“No,” I say, and then, more firmly, “No. But this”—I reach out, tuck the tips of my fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer—“we only do this here. Only for the rest of our deal. This is sex, nothing else.” Even as I say it, I feel a pang of regret. But it’s necessary. I’m not stupid—I’m smart as fuck, in fact—and I know this thing between us can’t work in reality, not with all the baggage between us.
“Good,” he says, maybe a little too quick for my liking, but it doesn’t really matter, because half a second later we’re kissing again, my tailbone pressed against the sink, trapped by the press of Aiden’s hips against mine. My hands roam under his shirt, feeling every inch of warm skin that I can, smooth and taut over all the muscles I saw this morning. His body is deliciously unfamiliar to me—I can feel, in the way his trim waist gives way to broad, ridged planes across his back, in the way his biceps stack right up against the bunched, firm muscles of his shoulders, that this body is made for work, lifting and carrying and hurrying, everything about it efficient.
He runs his hands down my sides, around to my lower back to pull me forward, and then he’s cupping my ass, the backs of my thighs, and with barely an effort he lifts me, my legs around his waist while he turns to walk us into the bunk room. Our kisses are messy, frantic, our teeth clicking together a little as he moves us toward his bunk. Even when it’s the moment for him to set me down, or for me to climb off and get on the bed myself, we stay like that—wrapped up in each other and kissing, our tongues tangling together in a way that almost feels like fighting, my arms tight around his neck, his big hands kneading the flesh at the backs of my legs—hard, electrifying pressure that may well bruise later. I tighten the muscles of my abdomen and curl my pelvis closer to him, a move he answers with a hot, impatient grunt of frustration.
“I’ve never had sex in a twin bed,” I murmur against his lips, and it works, because he ducks down, lays me on his bed, the smell of his sheets all around me, his body following mine like we’ve done this a hundred times.
“Not even in college?” he asks, pressing his face against my neck, and when I don’t answer right away, he nips the skin at my collarbone, a move that makes my skin flush anew with pleasure.
“Nuh-uh.” I didn’t fool around in college, not until I’d met Christopher, and then it’d been—Stop thinking about him, about that fucking ring, I scold myself, gripping Aiden’s shoulders and pulling him up toward me, so I can get my mouth on his again.
“Doesn’t allow for…” He pauses, sucks in a breath when he feels my hands tuck beneath his waistband to grab his ass and pull him closer. “Much movement,” he finishes, and his voice sounds like it did this morning. Gruff and a little angry and oh, God, I want him to say everything to me in that voice.
“We’ll manage,” I whisper. He pushes himself up on one hand, careful not to hit his head on the bunk above, and uses his other hand to work at the buttons of my flannel, his eyes on the skin he’s revealing, little by little. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so focused on a task like this, so intent on just this scrap of skin, when it’s damn near guaranteed he’s about to see the whole package.
When he spreads the sides of it, revealing my bra—nude, no frills, because I’m at camp, for God’s sake—he takes a deep breath, reaches out his hand, and traces the line of soft skin above the cups, watching in rapt fascination as my nipples peak underneath the fabric. Never have I so acutely wanted a man to touch me, lick me, suck me there. There’s an actual, physical ache. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “You make me feel like a teenager.”
“That’s—nice?”
“It’s not nice if I don’t settle down.” He bends his head, licks across the skin he just touched, and I arch my back in frustrated desire. “Remember that old t-shirt?” he asks, against my skin, and it’s taking me a second to do any kind of verbal processing when all I can think about is getting both of us naked. “The one you got at Goodwill?”
Right, the old camp t-shirt. I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a low moan when Aiden lets his tongue dip, just a little, beneath the fabric of my bra.
“I got so fucking pissed at you about that shirt. It was almost see-through.”
“Let me guess,” I say, my voice thin, my breaths coming so fast from just this little bit of foreplay. “It drove you crazy.”
He lifts his head, pushes himself up so he can kiss me again. “It’s like that with you,” he says. “Half the time I don’t know if I want to yell at you or fuck you.”
