Page 107 of Sloth
Jumping up, screaming like children—her screaming like a child, Max mocking her in a high pitched voice—they rushed to the tent, and crashed through, zipping it closed behind them. Trying not to drip everywhere, it was clear the devices were ruined. The water had leeched into the speaker gap and glitched the screen. Max was laughing uncontrollably, but Sloan wasn’t.
“No!” Sloan whined. “This is all my fault.”
“I think, maybe, it’s a sign.”
“A sign for what? Check the weather forecast before going on a camping trip?”
He took the device from her hand to place gently down in the tiny gap between their bed roll and the tent edge. He dug around the bedding until he found his torch and turned it on. It was then she noticed the heat in his eyes as he looked at her.
“I think it’s time for us to get out of our wet clothes,” he murmured.
Suddenly the tent was incredibly small, and the little torch lighting their space was so very bright. Summer rain pattered on the tent. Max’s body heat reached across the small divide to bathe Sloan’s skin.
“And then what are we going to do?” she asked.
When his head dipped toward hers, everything inside her broke apart. Her breath hitched. He came lower, and then his lips touched hers.
The kiss started chaste, precious, but when she let a moan slip, he turned rough and demanding. He grabbed her face between his hands and claimed her until they were panting and gasping against each other.
“Shirts,” she demanded. No more waiting.
He stripped her shirt from her body, only breaking the kiss to lift it over her head. She did the same for him, peeling his shirt off, and then went back to his mouth. For a long, suspended moment there was nothing but each other, their kiss, their skin, and then Sloan pushed firmly on his chest until he fell back on the mattress.
She straddled him. “I need to...”
“Look your fill, and while you’re at it, take note of the silk sheets.” He smirked and lifted his hands above his head in the perfect pose of male repose.
Cocky bastard.
As if she cared because she did want to look—she wanted to drink her fill.
He’s real. He’s here, and he’s all mine.
The shadows cast his abs into sharper relief. A moan of appreciation slipped out of her mouth and she rubbed her hand over his velvety skin, sliding it and learning it all the way down to the brown fuzz near his waistband.
“I love it when you look at me like that,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Gives me fantasy fuel for years to come.”
“Fantasy fuel?”
He turned away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Like what?” He refused to meet her eyes and she wanted to reach out with her senses, to cast light on his emotions, but held back. He should tell her on his own terms.
“Hey,” she whispered, and flexed her fingers on his skin.
His abs bunched, and his fists clenched at his side. A deep shuddering breath wracked his body.
“Max? What is it? You can tell me anything.”
Slowly, he dragged his gaze back to her. “Any time I’ve been stuck in a situation I didn’t want to be in—whether it was back on tour, or… being beaten by your sister… I used images of you to get me through. I’d fantasize about us being together. Over and over. Sometimes we were in a place like this. Now that we’re here…”
“You don’t want to wake up for it to not be real.” She’d just thought the very same thing.
He nodded.
And her heart broke.
“Max, I’m real. I’m as real as any of these scars on your body. As real as that tattoo on your skin.” She touched a raised line of flesh under his rib. “This looks fairly new.”
