by L. B. Dunbar
Crawling on his hands and knees, he reaches for the lamp and switches off the light. I hold my breath at the sudden darkness surrounding me, blinking several times in hopes to see something, anything. Giant rustles around in the blackness before sliding into the bag next to me. A heavy exhale from him fills the air under the canvas, and I hold my breath as I lie on my back, tugging the edge of the sleeping bag under my chin. It’s weird to consider sleeping next to a stranger, and I wouldn’t have to consider it if I were exhausted. I should be dead tired, but suddenly, I’m wide-awake. It’s been a strange day.
Sigh.
“What?” The sound of Giant’s low voice next to me startles me. He’s been relatively quiet since our short meal, and we spent a long time watching the flames dance or gazing up at the stars. I wish I knew all the constellations. I bet he could have taught me, but each time I looked over at him, he appeared deep in thought as though his mind was a million miles away even though his body was present. He seems a little closed off. Is he thinking of his dead wife? Does he miss her?
I roll my head on the pillow in his direction. He isn’t facing me, but I can see the rough outline of him. The visual rests in my head. Strong jaw. Edged cheeks. Firm lips. The tent is the darkest dark I’ve ever experienced, but I can see him. Large, silent, brooding type. On the other hand, the silence again is eerie. Where is an airplane? How about a train in the distance? The sound of an eighteen-wheeler on a highway?
“Relax,” he suggests, his voice startling me again.
I inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
The silence continues, pressing down on me as I stare up in the direction of the ceiling.
“What?” he snaps again, his voice gruffer, and I sense his head roll near mine. Is he looking at me?
“I didn’t say anything,” I remind him, whining like a teenager.
“I can practically hear you thinking over there.”
“It’s nothing,” I murmur.
“Speak,” he snaps, his voice still low as if someone might hear us.
“I typically read before I go to sleep.”
“Me too,” he says, rolling his head once again and surprising me with the comment.
“Really, what do you read?”
“Thrillers.”
I huff.
“What?” he asks. I hear him shift next to me, his nearness overwhelming me. Though his voice remains quiet, it’s closer. “I bet you read romances.”
I chuckle, caught with the truth. “And if I do?”
He snorts and flips to his back again. “Nothing.”
Minutes pass again, and his breathing grows shallow. I hope he doesn’t snore. Hudson snored, although he swore he didn’t. Of course, the great Hudson Rockford would never make such a crude noise. He hardly made noise during sex, I recall, and then will away thoughts of him. Camping is an adventure he’d never risk.
I sigh again.
“What now?” Giant speaks, his voice a little louder, and I flinch. Wasn’t he almost asleep?
“I just thought this would be a little more exciting. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.”
“You don’t want bears close to us, sweetheart.” He mocks me with the endearment. “It’s why we hitched up our food.” Before entering the tent, Giant had me help him secure the coolers in some kind of rope netting which he hoisted up to dangle from a tree branch. The thought of a real bear coming near our camp makes me inch a little closer to Giant despite the zippered bags separating us. He doesn’t seem to notice as he doesn’t question me nor does he move away.
More silence. More deep breathing.
With assumptions of him sleeping, my mind races. One of my favorite romance novels comes to mind, and I’m hopeful my memory of particular scenes will help lull me to sleep as if I’m reading the words. Unfortunately, the scene that creeps into my head is a sexy one, and now all I can think of is Giant and me in compromising positions, which isn’t going to happen. He’s about as interested in me as a fish wanting to be out of water. But my sex clenches, pulsing more rapid than my heartbeat, and I consider getting myself off in hopes of relieving the tension.
I’m not wearing a bra, so I slip my hand under my sweatshirt, palming my stomach as I lie on my back. Slowly, I work my way under one breast, feeling the weight of the achy swell. I curve my hand upward and tweak my nipple. It’s already hard, and I tug at the nub. My thighs press together, rubbing against each other, and I cross my legs for more friction.
