by Sara Ney
Afterwards, standing back, hands on her hips to survey her work, Chelsea declares with a satisfied nod, “There are two things my dad always said I’d always need to utilize: how to start a fire, and the many uses for duct tape.”
Her fire-starting technique was quite impressive, and while Chelsea dusts her soot-covered hands off on her jeans, I can’t help but wonder what those many uses for duct tape actually are.
The night is quiet; our cabins sit at the very far edge of the vast resort property, the location surprisingly remote for a commercialized tourist destination.
Around the bonfire are red Adirondack chairs, logs styled as benches, and lots of warm, wool blankets provided by the resort. Just on the outskirts of the circle sits a large cooler filled with ice, beer, and a few bottles of cheap wine that are beginning to chill.
I admit I was much too shy to sit near Caleb, so I spent most of the evening surreptitiously sneaking peeks at him from across the fire, the high blaze occasionally obstructing my view, and, well… making my retinas burn.
I mean, I love a good bonfire, but I can’t stand the smoke.
Just keeping it real.
We sit outside for a few hours in the dark. At some point, couples start returning to the cabins, one by one, when Chelsea’s monster fire eventually whittles itself down to a smoky, crackling pile of embers.
Belatedly, I notice that Jenna has disappeared.
“I guess I’ll go jump in the shower,” I say to Cubby, Angelica, and Caleb, the only people remaining around the dwindling flames. I throw one last look over my shoulder as I walk up porch steps, catching Caleb’s dark and penetrating gaze watching me retreat.
Once inside, I make slow work of the shower, unhurriedly standing under the warm spray of water, massaging the smoke out of my scalp with Jenna’s delicious-smelling shampoo and conditioner. Because I don’t think she’d mind, I also lather myself up with her organic seaweed scrub and shave my legs with her razor before deciding a steaming hot fifteen-minute shower is long enough. It’s been heavenly, considering we have one water heater at our ransack rental, and our shower runtime before the water gets cold tops out at three minutes.
I step out, toweling off with a white, fluffy terrycloth towel, slather my body with lemon body cream, and blow dry my long hair so my bedhead in the morning will only be slightly less tragic, not outright horrific.
Still wrapped in the towel, I paddle my bare feet to the bedroom but find it locked.
I rattle the doorknob and press my ear to the door, listening intently.
Nothing.
Knocking firmly, I hold my towel closed in one hand and clutch my dirty, smoke-filled jeans and sweatshirt in the other.
“Jenna,” I hiss, knocking again. “Open. Up.”
Still nothing.
“I don’t think she’s coming out,” a deep voice intones behind me.
I whip around, and Caleb stands before me, freshly showered and holding a small stack of neatly folded (I squint to get a better look)… white pajamas.
My white pajamas.
Seriously, what is he doing with my pajamas?
Oh my god, shut up, Abigail. Stop saying pajamas.
“She’s in there with Cubby,” he states matter-of-factly, tipping his head toward my closed cabin door. “Pretty sure they’re not coming out anytime soon. These were on the couch.”
“I don’t… get it.”
But I do.
Jenna and Cubby had to have done this on purpose to force Caleb and me together. They’re probably in that room laughing their asses off, quietly muffling their laughter with my freaking pillow.
I’m going to murder her in her sleep.
Freaking. Murder her.
“It’s late. Why don’t you, uh, take these into my room and get dressed,” Caleb says. “Here. Give me those bonfire clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash while you change.”
I hand him my stinky pile of clothes, shivering when our hands brush while making the exchange, and steal away to his bedroom.
I see that Jenna has charitably left me the lacy white sleep shorts, sheer white tank top, and a white thong.
Great.
Since I usually wear Granny panties—no judging, this is a safe place—and don’t want anything riding up my butt, I skip the thong altogether and throw on just the shorts and tank top. I couldn’t feel any more naked if I were actually, well… naked.
Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I groan at the time: midnight. I’m tired but have no desire to sleep out on the couch—not after the way I woke up this morning, with Cubby and freaking Stephan Randolph watching me get felt up. Watching us.
When I finally get the courage to pull the bedroom door open, Caleb is leaning against the arm of the couch, arms crossed and waiting patiently. He takes me in from head to toe, eyebrows shooting up into his black hairline at the sight of me, his eyes abruptly finding the moose head above the fireplace the most interesting thing in the room.
“You can take the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he mutters, still not looking directly at me.
I peer down at my chest and gasp.
My dusky nipples are visible through the sheer white fabric, leaving very little to the imagination without a bra on, and I let out a squeak of dismay.
Shit, shit, shit. If ever there were a curse-worthy moment, it would be this one.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I force out a nonchalant, “Nonsense.” Ugh. Nonsense? Nice one, Abby. Way to sound like Grandma Hazel, who said crap like that back in 1932. “That wouldn’t be fair. I’m the one who got booted out of my room. I’ll take the couch,” I prattle on nervously.
“As a gentleman,” I can see him inwardly groan at his own choice of words, “I can’t let you sleep on the couch.”
“But it’s your bedroom.”
“You shouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow morning with Blaze, Miles and Stephan fuc—I mean, undressing you with their eyes.”
“Really, Caleb, it’s fine. I insist.” His eyes are still focused on that moose above the fireplace as I object. Yet again.
“No, really, it’s not a big—”
“For. Fuck’s. Sake.” An angry voice shouts from one of the two occupied bedrooms. “Stop arguing outside our door and share the goddamn bedroom!”
I’m not sure who the voice actually belongs to, but talk about rude. And pardon my French, but there is no bleeping way I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.
Not. A. Chance…
***
Abby: Help. I’m in way over my head.
Cecelia: Want my advice? Just go with it.
Abby: You always say that!
Cecelia: That’s because I had to learn the hard way to let myself take risks. So, try having fun and stop thinking so much
Abby: Easy for YOU to say…
Cecelia: Quit whining. AND PUT THE PHONE AWAY!
CHAPTER 17
Caleb
If I said I’ve never spent the night with a girl in my bed, never had a one-night stand, never gotten sucked or fucked at a party, I would be lying.
I might be anti-social, but as a young guy clearly in his prime, raging hormones have unquestionably lorded over my dick. I’ve callously used girls in the past to get myself off. Granted, I could count on two hands how many times it’s happened, but when it did, it was all take and little give.
Contrary to popular opinion, I am no virgin.
That doesn’t make this moment with Abby any less nerve-wracking. Probably because she’s not a slut with an agenda.
I hesitate when she enters the room, pausing to watch as she marches briskly to the far side of the bed, staring down at it, reluctance written across her creased brow. She falters for a few moments before pulling the forest-green sheet back and slipping in quickly, probably because she knows I can see her tits through her top and wants to hide them under the blankets.
I slide the door shut behind us and automatically slide the deadbolt through the lock.
&nb
sp; “Thanks again for letting me crash here,” Abby says, and I turn to face her, drinking in the sight of her. Propped up on the mountain of elk-printed pillow cases, her crisp white tank and innocent girl-next-door vibe are as exhilarating as every opposing goal I’ve ever blocked on the ice. Probably more so.
Abby’s silky hair falls in a loose cascade over her shoulders, her posture in bed causing the neckline of her shirt to dip low—really, really low—exposing the swell of her breasts.
She doesn’t notice, but I sure as shit do.
I feel like such a creep for staring, but honestly, seeing her in that big bed is seriously fucking with my head. How the hell am I supposed to casually climb in beside her and act like this is no big deal when my dick is getting hard from just watching her climb in?
Timidly, she plays with the corner of the comforter and avoids my gaping stare. “You were right. I didn’t really want to wake up with guys gawking at me in the living room. It was weird enough this morning.”
Noted: gawking is disturbing.
I avert my eyes.