I raise my head to kiss him, to lick across his bottom lip, to tug on it gently with my teeth—a move he answers with a thrust of his hips that’s hot, impatient, involuntary. I forget about every single complication this might introduce. I forget about everything but that hardness between his legs, the wetness between mine.
“Well,” I say, releasing his lip and letting a slow smile spread across mine, “you can yell at me later, if you want.”
But all Aiden seems to want now is our clothes off, our bodies closer, and our mouths otherwise occupied. Between desperate, hungry kisses, we strip each other—a mess of limbs, a few run-ins with the rails of the bunk above us, and one frustrated grunt—from me, unfortunately—when I struggle to push Aiden’s jeans from his hips. He smiles against my lips and hunches his way out of the bunk, standing to the side and leaving me naked, cool air from the loss of his body pebbling my skin and drawing my nipples tighter. He says nothing, only tracks his eyes over my body, top to toe, as he pushes his jeans and underwear down. For the few seconds it takes him to step out of them, I return the favor, propping myself up on my elbows to take in every gorgeous, hard inch of him—and when his eyes meet mine, they’re bright with something I’ve never seen there before, a look that’s somehow both carefree and anticipatory. The smile that curves his mouth is part playful, part predatory—in the best possible way—and for a second all I can think is, There, there he is.
But I don’t want to dwell on that thought right now, so I reach out a hand to him, pull him by his wrist toward me, a move he has to accommodate with a quick fold of his body to fit in the space above mine, and when his naked skin meets mine, that’s it—we’re done in, more frantic than we were even on the way in here, his knee moving my legs apart, my hips thrusting up to meet his even as he pushes them back down and works his hand between us to touch right where I’ve been hot and needing him for what feels like days, weeks, months, for-fucking-ever. “Jesus, Zo,” he breathes out, his fingers deft, tracing the wetness there.
“Later,” I say again, and he laughs against my neck, a gentle rumble that sends a new shot of heat between my legs. “I’m not gonna yell at you about this,” he says, and I laugh too, grabbing for the strip of condoms he tossed beside the bed. My fingers shake as I tear the packet, my head tipping back as he finds a spot between my legs that must’ve been invented in the last thirty seconds because it has certainly never felt that good there.
He watches me while I roll the condom down his length, closes his eyes briefly when I stroke him, and I like that small concession to vulnerability so much that I take advantage, take control. I move his busy hand away from me, move my hips up and guide him toward my entrance, and when he pushes inside me the noise he makes is more arousing than any single word he could have said—a gusting, groaning sigh of relief, a noise like he’s set down a thousand pounds of weight, and it makes me crazy, that noise. Without thinking I’m pulling his mouth toward mine, tasting that noise, meeting every one of his deep, sure thrusts with my hips. It’s fast—I knew it’d be fast, this first time, already I hope not the only time—but he’s not impatient. He’s moving inside me in a rhythm that’s exactly right, banking a fire within me and waiting, waiting, waiting to ignite it fully.
My legs clasped tight around his hips, one of his hands on my ass, the other braced above me on the bunk frame, my skin and his already slick with sweat. “Aiden,” I say, because I can’t wait—I’m too desperate, and he�
�s too good at this, and he answers me with a thrust so deep and perfect and there—there’s that explosion, that fire he’s made me wait for, and we come together, panting and relieved and probably both shocked out of our minds.
Because I can tell already. This fire is going to be hard to put out.
Chapter 10
Aiden
When I wake up the next morning, it’s almost like every other morning I’ve woken up with Zoe in the cabin. Her, up in her bunk on her stomach, arms curled above her head and around her pillow. Me, down in mine, flat on my back, with the kind of morning wood I forgot was possible. The light is low, the cabin quiet except for the sounds of our breathing. My bare arms and chest are chilled where they’re exposed to the air, the room always running cooler at night.
But there are differences, too.
