by Lindsey Hart
“Why would you say that?” I pull away a couple of inches even though my hands are still on her body—one at her waist, the other cupping her breast.
Panic flashes across Steph’s face. “It’s just that I…I’m not really your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” I respond, my voice dripping with dryness.
“Yes, you do. Your type is tall, curvy, and goddess beautiful.”
“Perfect. You’re as beautiful as a goddess.”
Her lips purse thoughtfully, and surprise flares in her eyes. “You’re smooth, aren’t you? I never figured that.”
“You know, normally I like that you speak your mind. I don’t even mind that you can be bossy. But there are times…”
Suddenly, a loud crash of thunder startles both of us. Steph practically jumps right into my lap. “Yikes…okay.” She claws at my neck, frantically dragging me to her. “I’m not bossy!”
Instead of sitting here, debating that, on the next clap of thunder, I let Steph’s nails dig into my neck and scalp. She kisses me like the storm out there. Her tongue thrusts between my lips, and I part them easily, letting her sweep into my mouth. She finds my tongue and attacks it. I have no complaints about this onslaught. Clearly, she doesn’t have any more arguments about types or whatnot either.
My hands sweep around to her waist, defining the sweet, elegant curve of it. I’m startled at how tiny it is. How fragile and feminine, yet also surprised at the defined curves that run from her rib cage all the way down to the curve of her bottom, which I don’t quite get to, because I’ve been taught by just about every single movie and piece of literature out there that grabbing someone’s butt is a good way to get punched in the face or kicked in the nuts.
That’s even when getting kissed, when Stephanie parts her lips and whimpers into my mouth, and when her hands scrabble at my shoulder and dig into my hairline. Or even when her nails score my scalp and pull at my hair. It’s still no excuse. So, I keep my hands at her waist. I don’t move my hands to her bottom even though I’d desperately like to trail them lower. And not on her breasts either, because I don’t want to touch them again uninvited. What if she realizes this time around and tries to sock me out?
And I’m still not entirely sure this kiss is permission to do more.
Although, I am entirely sure she can feel that I want to. My cock is as hard as a baseball bat and probably just about as long, and there’s no way she can’t feel it, to some degree, since she’s sitting right in my lap. Her heat is bleeding into me, so warm that it floods my entire being with ecstasy so rich and heady, it might as well be a drug. We’re both buzzed. I have to keep that in mind and keep myself in check.
Another loud clap of thunder roars outside the tent, or maybe it’s the wind. I ignore it because I’d rather focus on what Steph is doing to my mouth. She’s sinking her teeth into my bottom lip as she suckles it furiously. She moans in pleasure, then sweeps her tongue out along my lip to soothe the tingle where her teeth scraped over the tender skin. No one has ever done that to my lip, and no one has ever kissed me like it’s an art form. Like they care about the art they’re making, and maybe a little about my pleasure as well.
Okay, it’s obvious she cares a lot about me enjoying this, and it makes my head nearly swim right off my shoulders. I could blame it on the beer, but I know it’s not that. Or rather, not just that.
As Steph deepens the kiss, her hips swivel, grinding hard against the rod of steel that passes as my dick, and I see a bright light flash across my eyes. It lights up the tent for just a split second.
It takes me a little longer to realize that my eyes are open, and the light was coming from outside. It’s the lightning, and a booming clap of thunder and a strange roar echo with it. Steph doesn’t even take notice. She grinds down hard on me, whimpering into my mouth while her tongue tangles with mine. Her pert breasts thrust against my chest.
There are all sorts of reasons this is wrong. And I know them. I do. I swear, I do. I’m just finding it hard to focus on them right now and recall what they are. Something about Steph being my secretary. Something about…
Bang!
A clap of thunder shakes the tent and the ground beneath us. The strange roar intensifies. I think it’s probably just the blood roaring to my ears because what Steph is doing feels really, really good. Her warm, wet core grinding against me is sending shivers of pleasure shooting through my body. I don’t care that we’re both wearing clothes. I can feel her heat and wetness straight through all those layers, I think.
Because something is warm.
And wet.
And what the heck is that roar?
Jesus, I’m more buzzed than I thought I was, which is a pretty good reason to cut this out because Steph probably is too, and I should do the right thing if we’re both drunk. We should not continue with this until we can talk about it sober.
So, I try. I tear away and pant something in her ear that is probably her name. “Steph…”
“Adam,” she groans. “Touch me. Please, touch me. Now. I need you.”
“Are you—”
“Yes, I’m freaking sure! Unless you don’t want to because you think I look like a celery. I know I’m not your type and all—”
“I thought we talked about that. About types.”
“I know, but—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about with the celery. You don’t look like a celery. Why would you say that? Isn’t celery a country?”
“It’s a vegetable,” she giggles, but then she leans back and looks straight at me. “How buzzed are you? You know it’s a vegetable, right? Please tell me that was a joke.”
It was a joke, I think. I’m pretty sure. I’m also sure the blood is roaring in my ears again. There’s another flash of light, and then the boom of thunder makes the tent tremble as it reverberates through my bones. Steph clutches at my neck and stares at me, her eyes so beautiful and deep that I could stare into them for an eternity, even in the dark.
