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I put the shirt on over my tank top and hopped into the tent to swap out my pants and socks. I threw them out of the tent door, just as Will tossed a whole pile of blankets and pillows inside. I was going to be so snug in here, and I was grateful to him for making sure I’d be warm.
But that is obviously where our silent communication broke down. I assumed Will would take a moment to shake the cold off, let his coffee kick in, and then head back out to walk the rest of the way home alone, but he’d obviously assumed we were crashing at my place. Just the two of us. Alone. In my tent. With me and my poor impulse control.
All of me trembled at once—cold, nerves, thrill.
Will climbed into the tent, his big body instantly filling it up. He was only wearing his slacks with his t-shirt tucked in like an old-timey sailor, but his body radiated heat. The air felt thin.
He pushed my face into the blankets and piled them on top of me. Then he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other hand resting flat on his stomach, and was asleep before I could untangle myself.
I looked at him for a while—much longer than was reasonable. The sleeves of his undershirt were tight against his biceps. He was lean, blue-collar strong, and I found it unbearably sexy. I scooted a little closer to him on my side and watched his breathing get deep and slow. He looked like a hot corpse.
“You’re such a fuckin’ creep, Louisa,” he said without opening his eyes.
I squealed with victory, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”
The corner of his mouth curled up.
“Say I’m the winner, Will,” I whispered, rolling onto my back beside him and wriggling deeper into the blankets.
“You’re the winner, sis,” he murmured sleepily.
His body heat flowed into mine where our shoulders touched. I could have shifted closer. I knew he’d wrap his arms around me to warm me up if I asked, but I didn’t. I can be a safe place for him to rest. The sawdust smell of him would be on my blankets in the morning. I smiled just thinking about it.
I let my breathing slow to match his, and within seconds, we were both asleep.
We woke up in the middle of the afternoon, groggy and kind of sweaty. All that delicious heat I’d wanted all over my body when we went to sleep in the early morning felt like a goddamned liability a few hours later in the light of day.
“Ugh, you are a furnace,” I groused, throwing a wayward arm off of my waist. He was the one pumping out the heat, but I was the sweaty mess. He looked perfectly adorable and rumpled from a few hours of mediocre tent sleep, and I was a bad celebrity-in-the-wild photo.
“Do you have coffee?’’ he mumbled without opening his eyes.
“Go fuck yourself, Will,” I said, grumpy and already over his shit, but he smiled at me.
“Later,” he said, and that set me off.
“Do not try to turn me on right now, White Bread. I’m already in a bad mood.”
He chuckled low and rumbling, eyes not even open yet. That’s when I saw it under the throw blanket he’d pulled up to his waist. Will was hard as fuck, just waking up. My throat went dry.
I could lean over and slide my palm down the ridge, grip him through the layers of fabric. Climb on top, roll my hips against his hardness. We could keep our clothes on, and I’d make sure we both came.
A tortured moan caught in my throat, and Will’s eyes snapped open, locking on mine. His big hand palmed his dick over the blanket, and his eyes grew hooded, wandering all over me. Under his gaze, I was no longer sweaty and gross; I felt like a sexy survivor in a post-apocalyptic wasteland—semi-recently showered.
If I pushed him now, I thought I could have him—and there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted Will.
I just kind of figured he would fall into your clutches.
Hasan’s words crashed over me like a bucket of ice water. The idea didn’t feel powerful or freeing. It made me feel like a succubus.
I’d never want him to feel used by me. Hurt by me. He was too important to me. I needed to find out if he still felt the same way he had at Wilderness or if I’d lost him for good.
28
The Martyr
Boston, MA
Will