Across the way and above me, Zoe’s normally silky-straight hair is mussed, a tangle of it resting against her cheek. Underneath the blanket that she’s got pulled all the way up past her shoulders, she’s not wearing her usual pajamas—loose gray pants, a fitted tank top that she covers with a matching gray hoodie until she gets up in her bunk. Instead, she’d climbed up in her panties and that squirrel t-shirt, her limbs loose and clumsy, her soft smile the last thing I saw before I shut off the light. Separate beds, we’d agreed, both of us deferring to their small size, but probably also deferring to the rules we’ve set: just sex, nothing else.
Where I’m lying in my bunk, I only have to shift slightly to feel the way the rough sheets set off a tingle against the line of faint scratches that start at my right shoulder blade and trail a few inches down, the mark from the second time Zoe came around my cock. And that morning wood I’ve got? Right now it doesn’t feel so much like the kind of useless insult I’ve been waking up to for the last two weekends. It feels like my dick is reporting for duty, like it knows that the three times I fucked Zoe last night were warm-ups, that we’ve got a lot of time and sexual tension to work off, and we might as well get started early.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, try to settle down. Beneath all the desperation I feel to get inside her again, there’s a thread of unease knowing that I haven’t had that kind of sex in years, the kind of sex where your whole entire body forgets everything. I’d tried for that kind of sex, especially once I’d known Aaron was in trouble. So much of my headspace was taken up with him—where could I get him detoxed; should I move home; did my parents know what to search for in his room; what was his heart function like; how was his liver holding up—that I’d hoped sex might be a release, an empty-headed break from the constant worry.
But it hadn’t been, not really. The feeling of relief would last only about as long as the event itself—but pretty soon after, I’d be worried and guilty again. You don’t deserve any of this, I’d think, even while I’d made my excuses for why I couldn’t stay overnight, explanations for when I’d call again. You don’t deserve this, because your brother is dying, and nothing you’ve done has stopped it.
But with Zoe? With Zoe, there’d been nothing but the two of us. Even in this cabin, stuffed with memories I can’t look at full in the face, I hadn’t thought of anything but her. The smell of her skin. The way her body shuddered underneath mine when I teased the underside of her breast with my tongue. The thready, gasping breath she’d taken when I’d pushed inside her for the first time. When we’d finally worn ourselves out—Zoe collapsed against my chest, my hand fisted in the hair at the nape of her neck—she’d breathed a quiet Oh my God against my neck, and I could’ve fallen asleep right then, not sparing a thought for all the reasons this was probably a terrible idea.
I hear her shift in her bunk and make the soft exhalation that means she’s waking up. On autopilot, I swing my legs from the bed, stand on wobbly, fatigued legs, and try not to laugh at the way my dick tents my shorts, so pronounced it almost looks like a gag from a bad movie. I forgot, last night, in our sleepy, delirious tumbles back to our individual beds, to put my clothes for the morning on the bunk above me, so I stumble over to the pile of them on the floor, pulling my jeans on over my shorts with a quiet groan and shoving my feet into my untied boots before I tug on my sweatshirt and head out onto the stoop to wait, same as I do every morning.
It’s foggy this morning, but there’s sun waiting behind it—it’s the kind of soft, misty swirl that feels like nature’s cleaning crew has shown up to freshen the air before the day begins. It’s even colder than yesterday, when we’d gone out to the zip line, and my body hurts with wanting to go back inside, to pull her out of her bed and put her into mine. But I’ve got no idea where we’ll go from here. In the half-light of the day I’ve got no idea if she’s waking up and thinking it was all a mistake, that we’ve crossed a line that’s too far away from pretend. When I’d gotten back from the infirmary last night—Jesus Christ, I broke into a building so I could fuck her—I’d thought she might’ve changed her mind, a flash of hesitation in her eyes before she’d made me her offer. We only do this here.
Inside I hear the rush of the plumbing, the toilet flushing, and a few seconds later I hear that she’s started the shower. She’ll be quick about it; she always is, so I don’t have to wait out here too long. But maybe I ought to walk this off, not make it weird when we see each other the first time. If last night’s the only night we have like that, I’ll make it work. We’ll go back to the way things were before. Maybe this urge I feel to be with her (and, let’s be honest, this boner I have) will wear off naturally. One night of the best sex of my life but I’ve got to keep focused. I’ve got to make sure this camp is my first priority.
