me against him, flipping me over to spoon against his chest. That chest. All rational thought leaves with the next burst of vapor from my mouth, a soft whimper with it. He tightens his arms around me. “And what?” he asks again, his hot breath in my ear.
Something digs into my back then. Something thick. Long. Hard. This is bad, right? Like really bad. It either means my attraction isn’t one-sided or he suffers from priapism—an uncontrollable state of persistent erection. (I happened upon that term while Googling fear of penises.) Please, God, let it be priapism. He has one hand on my ribs, below the swell of my breast. The other is wrapped over my chest, his fingers clutching my raised shoulder. We inhale in sync and exhale slowly. Then I remember his question. The one about why I thought spooning against his erection was a bad idea. Yeah, that. I find my voice. “You have a girlfriend, Sam. Doesn’t spooning, you know, lead to…forking?” Again with the whispering.
His whole body shakes behind me. “Holy shit. Did you just say forking? I need to preserve this moment in a time capsule.”
I move my hips forward, just enough. The dampness gathering in my long underwear is too distracting to properly defend myself against his teasing. “I don’t know what’s so funny.”
He tugs my hips to his, right into his priapism. It sends a bolt of heat between my thighs. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re worried I might, what? Eat off your fork later? Or that you might eat off mine…and like it? And sorry about the hard-on, you’re just too hot.”
“Oh, my God.” I tug forward and dive under the sleeping bag, pulling it over my head. “You have no shame,” I shout through the nylon. The heat between my legs inflames, spurring on my perpetual dampness, the chill from earlier gone. I squish myself as far as possible into the side of the sleeping bag, away from Sam and his raging hard-on.
He crawls under with me. With me. “Here’s the situation, Nina. Fact is, it’s cold, and I’d like to stay warm. Under the circumstances, this is the best option. I can’t do anything about my reaction to you. You’ll have to deal with it. So, please, get up here and into my arms before we freeze to death.” He breathes, I breathe—both of us impersonating a horny Darth Vader. Leigh was right. You could choke on this sexual tension.
My multiple-choice answers are as follows:
Choice A: “Sure, Sam. I’d love to cuddle with you and your hard-on. I can’t imagine your girlfriend will mind.”
Choice B: “No, Sam. I’d like to become a human Popsicle that scientists will dissect to learn how it’s possible a Canadian girl couldn’t brave the cold.
Choice C: Say absolutely nothing. Run from the tent and disappear, leaving a trail of hormones and unanswered questions as to how the strange girl in all those embarrassing videos vanished. They’ll write a book about it.
Unfortunately, I can’t run away from Sam even if I want to, because, well, he’s Sam. Choice B is out of the question. I’ve had an issue with dissection ever since Kyle Turner flicked frog guts at me in the middle of our bio lab. He called me Slime Girl.
That leaves Choice A.
Slowly, I crawl over to him and inch my head out of the bag. His hands are on me again, my back to his chest in seconds, his hard-on still hard and settled against my backside. “That’s better,” he whispers, tugging me closer. He doesn’t apologize again for his blatant arousal. He chuckles softly. “That was hilarious, by the way. Forking? I plan on adding that to my book of Cute Things Nina Says.”
Tired of him and his flirting, I grind my backside into his erection until he says, “Christ,” and stills my hips. “What the fuck was that?”
“Nothing. Just, I was planning on writing this whole scene into my how-to book on the best ways to lose your girlfriend.” I move forward a millimeter, shocked at my nerve to rub against him. Shocked at how good it felt. A series of short, sharp breaths hit my ear.
Instead of tugging me closer, his voice drops to a whisper. “I could add a few things to that book.” His tone is different. Tight. He moves farther away, and I roll onto my back. He’s propped on his elbow, gazing down at me.