Page 105 of Roughing It

“Wait, so you’re saying you foraged for this?” Blakely asks, shoveling another bite of the dandelion green salad into her mouth.

“Yep.”

Her eyebrows raise. “All of it?”

I glance at her plate. “Most of it.” Her glare at my short answers never gets old.

“What’s the crunchy bit?”

“Piñon pine nuts. Toasted ‘em.”

“And the dressing?” She licks her fork, and there’s a corresponding twitch in my pants.

The desire to feed her, care for her, show her she’s mine pulses through me, impossible to resist. Shifting, I lean forward and draw her into my lap, spearing a bite before gently slipping it between her lips. With each mouthful, I murmur an ingredient. Anticipation grows thick between us, turning our menu discussion into a test of patience.

“Chokecherries.” I slide one hand down her throat, letting the weight settle on her pulse point. “Olive oil.” I lick the corner of her mouth. “And honey.” I push my thumb betweenher lips, then slowly drag it back out until she releases it with a softpop.

The empty plate falls to the ground, and we’re on each other. Hands. Lips. Teeth. I nip at her collarbone before soothing the sting with a sweet kiss. My fingers trace the path my mouth traveled, and Blakely quivers under my attention.

Her mischievous little hands drift south until one skims over the front of my pants. Fuck. The gentle kisses I’m leaving on her neck turn into bruising, open-mouth ones. Need possesses me, and I grip her waist, attempting to bring her closer.

“Fuck, you smell so good.” My words are a rasp in her ear.

Blakely pulls back and licks her bottom lip before tugging it between her teeth. “I could have sworn you said my shampoo didn’t smell that good.”

“I lied.” Our mouths meet again, and I swallow her moan. She guides one of my hands to her chest, encouraging me to draw circles around her nipples—the pebbled peaks visible beneath the fabric of her tight dress. With a roll of my hips, I pinch one between my thumb and index finger.

“Hudson.” My name is the most delicious whimper I’ve ever heard, and when she rolls her hips against mine, I count backward from a hundred by sevens to keep from losing it.

At fifty-eight, I give up. With a curse, I yank her dress up to her belly button and thrust upward, the hard line of my cock pressing against the thin barrier of her leggings. This wasn’t the plan. But I’m helpless to stop.

It’s fumbling and hungry and sloppy, the two of us chasing pleasure. Grinding, touching, kissing our way to the edge. Blakely falls first, her body tensing before melting into a pliant puddle. I follow hot on her heels, leaving a sticky mess that quickly cools in the night air. This woman just made me come in my goddamn pants.

And then Blakely Bradshaw once again blows my mind.

“Unzip,” she says as she sinks to her knees before me. I catch her elbow, but she pulls away and shakes her head. “Need to clean you up.”

Fucking shit hell. “Blakely, you don’t need to?—”

“I want to.” Her hands undo my belt buckle, the button, and then, achingly slow, each tooth of my zipper. “Lift.”

I do as she commands, this gorgeous woman kneeling before me, everything I don’t deserve. “You’re killing me, baby.”

She nuzzles her face against my thigh, then using little licks, she laps up the proof of how much I crave her. I’m too spent to get hard, but it doesn’t mean Blakely cradling my cock in her mouth and purring doesn’t feel fucking amazing. It isn’t until I’m half hard again that she places me back into my underwear and zips up my pants.

Without waiting, I haul her into my arms, forcing her mouth to mine. The mix of her natural taste, a hint of my salty release, and the bittersweet remnants of the chokecherry dressing are a heady combination on her tongue.

Eventually, our kisses slow, the fire dies around us, and the air grows cold. Resting my chin on her head, I say, “It’s getting late, and our date isn’t over yet.”

I douse the embers of the fire and help a shaky Blakely into the boat. Her nerves are apparent with each halting step, and her voice quivers when she asks, “Are we headed somewhere in particular?”

“No, just to open water.” A vicious shiver racks her body, so I settle her onto the boat floor, nestled safely in the pillows and blankets. “You aren’t getting anywhere near the side of the boat tonight. Trust me.”

“I do.” She tucks one of the downy comforters under herlegs and watches me in the faint glow of the string lights and the stars overhead.

The water is smooth as glass and inky black, and the early November air has a bite. As soon as I let the motor idle and drop anchor, I sink onto the makeshift pallet and gather my girl in my arms.

Blakely’s head rests on my shoulder while she measures her hand against mine as we whisper back and forth. Silly stories from her twenties for her, bragging ones from my teens for me. A seemingly trivial moment that will never fade from my mind.

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