Page 87 of Roughing It

Glaring right back, I stare for what feels like a lifetime. “Ugh! Fine. I need your help.”

For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me, but then a slow smile—one that rivals the sun—breaks out on his face. “Let’s start from the beginning. Stance, your feet should be shoulder width apart and ninety degrees to the target. Think of a T-shape.” As he speaks, he positions my body, his large hands clutching my hips to angle me just so.

“Then use the nock to settle the arrow on the string. It should fit snugly there to keep it from falling out.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” I grumble.

Disregarding my attitude, Hudson goes on, “Next is your grip; you want it to be relaxed. You’re holding it too tight.” He wrenches my hips against his and into my ear, whispers, “I know you have excellent grip control.”

I jerk my head at his words, eyes darting toward my phone.

Using his index finger and thumb, Hudson guides my chin toward the targets. Then he once again brushes his mouth to my ear. “Now, let’s talk about finger position. Any thoughts on that?” One hand creeps from my hip to my inner thigh, and I shudder against him.

A small whimper escapes me. “Hudson, we’re on camera.”

“We aren’t. I ended it.”

“What?”

“This is for us.” His fingers inch closer to the growing wetness between my legs.

“Hudson, you can’t turn off the live!”

“I couldn’t stand here watching you and not touch. You’re so fucking gorgeous. These sexy waves blowing in the wind, your cheeks pink, and your eyes alive. Plus, your tight little ass in these leggings.” He groans, and his hand skims over my pussy; the heat of his touch seeps through the thin material.

I give an involuntary shudder, and my hips press forward. Seeking. “I need to d-do the live. And I’ll n-never learn like this,” I whimper, trying to grind against his palm.

He nips my ear and sighs. “You win. I’ll behave.” With a huff, he stalks to my phone and brings it to me.

What’s gotten into him? Is Kirk’s reminder about our looming deadline weighing on him, too? Fourteen days has never seemed like so little time.

Fixing my smile and fidgeting in my wet panties, I sign back on. “Sorry, BBs. Technical difficulties! But we’re back.”

I jog the phone over to the tripod, then hustle to Hudson.

He clears his throat and directs me loud enough for the microphone to hear. “Position your fingers on the string, letting the tip rest in the ‘V’ of your thumb and index finger. Then place your index, middle, and ring fingers below it.” He takes the time to turn me towards the lens so those following the livestream can view the position of my hands.

“Now you’re ready to draw. Bring your elbow to the corner of your mouth. Don’t clench the arrow. Pull the string using your back muscles, not your arms.”

He runs his fingertips over the nape of my neck, and I accidentally let go. This arrow flies further than the others but still falls far short of the target.

“Try again.” He helps me restring and reset my placement. “Breathe. Relax.”

Those two words conjure up a variety of scenarios in my dirty mind, and I fumble my hold.

“Focus, Blakely.” His whiskey-soaked voice curls in my ear.

I get back into position, and this time, when he tells me to take a deep breath and stare down the arrow, focusing on the target, I do.

“Now, release.”

It soars through the air, narrowly missing the target.

“Shake it off. You’re getting closer.”

Hudson corrects my stance and adjusts my grip. He guides my elbow higher and says, “Breathe, focus, release.”

The arrow lands on the target with athud. It isn’t a bullseye, but it’s a hit. I drop the bow, jumping and squealing in excitement.

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