It isn’t enough, and I listen for Giant. Will he know what I’m doing only inches from him? Will he think I’m a creepy, unstable, insatiably horny woman? Images of him in my head further ignite my desire.
His broad back splitting wood before he made our fire this evening.
His fingers brushing mine as he handed me the beer.
His eyes on me while I observed the stars.
I wonder what it would be like to have him on me. His full body over mine. His large hands palming my breasts.
My fingers release the heavy globe and travel south, slipping under the waistband of my flannel pajama bottoms. Curling into my underwear, they head to my core. My fingertips just breach the pulsing nub when Giant’s voice startles me again.
“Awfully quiet over there, Cricket.”
I groan, adding a little cough to make it sound like resolved boredom instead of disappointment. Caught red-handed with my fingers in the cookie jar, I quickly retract my hand, only to have a heavy palm land on my forearm, over the sleeping bag, stilling my retreat.
“Cricket?” There’s a question in his voice, and my mouth goes dry. I can’t tell him what I’d been planning to do. That I’ve been thinking about him. How I wanted to take care of myself with fantasies of him.
He sniffs and sniffs again, like a hound dog on the hunt. Oh God, can he smell me? Smell the essence of my arousal?
“Are you…touching yourself?” Mortification and a strong desire to be swallowed by a sinkhole fill me. My eyes roll back, and I close my lids as if he can see me, and I’m shutting him out.
“I couldn’t sleep yet,” I whisper, hoping the explanation is enough to appease him, force him to release my arm, and roll away from me. Instead, the pressure of his hand pushes at mine, suggesting I move it lower.
“Giant?” I question.
He shifts next to me, and his free hand comes to the edge of my sleeping bag. I can’t breathe. He’s going to know what I was doing, know my dirty daydream of him. He’s going to tug me from this bag and throw me off the mountain.
I’m so worked up by this scenario that I miss the rapid unzipping at my side. He reaches inside my bag for my arm and lifts my hand to his nose. Then two of my fingers enter the warm cavern of his mouth, and his tongue twirls over them. It’s so unexpected and intoxicating that my back arches and my sex screams.
He releases my fingers from his lips and guides my hand back into the sleeping bag. His palm covers the back of my hand, collectively lowering our fingers under my waistband and diving deeper. The pulse at my core sets a beat more rapid than my heart. With Giant’s fingers over mine, he leads me to the place I need attention, and then he stills his hand while I brush over myself. He’s so close to touching me, and the tease spurs me onward. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. We’re virtual strangers, yet this man does something to me. Something I’ve never felt, not even with Hudson. Especially not with Hudson. I toss away thoughts of my ex and concentrate on my fingertips over the swollen hood.
As the intensity of my fingers increases, I notice movement next to me. A subtle scratching, jerking motion from Giant. Is he getting himself off while torturing me with his hand so close yet not quite close enough? I hum, and his breath hitches. It feels scandalous and delicious. Forbidden and necessary.
“Giant,” I squeak. Asking. Warning. Telling. I’m on the verge of one of the biggest orgasms I’ve ever given myself.
“Finish, Cricket,” he demands, and the command breaks me. My knees separate as much as they can within
the confines of the sleeping bag, and my back arches. I give in to the pleasure rippling through my lower belly and the slick proof of my desire.
I hear Giant grunt next to me, and the sensual noise echoes straight to my clit. My knees come back together, holding Giant’s and my fingers pinned between my thighs. I could go again, but I’ve rarely had a second orgasm. I’d need his fingers on me, yet I could never outright ask him to touch me. Suddenly, I’m so embarrassed by my behavior.
The slick sound of skin on skin next to me fills my ears, and I roll my head to the side, wishing I could watch him but settle for imagining it in my head. I need another go, but Giant slowly retracts his hand, sliding his warm palm up my wrist and over my sweatshirt-covered arm. He frees his hand from my sleeping bag and awkwardly zips up the side. Movement rustles next to me, but I can’t see him, and I’m cursing the darkness. More shifting. Another huff. And then the stillness alerts me that Giant has turned onto his side, leaving his back to me.
