With Every Breath (Wanderlust #1)

by Lia Riley

  “There is no debt.”

  She makes a little tsk-tsk. “That was just my way of saying I’m going to fondle you now.”

  “Fondle?”

  She smirks. “You prefer ‘pat’?”

  “I no’ a dog,” I grind out as goose bumps march down the furrow of my spine.

  “Sex words really need an overhaul, don’t they? ‘Rub’ isn’t good either.” She shakes her head.

  “You are such a fucking romantic, lass.” I give a hoarse laugh as she eases her hand beneath my waistband, tracing my shaft with a light, teasing caress. I tear open my trousers and boxers, until my cock thrusts out.

  She lifts the length and gives it an assessing look.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Cocks are no’ beautiful.” I know that, but it doesn’t prevent me thickening even more. It’s a good thing to please her.

  “I’d normally agree, but you really are.”

  “Careful. You’ll give me a big head.”

  Her smile is crooked. “All right, your turn. I’m ready to see how this whole voyeur thing goes.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” My abdomen flexes, and swallowing is suddenly impossible. It’s different having the tables turned.

  She gives me a coy smile. “Don’t be shy. I just jilled off—”

  “Jilled off?”

  “Like instead of jacked off.” She waves her hand as if trying to conjure the perfect explanation. “More PC.”

  My brows smash together. “Sex is PC?”

  She gives me a look. Her look. “You want to argue semantics?”

  She wants to fight fire with fire? Fine, let’s burn the forest down. I go for it, don’t hold back, work myself fast and furious. Her breath grows ragged, as does mine. Undercutting each exhalation is the friction I’m creating. My head glistens, and when I circle the tip, a slow press of my thumb, the flesh is slick with my need. That’s when she rips my hand back and takes me for herself.

  “Harder,” I growl, pushing into her palm.

  She increases the pressure. “Better?”

  “More.”

  “Won’t that hurt?”

  “I like a tight grip.”

  “You asked for it.” She squeezes, and I’m almost there before she glides back to the base.

  “Fuck.”

  “Good fuck or bad fuck?”

  “Good, fuck, oh, fuck.” My voice is husky as she brushes the sensitive underside of my head. “Bad fuck, too.”

  “Why?” She frowns, pausing.

  I rock my hips again. “Because I’m going to come.”

  “This fast?”

  “It’s no’ my normal style.” But it’s true. Intense pressure radiates through my tightened sac. I bury my face in her neck and come like a shot, so violent blue stars burst behind my closed lids.

  “Did you like—”

  I shut her up with a wild kiss, my cock meshed between us, still half-hard. Her laugh is gentle, and I’m seized with a sudden instinctive sense of rightness.

  This was the strangest sexual experience of my life, funny, forceful, and brilliant. For a few minutes, I forgot my remaining anger toward her as well as my more constant anger at myself. The world became a good place, good enough at least. And even now, the feeling lingers, which suggests this wasn’t a purely lust-inspired activity where the brain rationalizes all sorts of dumb-arse ideas to justify getting off.

  Voices drift through the woods. Not close enough anyone is going to come near, but I shove myself back in my pants while Auden straightens herself up. In takes only a moment to erase the evidence. We could have been bird-watching or indulging in botanical pursuits.

  “Think you can keep your hands to yourself for the rest of the hike?” I say, cocking my brow at her.

  “You are a regular funnyman, aren’t you?” She pulls her top lower, covering the exposed sliver of belly. I want her back the way she was before, spread bare, squirming with desire, giving me everything and holding nothing back.

  I shrug as my abs go rigid. It’s dangerous to give a name to what’s happening inside me, how deep she is under my skin and how I don’t mind; if anything, I want her even deeper.

  But I can’t think such thoughts. Not consciously. If I do, the spell could well break.

  18

  AUDEN

  The hike up into Campamento Britanico took me three times as long as the hike out. When we reach the main trail, my feet are a little boot sore, but thankfully the fit is good so no blisters threaten. I yank the map from my backpack’s side pocket for a quick consult. “You’re sure you want to stop in just a few hours? It wouldn’t be hard for you to reach the La Aguja climbers’ camp in a single day.”