Which I know doesn’t really make sense.
I’m about to tangle my hands in her silken hair and kiss her again, but only that because I think we are both more buzzed than we’re going to admit, or at least I am, and I want to keep this fairly PG-rated, which means clothes stay on, and any possible regrets stay far away. But then another loud clap and a flash of light brighten the entire tent, which is soon followed by another roar—a loud one, so loud that my teeth rattle.
Then another roar. This roar is so wild and furious that I realize it’s not in my head at all. It’s not my overheated blood surging through my veins or my dick trying to dick-whisper something into my ear that I shouldn’t be listening too—yes, I think I might be quite drunk to think something like that. The roar swells, louder and louder. I have no idea what’s happening until it’s too late.
The wind. The roar is the wind. And there’s a storm going on out there.
A storm that moved closer and closer and closer until it was right on top of us, and we didn’t even realize it.
As if the heavens are pissed at the idea of what we’re doing in the tent, a deluge of rain unleashes like a monsoon, straight onto the tent. The tent—which I’m guessing is supposed to be pretty hardy because most tents are usually built to withstand a rain shower—holds up for about thirty seconds. Steph clings to me wildly, and I tighten my arms around her in case this is the end of the world. It certainly sounds like it out there, with the storm roaring around us like a freight train and tearing at our tent like an outraged banshee.
Just when I think it’s over—when the rain settles down from the wild monsoon that let loose to something which actually resembles a normal summer rain at the end of a hot day—there’s another short wail of the wind, a loud as hell clap of thunder, and a brief quiver—the tent’s dying moan, I realize—and that’s it.
The whole thing collapses straight on top of us.
CHAPTER 9
Stephanie
There’s t
his inhuman sound coming from the layers of soaking wet and smothering canvas that is draped over my head and face like a death call. I realize the sound is me screaming, and I quickly cut it out.
The tent collapsed, I realize. And the thud on top of my head was a pole hitting me. The wet, sticky stuff on my face is just the wet tent. I reach up and find that I can easily peel it away.
I’m still sitting on Adam’s lap. Except, obviously, any romance is way done and gone. He’s gasping for air like a flopping fish that just got hauled out of water. I reach between us and peel the layer of wet canvas off his face. The first thing I do after that is to reach up and feel the cut on his forehead where he hit the rock this afternoon. I’m relieved to feel that it’s not bleeding.
“Holy shit,” I mumble. “As if this couldn’t get any worse.”
Adam peels the layers of canvas off from around us. The tent is still partially propped up by the poles that go through it. It collapsed right on top of us, but it’s easy enough to get it off and shove it to the side so we can move. I go first, fumbling around until I find the stupid zipper of the entrance of the freaking useless tent. I crawl out into the sticky, wet humidity of the night.
It’s still hot from the day, which is probably why such a wicked storm passed through. It’s still thundering and still pouring. There are bolts of lightning in the distance, and for a second, I’m not just uncomfortable, I’m also scared. But then Adam crawls out of the tent behind me. He sets a hand on my shoulder, and his warmth spreads through me, warding off the cold chill of the rain and the fear of the power of the storm out here where we’re not sheltered by things like a roof, windows, and actual walls.
“Are you okay?” His deep voice fills up the night and makes me tremble just a little.
“Yeah. I think so. Nothing is broken or bleeding.”
“Good. Grab your bag, your phone, and anything that shouldn’t get wet. We’ll sit in the car.”
“You mean…we’re not going home?”
“I’m completely blitzed,” Adam admits flatly.
Honestly, I had no idea. I was just a little bit buzzed. Hmm, okay, maybe a whole lot buzzed, but not full-on drunk. I think I knew what I was doing. I mean, it might have been out of character, but I knew I was kissing Adam, and I knew I wanted it. I thought that maybe—Jesus. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe my judgment went way to hell and back, but now that I’m soaked, I’m just about completely sober.
“I can call—”
“Let’s just get what we can. I’ll go and book one of those cabins if there’s one available, and we can get the rest of the stuff in the morning. Get whatever you don’t want to leave, or I can get it. Just tell me what to look for.”
“I’ll find my phone.”
I untangle myself from his hand since I suddenly realize I should get away and just concentrate on cleaning up this mess. Also, I really want to get into one of those cabins and regain back some semblance of modernization, indoor plumbing, and a real building before Adam changes his mind. I wouldn’t mind a warm shower that’s not in a public bathroom, and I also wouldn’t mind running water and a toilet that I don’t have to walk all the way down the road to get to.
Besides that, separate bedrooms are probably a good thing because at least there would be a bed and a couch—something where we could sleep and not have to stare at each other. And maybe a fridge or a stove. Good god, I’d just about do anything for a stove right now. I wasn’t relishing the thought of accidentally chopping my hand off with an ax while trying to cut firewood or even burning the whole freaking campground down.
I scramble back into the ruined tent. The wind and rain are calming down now, so I don’t have to fight so hard with the tent. I find my backpack easily, then my purse, and I hastily pull out my phone. With a quick swipe, the flashlight comes on. It’s easy for me to find our packs after that and shove them out of the opening.
