Page 17 of Out of Luck in the Outback

My core burns like the heat coming off the desert floor. I cover his hand with my own and inch it up until his fingers curl against my skin just under my shorts. Higher. Higher.

He sucks in a breath and nuzzles my cheek, getting as close as he can with these ridiculous helmets on our heads.

Before I can comment or turn to kiss him, the pilot announces we’re heading back to the drop point, and the chopper veers left again, the inertia pushing me into Maddox’s chest.

He’s obviously not shy around the pilot, and he cups my cheek, moves the microphone away from my face, and brings his lips to mine. My stomach does a swoopy thing that I’d like to blame on the helicopter, but I can’t.

We’re panting by the time we land, turned on by a damn helicopter ride. We frantically unbuckle, hand our helmets to the pilot, and Maddox pulls me out of the helicopter as I instinctually duck, scared I’ll get decapitated by the rotors.

As soon as we’re several feet from the helicopter, Maddox pulls me to him again, pushes my hair back from my face, and moves his jaw next to my ear. “One question, Calvert.”

“Anything.”

“You’re sleeping bag or mine?

Bow Chicka Wah Wah

We’reoneachotheras soon as we get to the campground. The sun sets in the distance, and the orange of the sunset at the horizon is breathtaking.

But not as breathtaking as Maddox Brewster without his shirt.

I peel the shirt over his shoulders and cover his skin with kisses. A smattering of chest hair brushes my lips, and I wrap my arms around him, rubbing his back and shoulders. I can’t touch him enough to fill up a lifetime of distance. He’ll live in Juneau. I’ll go back to Chicago. I want to drink him in like he’s liquid gold or melt into him so he’ll have some part of me to take with him.

My shirt comes over my head, and my bra is unhooked before I can help remove it. His nimble fingers toss the lacy fabric to the ground as I lean so he can run his stubble over my breasts. I inhale as he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking so deliciously that my knees wobble, my back arching into the heat of his mouth. Flutters move from the breast he mouths and down my stomach. I shiver and wind my hands through his hair, desperately touching him everywhere.

“Pants. Off. Now.” My voice is husky as I say the words in choppy bits.

He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he brings his mouth to mine, and my spit-covered nipple annoyingly rubs against his chest, begging for his mouth again.

He walks to his sleeping bag, drops to his knees, and pulls me down until I’m on top of him. “This is easier with an actual bed, huh?” he grumbles. “It was a long way bending down to the ground.”

I giggle against his lips and run my hands down his stubble. He settles flat against his sleeping bag, and I kiss my way down his chest, focusing on his nipples as he pulls my hair into a quick ponytail. Cool air hits the back of my neck, creating a contrast against the hot skin at my front.

His skin is salty and smooth except for a smattering of chest hair. My lips flutter over every ripple in his chest and abdomen as I kiss my way down to his pants. I pop the button on his hiking pants and pull the zipper down in one fluid motion. “What do you want, Maddox?”

He moans a little and pulls at the makeshift ponytail. “Your mouth on me.”

I look up at him and take stock of his flushed face, panting chest, and hooded eyes. His erection throbs under my chin, and I bring my attention back to it, tentatively moving one finger over his underwear. “My tongue?”

“Oh, yes. Don’t forget about the tongue.”

“My hand?”

“God, yes. I’ll have the works, please.”

I smile and pull his underwear down. Only the tip comes out of his underwear, and I run my tongue in a circle around the head of his cock, savoring the salty taste. “Like this?”

“You’re an evil woman.”

“I’ve heard.” I put the head of his cock into my mouth and suck for a moment, letting it go with a pop. “Like that?”

“Jesus, you’re a damn tease.”

I push his underwear and pants further down his legs and stop fucking around. Dipping low, I take as much of his seven to eight inches I can and pull off when he hits the back of my throat. I cough a little, sputtering spit that drops onto his trimmed hair, but I immediately go back down for another pull of him.

I am not a quitter.

“Fuck, Ava,” he moans. It’s a guttural sound. The moan is practically a growl, and it sounds like it comes from his chest and not his vocal cords. I can’t help but notice he calls me by my last name every other time we speak but calls me by my first name when he’s in my mouth.

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