Behind me, just as I’ve stepped off the stoop, the door opens.
She’s there, her hair still messy and dry, a pillow crease across her cheek, a towel wrapped loosely around her body. “Oh, jeez, it’s cold,” she says first, hunching her shoulders. But then she looks down at me and smiles. “Coming?” she says, turning back inside, leaving the door open so I can see her drop the towel before heading toward the shower.
I’m up those steps so fast, pulling off my sweatshirt before I’m all the way back inside, and I hear her laugh as she steps behind the curtain. I’m desperate to get in there, but I make a stop by my bunk to grab a condom, and then I brush my teeth faster than I ever have in my life, glad she can’t see me clumsily shoving down my pants, one handed. It’s a wonder I’m not short of breath when I actually step behind the curtain.
And it’s a good thing too, because Zoe’s body—holy fuck. It’s enough to make my heart feel like it’s stopping. I’d seen her, of course, last night, but it’d been mostly dark, and it sure as shit hadn’t been with water pouring all over her. Those long, toned legs, that high, plump ass and trim waist. The way she moves that body with full confidence, smooth and strong, owning every inch of it. I’ve always loved women, loved their bodies, but I don’t think any one of them has ever affected me like she has, like she’s got one fist wrapped around my dick and another one shoved right through my chest, too close to everything inside me that still feels kicked around and roughed up.
“Good morning,” she says, stepping back so I can get closer, partway under the dinky showerhead. I slap the condom down onto the windowsill, hoping she doesn’t tag me for being too presumptuous. Hoping I haven’t been too presumptuous.
“You sore?” I ask her. Which sounds pretty presumptuous. I should’ve taken a walk; it’s too early for me to attempt conversation. “I mean, good morning.”
She smiles. “You know I have done it before. It’s not like you planted the flag there.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I’m not sore,” she interrupts, leaning her head back under the water, raising her arms to push her hair back from her forehead. I feel like every pint of blood in my body is racing directly to my dick. In about thirty seconds I’ll probably reenact a different version of our first meeting and pass out on this shower floor. I set my hands on her hips, and she makes a little hmm under her breath before
she speaks again. “I feel good.”
“I feel good too.” I duck my head, feel the hot water rain over the back of it while I dip my mouth lower, lick a drop of water from her shoulder, feel the press of her nipples against my skin. The relief I feel to be doing this—touching her again—is all out of proportion to how I should feel about an arrangement like this, two people in a strange situation, fucking the tension off and drawing clear lines in the sand. “Could feel better,” I say, my voice gruff, my hips pressing forward. I need to keep this…I don’t know what. Light. Simple. Her body and mine. This is sex, nothing else.
But then she surprises me, straightening her spine from where she’d been arched back into the water, setting her hands on my chest, trailing them down as she drops to her knees, her mouth opening against my hip. For a second my mind is blank with the promise of it; I’m all anticipation. This is simple. Her mouth, my dick. I don’t even have to look her in the eye.
But just as quick my body rejects it. I bend so I can set my palms underneath her elbows, pull her up. “No,” I say to her, and her brow furrows. I don’t know how to explain it to her, this feeling. She knows by now I’m shit at talking things out, but it’s one thing to be rough at conversation; it’s another to say the wrong thing when you’re naked with someone, about to do something that’s intimate no matter what boundaries you’ve drawn. I’d said it to her last night, out by the fire—this can’t be about anything she owes me. And I don’t know if Zoe gets off on what she was about to do. But I know myself, and I know if I let her do this, I’ll feel it the wrong way. “Let’s just—” I begin, backing her against the cold tile of the wall. When she gasps, I reach up and wrench the showerhead down so it still pours over us, so she’s warm and wet. She stretches into me, wrapping her arms around my neck and tilting her face up so I don’t have to finish my thought, so I can kiss her and touch her and feel her grow more restless under my mouth and hands. She raises her knee to my hip, presses it there in invitation, and there it is again—that perfect blankness in my mind, nothing but her and me, nothing but this thing we can give to each other.
Luck of the Draw Page 14