  “This pace is good.”

  “I feel like you’re holding back because you don’t want to push me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says with an oh-so-insinuating grin. “I’d like nothing better than to push you, or at least push into you.” Rhys doesn’t give lovey-dovey speeches, but even his frank—and frankly cheesy—dirty innuendos do it for me. As much as I want to roll my eyes, I’m too busy not passing out as blood races from my extremities to pool between my legs.

  We’re bound for a designated campground near the Refugio Cuernos, not far down the trail, my original destination the night I turned in to the valley. According to the guidebook, there are fifty campsites there, and given the high season, it should be pretty near full. Still, Rhys doesn’t seem to care about crowds for once. He ignores a large, raucous German hiking party pausing to take pictures of a delicate waterfall. Instead, he stares as if the world’s distilled to one person—me.

  “Tell me a story,” I say.

  He frowns. “You haven’t had enough of my stories yet?”

  “I want to get to know you better.” I plow right through his misgivings.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He makes it sound like he’s joking, but I know he’s not. He hasn’t just folded his arms over his chest; he’s locked them tight like a Viking shield wall.

  “What’s something else you are afraid of?”

  “Nothing.” He bristles. “I do whatever I’m afraid of.”

  I’m tempted to call bullshit and respond with No, you actually don’t, because you’re prepared to face a deadly mountain rather than have a simple conversation with your brother. Hmm. Yeah, not the best tactic. Maybe I’ll go for the more subtle approach. A skeptical eyebrow raise.

  “Dogs,” he responds curtly. “I’m afraid of dogs.”

  “Dogs?” My hearts sinks. “But I love dogs.” I’m devoted to Gog and Magog, our family huskies. Not that it matters. This is hardly going to be a relationship where pet views are called into question.

  “I didn’t say I don’t like them, only that they scare me. A little.” He coughs into his fist. “Once, when we were lads, a great German shepherd chased down Cameron and me like a hound of hell. It lived near our school, and the owner was a mean old sot who kept him on a short lead. Every day we’d walk by and it would bark, growl, and do a grand carrying on. One morning, the chain snapped and he barreled at us.”

  “Oh my God, what did you do?”

  “Told my brother to reach in my schoolbag, fetch the sausage rolls Mum baked, and give them a good hard throw. He did, and we scrambled up a nearby tree fast as you please. Hung tight until a neighbor walked by and noticed.” He gave a rueful smile at the memory before shaking his head. “What about you, Auden Woods? Time to fess up. What are you afraid of?”

  “Drinking fountains.”

  He stops in his tracks, and I almost plow into his back. Two dreadlocked girls come around the corner from the direction we’re headed. One gives me a head nod before her gaze slides toward Rhys like he generates his own gravitational pull. I swear to God a little bit of drool appears in the corner of her mouth.

  My old friend self-doubt slips in for a visit. Seriously, how can a guy of Rhys’s caliber be into me? It’s like that scene in The Hobbit where
the hot elf falls in love with the dwarf and everyone in Middle Earth goes, “The fuck is this?”

  Stop. I haven’t gone on this whole journey to end up back at the start, believing I’m not good enough. I’ve got to remember to keep choosing the different path, the one that says, “I’m here and enough.”

  Besides, Rhys isn’t even glancing in the other girls’ direction. Instead, he steps to the trail side, braces his hand against a windblown tree, and his repeated question, “You’re afraid of drinking fountains?” yanks me from my racing mind.

  “Yeah, and there’s no good reason like a childhood trauma or anything to conveniently pin the blame on,” I respond, trying to refocus on the conversation. “But whenever I lean over one, I’m gripped by sudden inexplicable terror that someone will creep up from behind and slam my face into it. Break my nose.”

  “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Welcome to my world.” Creepy fears and inadequacy issues—it’s a hoot.

