dip into the waistband of my flannels. Her nails claw against my ass. It’s too much. She’s too much. And no fucking way am I taking off these pants. I adjust my length over her and grind so hard she cries out. We rock together, clothes on, eyes locked, both of us chasing our release. I palm her breast over her shirt, her nipple pebbled and as coiled as the rest of her. Her head drops then, her thighs tightening around me.
A few thrusts later she cries, “God, yes.”
I growl, “Nina,” as I come hard and fast, still shuddering a minute later.
We’re fully clothed, our lips swollen, limbs spent, my release seeping through our pants. It’s ridiculous and juvenile, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever done. I’d like to say I’m sated, that my craving for her has been quenched, but I’m already hard again. It wasn’t enough. With Nina, I doubt it ever will be.
Her eyes widen at the feel of me thickening, and her body tenses. I push onto my knees, my hands still caging her shoulders, the sleeping bag hanging over my waist. “Hi,” I say.
She stifles a laugh, still breathing heavily. “Hi,” she whispers. Then her brow puckers. “Was that normal?”
I shake my head. “No. Not normal.”
Instantly, she curls in on herself. Her gaze slides from mine, shifty, like she’s scanning for the exit, and she moves to get up. I lock my knees on either side of her hips, pinning her in place. “Nina, this is me. You’re not allowed to get embarrassed with me. Ever. Okay?”
She inhales deeply, swallows, and finally opens her mouth. “What did you mean though, not normal? I haven’t been with guys much, and this was…different.”
Different? I’m no saint. I lost my virginity to Mark Baylor’s older sister. She was eighteen, I was fifteen, and, man, did she have good hands. I’d blame her for kick-starting my lust for women, but that would be a lie. I like sex. Plain and simple. I like to think about it. Have it. Talk about it. I like everything about it. I experimented a lot in my younger years with as many willing partners as I could find, and when I hooked up with Lacey, she was game. I’m not one to cheat. I’m a one-woman guy. But I like to fuck. A lot. So it means something when I say hell-fucking-yeah this was different.
“Let me rephrase my earlier answer. Was that normal? Yes and no.”
She cocks her adorable head. “Explain, please.”
I’m still on my knees, leaning over her, both of us wet from my release, but I can’t move. My dick is hard again, and I’m not ready to go clean up. “Okay. Yes meaning, that was dry-fucking and it’s normal. It’s a thing people do. Mainly sixteen-year-olds, but still, a thing. No, it wasn’t normal because never in the history of man has dry-fucking ever felt that good.”
I lower over her again, desperate to feel her, when she says, “What about Lacey?”
There goes my hard-on.
I roll away from her, kick my feet out of the bag, and sit hunched over my bent knees. The rain slaps against the side of the tent, the fabric billowing with a gust of wind. She watches me, those catlike eyes zeroing in. She deserves some answers, but I need to get my head straight. I turn and force a smile. “You okay if I go clean up and change? We’ll talk. I promise. I just need to wash up.”
She nods and says, “Sure.” But the trust in her gaze wavers. Can’t say I blame her. A horny guy with a “girlfriend” just dry-fucked her and now he’s bailing. Asshole. I fumble for another pair of pants in my backpack and brave the wind and rain on my way to the outhouse.
Although I need to clear my head and figure out how to confess to Nina that I’ve been lying to her and that I’m scared, fucking terrified, to tell her the truth, it’s too cold and gross to extend my stay in the outdoor shitter. I get back too fast.
She’s in our joined bag, the nylon held up to her chin. Her head is on her makeshift pillow—a pillowcase filled with lumpy clothes. I zip the tent shut, kick off my shoes, and dive into the other half of the bag, facing her nose to nose.