This was the most adventurous sexual experience I’ve ever had, and with a stranger, no less. But Giant rolling away from me, building a wall between us, is reminiscent of Hudson and his quick, no-nonsense pace. The immediate rejection stings. My heart crushes under the weight of memory and the lack of words from Giant. Did he think that was crazy, insane fun? Or just crazy and insane?
I should say something—thank him or apologize— but within seconds, I hear his breathing deepen and then a soft snore. I release my hand from inside the sleeping bag and reach toward Giant as if to touch his back, but I don’t. Hovering over the broad expanse, I whisper to deaf ears, “Good night.”
Then I roll to my side and allow the traitorous tears to silently fall.
7
The day after.
[Giant]
I shouldn’t have done it, I think as I grip myself in my large palm for the second time in less than eight hours. With one arm braced on the tree before me, I rest my forehead on my forearm while my other hand jerks and juts, squeezing harder.
I couldn’t help myself. She thought she was so stealthy next to me, but I’m military trained for slight noises. The hitch of her breath. The movement of her arm. And then there was the scent. Heady. Feminine. Sex. I smelled her fingers, sucked her essence off them, and then I couldn’t stop myself. My twitchy fingers rested over hers—so close yet not close enough. My dick leaped to life, and I gave in to the raw pleasure.
Like I’ve never done before.
Like I’m doing again next to this tree.
When I woke this morning, the pressure at my back told me Letty had curled into me. I should have said something last night. I should have apologized or thanked her. I should have held her. She was a spark of that spontaneity I’d been longing for and never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what we’d done.
I loved my wife. Clara and I had been similar—quiet and reserved. She was my high school sweetheart, and when I joined the military, the natural progression of things suggested I marry her before I went away. But when I returned, we were strangers. I’d been gone from home for too long. My desires were different, and she was hesitant with me. Then she died.
I hear a rustle of leaves to my side, but I don’t look up. Please be a curious animal instead of her. I pray the mountain opens and swallows me if she catches me getting off again, but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman, and Letty isn’t like any woman I’ve known, especially Clara. Uninhibited. Daring. Seductive. I woke with the hardest morning wood I’ve ever had, and it refused to go down no matter my thoughts.
Baseball…and traveling the bases on Letty’s body.
My grandmother…and pulling Letty into a closet.
Giant Brewing Company…and then pouring beer all over her body and lapping it up.
I am a mess over this woman and making one in my hand. It was rough going with spit in my palm, but fast work as the fantasies would not cease. I bit into my forearm as relief quickly came, coating my fingers.
Fuck, it felt good, but dirty and shameful. I’m not ashamed of touching myself but using Letty as my woody wet dream seems disrespectful. We don’t know each another.
But you want to get to know her, my heart beats. You want the spontaneous spark she ignites.
Removing a bandana from my back pocket, I wipe up the mess, then tuck myself back in my pants and zip up. It’s only a few short steps to the quiet campsite, and I stoke the fire when I return. I don’t even know what I’ll say to her this morning or how I’ll address what happened last night. I’m expecting her to demand I take her back down the mountain, and I admit the thought hurts my chest. I don’t want her to go. Not yet.
I step over to the tent and discover Letty missing, but so is the towel and cloth I left behind for her. I shouldn’t do it, I warn myself, but I rise from my haunches and trek to the stream. I’ll be shocked to find her in the water. That rippling river is damn cold.
Instead, I see an unexpected sight. Her back to me, she stands naked from the waist up. She rubs a wet washcloth slowly up her side, taking her time to outline her body, and I realize I could watch her all day. Lowering for the stream, I’m mesmerized by her backside. Her snug jeans accentuate each curve and hug the hips my fingers long to touch. Rinsing the cloth, she then adds more soap. The all-natural, easily dissolvible body wash works wonders when a full shower can’t be had. After she stands, she slaps the cloth over her shoulder, and her hands lower to the waistband of her jeans. My throat clogs, and I cough. The noise startles her, and she crooks her head. She can’t see me, I tell myself, as I remain under the cover of trees.