  We resume hiking, and I concentrate on keeping my shoulders back, posture straight, and head high. Lead with the outside, and the inside will follow—I hope. The trail is flat and boardwalked in this section, and we can walk side by side, almost as if strolling along a sidewalk. When the lake comes into better view, we pause, checking out the distant black dots, guanacos grazing on the far south shore. “Also, lately, I keep having those dreams where my teeth fall out.”

  “Hate those.”

  “I know, right? They all start wiggling and then—”

  “Stop. You’re twisting my guts.” He slings his arm around my shoulders and plants a casual kiss on the top of my head.

  I like this version of Rhys—the fun and playful edition. Maybe this is what I bring to him, because today the yellow streaks in his eyes don’t seem as intimidating. He’s more woodcutter than wolf. He’s just a guy, and I’m just a girl, and we’re having a hard time keeping our hands off each other.

  Shoving any professional interest to the side, why does he want to climb La Aguja? It’s too dangerous to be explained away by a flippant “Because it’s there” sort of answer. What drives him, especially after his accident last spring? So many questions and none that I have the right to ask. All too soon we’re going to be at the La Aguja base camp and it will be time to pursue our individual dreams.

  A ripple of unease passes through me.

  I am willing to let Rhys’s story go, but what about others? Hopefully Diedrick made fast tracks out of the park. It’s a little strange he left us alone, almost too easy, but maybe Rhys is finally due a bit of luck.

  Guess I am, too, because I got away with it. I never have to tell Rhys that I put his puzzle together, that I considered using him for my own gain.

  He plucks a white wildflower and twists it between his fingers. “About your job, being a journalist.”

  “Yes?” I jump as if he can read my thoughts. He tucks the flower behind my ear before gently lacing his fingers with mine.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” I keep my voice light. This is dangerous territory.

  “Why do you want to be a journalist?”

  I snort. “You mean terrible pay, shrinking newsrooms, and long hours doesn’t sound like reason enough?”

  His intense gaze lets me know deflection won’t get me off the hook.

  “Well.” I loop a hand behind my neck. “I love to meet new people, ask questions, dig deeper and see what makes them tick.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” he says wryly.

  I poke my tongue out at him. “I love to write and want to go out and find great stories to tell. But the story I’m doing is only part of an internship. That’s why I need it to be great, because if I kick butt, then I’m in contention for a real job.” I pull from his hand to bracket the word real with imaginary quote marks. “Those are as elusive as Moby Frigging Dick in my field, but if I fail and don’t get the job, I’m still considered lucky to have six months of super-glamorous grunt work and a stipend that will allow me to subsist on ramen noodles. I’ll probably have to supplement my diet by sneaking into McDonald’s and stealing ketchup packets. Add some hot water and voilà—tomato soup.”

  “Disgusting.” He feigns gagging, or maybe he is for real gagging.

  “Stick with me in a zombie apocalypse, baby.” I mockingly flip my hair. “I have mad survival skills.”

  “Raiding fast-food joints?” he deadpans. “That’s your brilliant Armageddon strategy?”

  “You’ve got a better one?” I take in his build, the red climbing rope coiled on his back, the indisputable fact that he’s completely at home outdoors. “OK, fine, you probably do. So you’ll protect me when the zombies come for my brains?”

  His look is impenetrable. “You’d trust me?” The only giveaway that the question means something to him is barely detectable hesitancy.

  I lay a hand on his shoulder, my jokey smile fading. “Trust is important to you, isn’t it?”

  He bows his head. “More so than anything else. When you’re on a mountain with someone, you aren’t alone. Your fate rests in others’ hands.”

  “I’ve never had to do that, trust another person with my life.”

  “It’s no’ easily given. I’ve only ever completely trusted my brother.” There’s danger beneath his quiet words, like a trap waits, lined with pointed logs, waiting to spear anyone who wanders too close. “Our relationship is complicated of late. We… we… aren’t speaking.”

  “I’m sorry.” I increase my grip. “Have you tried reaching out to him?”

  “No. It’s complicated.” His eyes glitter as a ruddy color spreads across his throat. “But he sent a letter. It arrived at Da’s place right before I left last week.”