Adam takes them faster than I can get them out. I gather up everything except the cooler because I don’t think I’ll need a midnight snack tonight, and our sleeping bags since they’re damp. I hope that whatever cabin we get has bedding. But honestly, at this point, who cares? As long as there’s a bed, I won’t complain. Blankets and pillows suddenly seem pretty superfluous.
“I’m going to walk to the camp office and ask about a cabin.” Adam pushes the tent flap to the side and sticks his head in.
Shit. In the light from my phone, I can see a thin line of blood—watery from the rain dripping off his hair—running down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose.
“Wait!” I reach out, my hand suddenly shaking. “You’re bleeding again.”
“It’ll be fine.” Adam swipes it away with the back of his hand.
My stomach manages to clench and gurgle at the same time. “Are you okay to walk there by yourself? Please tell me you won’t pass out from that head wound and then lie in a ditch somewhere because that would be bad. That would be really, really, really bad.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m just not going to take the car because I refuse to get in it after having that many beers, even to drive a short distance. It’s not cool. It’s unlocked, though. Go sit in it. It’s dry, at least. I can hit the command start too so you can pump some heat. It lasts for about fifteen minutes, which should be enough to get you started on warming up, if not drying out. Hopefully, I won’t take longer to get back.”
I somehow give him a watery smile. Not because I’m overly upset about the tent (if we get a cabin, then hell yeah, I’d take the tent collapsing around us and soaking me any time), but because Adam is just so freaking nice. He’s like that all the time. He’s thoughtful, caring, and kind. I’ve always known that, but maybe because I’ve had a few beers, it’s actually hitting me hard, straight in my weepy soft spot. My nose prickles, and I blink hard. Thank goodness my hair is soaked too, and the wetness is dripping down my face. If a few tears randomly leak out, at least the rain will cover it up.
“Okay.” My voice is all wobbly, like the tent.
Adam gives me a soft look like he’s worried about leaving now, so I force a more cheerful disposition and quell all the worries I have about that cut on his head and the thoughts about how the heck his wife could ever leave him and treat him like she did. Like he’s trash or even less than trash. Something to be thrown out and stomped on and rejected.
One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure.
Stop it. That’s not how that saying goes. That’s for things, not people.
“Steph? Are you sure? I don’t have to—”
“I’d really like a cabin,” I say with forced cheerfulness. “Like, really, really, really, would like one. A hot shower sounds amazing, and a bed. I’d kill for a bed.”
“Hopefully not.”
“Better watch yourself.”
“I better get one, so you don’t have to.”
“Did you find your wallet?”
“I did. All your stuff is in the car. You’ll be okay?”
“Yes.”
“Lock the doors.”
His concern is touching. I nod and watch as he pulls his head out of the thing that doesn’t really pass as a tent anymore. I listen for a few minutes to the sound of his footsteps crunching over wet gravel. He must have found his boots too.
I manage to pull my wet, soggy self out of the wet, soggy tent. The rain is really getting through now that it caved in on itself. The car’s heat is blasting when I slip inside and close the door behind me. I do lock the doors even though I feel silly doing it.
I lean back in the chair, slightly worried about getting a car this expensive this wet. Will it wreck the seats? Are they leather or just something that could pass for it because they’re so high end that they don’t believe in using leather because it’s passé? Is there something of a higher grade than leather?
I close my eyes and let the heat flow over me, working out the chill of the rain. My hair is so damp that there is still water dripping a
ll over me, including down my face.
God, that cabin is going to feel close to heaven.
Heaven.
Speaking of heaven, something else felt close to it tonight—something I didn’t expect. Wait, no, not something but someone. Wilderness Adam. My boss, Adam. The very Adam who is supposed to be off-limits because I’ve always thought he wasn’t available. Now I know he kind of is. I mean, he told me he was, and we had that conversation. But even if he’s not out to get his ex-wife back, he does have hang-ups, reasons he can’t and shouldn’t date, according to him. There’s the company to be worried about, and the fact that he probably has a hard time trusting anyone after his heart was ripped out and stomped all over, and when his best efforts weren’t actually good enough. That stings. That’s literally like someone pouring lemon juice or salt into an open wound.
My mind wanders from that to thinking about the huge list of reasons I shouldn’t have done what I did in the tent. You know those lists that very eager young children write for Santa after listening to a month of Christmas advertising on TV and seeing toys every single time they open their parent’s phones or tablets? Yeah. My list of reasons is longer than that list of Christmas wishes.
First, there’s the obvious fact that Adam is my boss. Second, he’s rich and way out of my league. I know this isn’t the eighteen hundreds, and classes aren’t a thing anymore, but we just come from different backgrounds, and sometimes, that’s a lot to get past. Plus, there’s the company. And what everyone would say because of who I am and who he is. I don’t exactly want to be labeled a gold digger. Minus the “exactly” because there wouldn’t be any “exactly” about it. That’s exactly how people would see me. Plus, there’s the fact that we were both buzzed tonight, and I’m sure what happened was just a really amazing fluke—yet another item on the list—the fact that I’m here because Adam’s paying me.
I know. The list is pretty gross.
I need to stop thinking about it.