Page 125 of Roughing It

I drink in his green eyes and the spray of freckles on the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. “I love the way you make me come undone.”

He nips my bottom lip. “Feeling good?”

“Very.” With a saucy grin, I run my fingers through his hair and say, “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Oh, I’mgonna fuck the sass right out of you, Spitfire. You have ten seconds to run. When I catch you, and I will, I’ll fuck you so hard, you’ll forget your name.” As he talks, he sheds his flannel and unbuckles his belt.

I don’t move, his promise sending my nerves racing and a flood to my pussy.

“Nine, eight, seven?—”

Before he gets to six, I shed my tangled panties and make a run for it. The ground is hard, but the bed of fallen pine needles protects my sock-clad feet. I make it a mere three steps into the trees when a growl sounds behind me. I spin and am met with the gorgeous sight of Hudson moving after me, purpose, determination, and deep-seated hunger written on his handsome face.

With a smalleep,I take off in a sprint, though I know there’s no way I’ll outrun him. Seconds later, the world spins as the rough bark of a spindly tree bites into my back, stealing my breath. A needy whimper slips from my lips, and I lock my legs around Hudson’s waist, loving the sensation of being trapped between his body and the tree.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to chase you through these woods and fuck you like this?” he asks. Urgency, bright and sharp, shines in his eyes as he yanks his jeans down. He brushes his cock between my legs, coating himself in my cum and desire. I’m ready to beg him to stop teasing when he thrusts, stretching and filling me the way I crave.

“You caught me.” My words are little more than broken mewls.

“Sure fucking did.” He nips my lips and grunts, fingers digging into my ass as I writhe against him. “Goddamn, you’re perfect. Soft, wet, and warm. If I spent every day of the rest of my life inside you, it wouldn’t be enough.”

His molten tongue burns along my skin, where open-mouthed kisses send scorching, sensual pulses to my stomach, back, and base. One hand keeps me anchored between him and the tree. The other grazes my hips, back, and ass, always moving in butterfly-light glances.

The pure pleasure of his touch and the bite from the bark battle, creating a perfect symphony of sensations. “So good. So fucking good, Bear.”

“That’s right, baby. Love your tight pussy. How your pretty cunt stretches around me, taking me so deep. I’m gonna make you beg me for more. You’re gonna forget everything else, except my name.”

I focus my attention on our joined bodies. The sounds of our lovemaking. The look on Hudson’s face. As he snaps his hips, driving deeper into me, I clench tight, locking and gripping him as though he’s my lifeline.

“Say it, Blakely. Say my name.”

“Hudson!” I clasp my hands onto his shoulders, using his body to propel myself up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. His hot mouth sucks and nips at my sternum, my tits, my neck. Every upward drive, every kiss, every touch burns through me. Thundering ecstasy drowns me in frothy waters. I’m totally and utterly awash in my release.

Satisfied and spent, I fall forward, my head landing in the crook of Hudson’s neck. Pine, spice, sweat, and sex. He smells delicious. His thrusts slow, and with a grunt, he spills inside me. As I try to catch my breath and recover from the high of my climax, tiny spasms continue to erupt through my body while Hudson’s pulse pounds in my ears.

Drained, he collapses, sinking to the ground, taking me with him, his cock still deep inside me.

As we lay on the forest floor, Hudson traces patterns into the small of my back, tempering the scratches the tree left. When I shiver, he rises and walks us to the cliff’s edge, bodiesstill entwined. Stretching to snag his flannel, he drapes it over me, surrounding me with his scent and warmth. While the last rays of golden hour light dance over us, my fingers stroke his hair.

Maybe camping isn’t so bad.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

hudson

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

Camping is a part of who I am. Every key memory from my childhood is camping-related, and as I’m learning, those experiences color who I am as an adult more than I thought.

But camping with Blakely? That’s a trial in motherfucking patience. Bo had more camping common sense at seven than she does in her thirties. It’s not for lack of trying, though. She’s come a long way over the last twenty-seven days and is doing her best, but damn, her skills are rough.

After she recovered from being fucked into oblivion—and a tree—I tasked her with setting up our tent for the night. She’s been practicing knots for close to a month, but the entire thing looked like shoelaces. Bunny ears and wide floppy loops. She was supposed to secure downed branches to help build a windbreak but ended up with loosely tied fire kindling and a lean-to instead of a sturdy shelter.

It took me half an hour to undo her work and another one to set the campsite up correctly.

I’m gonna have to show her more about knots in a hands-on way. Make her appreciate their beauty. My dick jumps at the idea of Blakely bound in rope, intricate knots biting into her skin. Her hands bound to my headboard or behind her back.

Fuck.Now that would be a sight.

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