  I count to five, but he doesn’t appear in a hurry to cough up the rest of the story. “What did he say?”

  His lips press hard against each other. “Don’t know.”

  “You didn’t open it?” I remember the first night, when I bumped into his book and a sealed envelope fell on my chest before he whisked it away.

  He doesn’t respond. I’m guessing the lack of reply means no, but that he knows that is the wrong answer.

  “Rhys MacAskill. You need to read that letter.”

  “What do you care?” His gaze snaps to my face, and I don’t have time to hide my reaction. I don’t know what he sees there.

  Maybe I should just confess, tell him I know who he is, but he seems to need this brief time to be “normal” again, not the guy who starred as the villain in the year’s most famous accident. I’ve only just regained his trust. I’m not ready to lose it again.

  “Because I have a terrible relationship with my sister,” I say, giving him only the tiniest, unrelated part of the truth. “Because I’d do anything to repair our relationship if given the chance. Even though she’s treated me terribly, family is family, and I don’t want holidays to be like venturing into an enemy camp.”

  He gives an inward sigh, shoulders dropping. “Let’s keep going, lass.”

  We slowly make our way down the steeply descending trail. The forest is different here, more dense and dark, no longer providing expansive views to the distant grasslands. The wind’s picking up again, whipping through the branches.

  “Guess I’m afraid of more than dogs after all,” he says at last. “But you don’t know how it is, or was, with me and Cameron. Da left a long time ago, and Mum worked long hours to support us. He and I were inseparable, until Amelia. His wife.”

  The way he says that name is a little off. “Were you jealous when they met?”

  “No, at least not of her. I just missed his company. Amelia’s a good sort, but I didn’t see why they needed to rush into marriage. They are both so young. But then he said a thing about her that has stuck with me ever since. When you know, you know. Nothing particularly profound, but he knew that girl was it for him. He just knew.”

  That’s the moment I know, too. It’s as if my body encases pu
re sunlight. This grumpy-ass, hot-as-hell guy in front of me? I’m falling for him, and it’s more than a pull to the magnetism he exudes. Of course I’m physically attracted to him, but there’s something deeper at work here, as if I’m tapping into a subterranean current. For all his broody bluster, I see him, the real guy—the good guy—who’s unsuccessfully hiding one hell of a heartache. And he sees me, understands that I’m up for adventure with the right person, that if I’m pushed and encouraged, I’ll take leaps I’d never attempt on my own.

  “I get being afraid of that letter,” I say tentatively, unsure if he can see what’s hiding in my heart. “Maybe it has bad news. Says the opposite of what you hope for. I am afraid of things, too, like asking for help. When I had to go to your tent a few nights ago? That was almost scarier than not being able to breathe. I haven’t climbed mountains, but I know it’s hard to put trust in people.”

  His whole face shifts, the muscles doing a weird thing where he looks exactly the same but everything rearranges. All his latent hardness softens a fraction as his eyes blaze. “Who placed you in my path?”

  “I put myself there.”

  “Thank you, then.” He cups my face in his big hands and rests his forehead against mine. “I’m glad you asked for help.”

  I kiss the tip of his nose. “Got to say, you didn’t make it easy.”

  “No.” He grimaced. “Not my finest hour.”

  “But I’m glad, too.”

  “At the La Aguja climbing camp”—Rhys traces the side of my bra through my shirt—“it won’t be like things were back in Valle del Frances.”

  “In what ways?”

  “We won’t be alone. There will be others, hard to say how many. Could be twenty, maybe more. People have been gunning for this mountain for a long time.”

  “Do you know anyone who will be there?”

  He takes my hand as we continue down the trail. “Three Australians—Psycho, Goonbag, and Murray. We’ve never been on the same team, but we’ve done other climbs at the same time. I arranged for my supplies to be shuttled in with theirs on horseback with a gaucho team they hired, South American cowboys.” He patted his pack. “Can’t carry all my provisions and equipment in here. I’ll need more rope, crampons, an ice ax, extra clothing, food, and the like.”