“Yeah, sorry about that. That was kind of my fault. But trust me, this—” I gesture around the room “—this isn’t a hardship.” I blurt it out before my brain can stop my mouth, and bite down on my lower lip. “I mean. No one will disturb you in here.”
Abby chokes out an embarrassed cough and white-knuckles the blanket. “So, what’s it like living with Cubby?” she asks, twisting the forest-green sheet in her hands.
“It’s a nightmare,” I respond wryly, and reach down to pull the blue cotton tee shirt over my head. I hesitate, pausing with the shirt clenched in my fists and wonder if she minds—or would be uncomfortable—with me removing it.
Aww, fuck it.
The shirt comes off, and I toss it haphazardly into the corner of the room with my other strewn clothes, noting that Abby’s eyes go wide and she sinks deeper into the pillows, staring at the ceiling intently.
God, we’re awkward.
“That kid is a pain in the ass,” I continue, sitting on the edge of the bed and removing my athletic socks. I flex the cords in my back, stretching as I lean over and flick my socks off. Straightening, I twist my torso to face her. “As you can see, he’s a slob.”
I motion with my arms toward the many jeans, boxer shorts, socks, and shirts strewn about the room, and not even in neat piles. There are enough clothes to last an entire week, let alone a thirty-six hour getaway.
In short: his shit is everywhere.
“At least you didn’t have to sleep with him.”
“That’s true. Can you imagine? He’d probably try to spoon me, and the last thing I’d want is his coc—uh… him pressed into my back. Too bad he leaves his shit everywhere. Does it at home, too.”
Abby giggles softly, her eyes sparkling in the dim lamplight. “You know, I’ve been wondering something. Why do you guys call him Cubby?”
I shrug. “It’s short for Chester. Chester Billing the fourth. He’s a blueblood from Massachusetts. Been Cubby forever, I think.”
She chokes back a laugh. Literally chokes. “Yikes. They’re both horrible, but I guess one beats the other…” Her voice trails off, and she swallows whatever she’s about to say. I stand, readjust myself in my mesh gym shorts and trudge—bare-chested—to the opposite side of the bed.
With a little too much force, I yank back the bed covers too far, exposing Abby’s smooth legs to the cold room and causing her to gasp. “Shit, sorry.”
I yank the sheets up again toward the headboard. So far I just remade the bed. I sigh in frustration before giving it another shot.
“All that flapping around is making me cold,” Abby teases with a laugh and rolls her eyes. “Just get in already.”
I relax and let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I’m an idiot.”
~ Abby ~
I watch as Caleb slides his big solid body in bed next to mine, and marvel at the size of him. He’s impressive with clothes on—without them, words can’t describe how beautiful his athlete’s body is.
The mattress dips when he settles in, arms going behind his head to busy himself by fluffing the pillows to the shape of his head. With his arms raised, my enthusiastic eyes have a chance to drink in the length of his naked upper body uninterrupted: the biceps, the ribcage, the perfectly sculpted… pec muscles. Dear Lord, even his armpit hair is kind of turning me on right now.
Everything about his physical appearance eludes power.
Muscularity.
Strength.
Yet he’s so very bashful and restrained with me.
Another turn-on.
“Are you done fluffing?” I ask, teasing as I give my own pillows a solid whack and rolling over on my side to face him.
“Just about.” He’s on his back now, craning his neck to look at me, hesitating a heartbeat, then rolling over too, joining me on his side.
Hands tucked under his cheek, he observes me through those dark soulful eyes, roaming my face before quickly darting down to my breasts. I know without even having to glance down that he’s getting an eyeful of boob, which are no doubt smashed together from the way I’m lying.
Caleb stares a few seconds too long and blows out a puff of pent-up frustration before rolling over and returning promptly to his back, muttering what sounds like, “This was such a bad idea.”
“Did you say something?”
He coughs. “Uh, no?”
Disappointed, I lie where I am, watching him. The dark mop of hair, the sideburns, the hard square of his set jaw. Once again, Cecelia’s words from her last text suddenly stick out in my mind: Just go with it… Just go with it…
She hadn’t finished the sentence, but it came through loud and clear: Just go with it for once in your life.