What am I doing? Creeper. Stalker.
What is she doing to me?
When her jeans come undone, and she lowers them to her thighs, a perfect white ass shines at me, and the cloth disappears from her shoulder.
Goddammit, I’m turned on again. It never happens this quickly. I’m almost fifty, for heaven’s sake, yet I want her. Right here on this shoreline, next to the cold stream, I want to bury myself deep inside her.
Then I remember the land.
She wants my land.
She’s here because of that.
Not because of me.
I turn away from her, fighting the urge in my pants and the ache in my chest. My punishment for wanting her will be the blue balls I suffer.
I return to the fire and begin the process of making eggs and bacon over a campfire. The large cast iron skillet works wonders, and I remain crouched down, focused on the sizzle of meat and the slow curl of eggs, allowing my thoughts to wander.
Clara would camp. She liked the outdoors as much as I did, finding peace in the quiet. But we were too silent as a couple. We didn’t argue with each other. We didn’t yell at our children. We didn’t speak about all the things missing between us, and we didn’t make noise during sex. She was a good woman. The best. She made a home with my military earnings and loved our girls, the only gift I believed I’d given her. Clara wanted to be a mother, and fortunately, she was pregnant after my first tour. The girls became her focus while I was gone. When I returned home, she didn’t know how to handle me. The PTSD. The brewery. We weren’t those silent high school sweethearts anymore. Then she got sick.
“Good morning.” Her cheerful female voice breaks into my morbid memories.
I snort in response and glance up to watch Letty’s face fall. She’s not the reason I’m gruff, and I curse myself for responding as such, but her singular nod and the twist of lips tells me she’ll take no excuse for my rudeness. She walks over to a log and lays the towel and washcloth on the bark to dry in the sun. I want to reach for the material and rub the scent of her over my face and breathe her in again, but I don’t.
Instead, I focus on cooking the bacon and eggs.
“May I?” she asks before reaching for the camp coffeepot. I nod again as if my throat’s clogged.
Why am I not speaking to her? Answer her with something, you big oaf.
&nb
sp; “Did you sleep well?”
She stops pouring her coffee and looks up at me. Her eyes narrow, and I raise a fist to cover a forced cough.
I’m an idiot.
“It’s surprising how well I slept,” she answers. “I mean, it’s quiet here and dark, and I’m not used to that. Planes, trains, and automobiles zooming, and bright orange streetlights are more my scene, but a lumpy ground and a thick sleeping bag weren’t too bad. I can’t say I’m ready for Naked and Afraid, but it wasn’t awful.” She reflectively smiles, and her response draws a grin from me.
Maybe we don’t need to talk about last night.
“So last night…” she begins, and my head heavily lowers, pulling my eyes away from her. Or maybe not. “You mentioned bears.”
My head pops back up.
“I wonder what I’m supposed to do if I see one. I read once I should fall to the ground. Another report told me to make myself large and yell.”
“You could always talk him away,” I scoff. Her face falls again, and her lips purse.
I amend. Fucking idiot describes me best.
“My mother teases me about how I talk too much. It’s a nervous habit. I feel the need to fill the silence, so the words just spew. Maybe it’s that my mind can’t settle. I struggle to relax, so I ramble. I don’t know. It just…” She glances up at me, and the words fall away. Whatever her reason for speaking so much, it’s happening again, and she realizes it.
Her expression dampens again. “Smells good,” she offers with a nod to the sizzling breakfast, and then she shuts her eyes as if willing herself not to speak.
“Was there anything you’d like to do today?” I ask, not having a plan. I rarely have anything specific on the agenda when I come up here. That’s the point. The brewery keeps me busy with schedules and meetings, so I use this place for a break from life.
“Ax throwing. Archery. Hunting.”
“Hunting?” The thought of her holding a gun surprises me.
“Actually, no. Firm pass on killing any Bambis.”