning and writhing and begging for release.

  I drop my grip from the chair and hold his head close, fucking his face and rolling my nipple between my fingers. My fingertips stall. My hips seize mid-roll and my shout echoes across the lake as I come apart. My thighs clamp against Paul’s head as my muscles clench on his tongue. My limbs shake and my hips buck against him as Paul licks wave after wave of pleasure from my body.

  Chapter Eight

  She has me pinned against her pussy. The clenching of her inner muscles slows against my tongue, against my finger, but she makes no move to release me, and there’s no way in hell I want to leave. I’ll kneel here all day sucking those sounds out of her.

  I lick the juices from her inner thigh and her fingers relax one by one as they work their way out of my hair.

  “Fuck yes.” Her breathless voice makes my dick jump and beg for attention, but I lower her leaden legs from my shoulders and help her stand.

  “Was that hard and fast enough for you?” I ask.

  The glaze in her eyes is all the answer I need. I pull my towel from the chair and wrap it around her shoulders. Her ass cheeks aren’t covered, and I try to drag my eyes away—to give myself some kind of chance that I’ll make it back to the house, to a condom, without coming in my shorts—but my eyes snag on her hip. The bottom of a black-and-gray tattoo, low on her pelvis, peeks out from below the towel.

  I smooth the towel back to get a better look at the art that I’d missed in my mad rush to make her come. “Is that a—”

  But all words disintegrate into a guttural growl as her small fingers grip my cock through my shorts. She squeezes my shaft and my hips thrust into her fist without any input from me. Her lips curl into a smile and she unwraps her hand, rubbing up my junk with an open palm, grazing the head of my penis as her fingertips dip under the elastic waist of my shorts. “Not here,” I say.

  She leans into me and captures my earlobe between her teeth, not letting up on the little nudges against my sensitive head. “Then where?”

  “Bed. I need you in my bed.” My breath is shallow. I curl my hands into fists so I don’t reach for her—so I don’t knead her perfect breasts and slap her delicious ass and come at the fucking thought of being inside her.