“Hey, Caleb?”
He stops staring at the ceiling to give me a tortured glance, brows creased together. “Hmm?”
“I think it would be a shame to be in this big bed and let it go to waste, don’t you?” His eyes widen in shock—and who could blame him? Even to my own ears that sounded so, so slutty. I hurry to correct myself. “I mean—I am not suggesting we have sex or anything…” Okay, that just made it worse. “W-what I mean to say is…”
He’s staring at me like I’ve lost my damn mind, and yes, maybe I have.
But if he didn’t smell so amazing… wasn’t lying there half naked with that dark, angry scowl… that thick mop of shocking black hair, and didn’t have that oh-so-sexy gap between his front teeth that he hates—this wouldn’t be happening.
Yup. All of this is his fault.
I watch as he pulls his top lip over his teeth and bits the inside of his cheeks to stop from grinning.
“Are you propositioning me?”
I gasp and sit up, pulling the covers up over my chest. “What! Pfft. No!”
Caleb closes his eyes and puts both arms behind his head, smiling. “Huh. That’s too bad.”
I flop back down, embarrassed, and reach over to flip off the lamp with a huff. Out of the newly dark rooms comes a low, sexy chuckle.
“Stop laughing,” I scold, crossing my arms over my chest protectively.
Thank god he can’t see how red my face is.
“Sorry. I can hear you pouting in the dark, and it’s pretty damn cute.” I can hear him smiling, probably a big ol’ grin with his gap showing.
“Being awkward is part of my charm—or so I’ve been told.”
The room is silent, then…
“I’m partial to it myself,” he says quietly.
For a few minutes, we just lie there in the pitch-black bedroom, and I have nothing to do but relive the moment before, when it sounded like I was asking him to have sex, over and over in my mind, cringing in the dark. Until…
“Hey, Abby?” The mattress and blankets shift as Caleb rolls over on his side to face me.
“Yeah?”
“Where’s your hand?”
It’s really dark in here without the lights on, trust me. Pitch b
lack.
My stomach does a little flip-flop, and my heart does too. Breathlessly, I extend my arm and slide my hand flat on the mattress, forward toward Caleb’s voice, the sound of my palms skimming across the cool sheets permeating the air. “Here.” I give my fingertips a wiggle, scratching them against the mattress.
Caleb’s hand grazes mine under the covers and our fingers entwine.
“I want to kiss you, too.” His voice is a hoarse whisper in the dark.
My breath hitches. “Then w-what are you waiting for?” Brave words, terrible delivery.
Gently tugging my hand toward him, he guides my fingers to his lips. I stifle a surprised gasp as he slowly kisses the pads of my palm, his warm breath on my skin only fueling my own need to touch him.
I resist the urge and am rewarded when the fingers holding my hand begin trialing their way up my arm, the calloused pads of his fingers wreaking utter devastation on my girly bits.
His large hand caresses my shoulder, my collarbone, and my neck, as if his fingertips could memorize every plane of my body. Caleb’s hand cups the side of my face, and he tugs me closer still, his thumb seeking out and stroking my bottom lip.
I let out a sigh.
Holy shit, he’s good at this.
~ Caleb ~
Holy shit, she feels good.
As my rough hands skim and caress the delicate skin of her arms, I let my senses savor every soft, sweet part of her: her narrow shoulders, her toned arms, her porcelain collarbone. I rub her glossy, satin hair between my forefinger and thumb before slowly trailing them along the column of her neck, my thumb caressing the underside of her tilted chin, then her bottom lip.
I found what I’ve been looking for.
Cupping her face in my large palm, I close the gap between us, lean in, and press my full lips against her trembling mouth.
The taste of her mouth is possibly the sweetest fucking thing I’ve tasted on Earth—this gorgeous girl with her pretty mouth muttering my name on a sigh in the dark.
The sweetest. Fucking. Flavor.