Page 69 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

Maybe he needed more reassurance?

“I promise it’s safe,” I said, raising my pinky and wiggling it to remind him of our earlier pact. I wasn’t about to go back on my word. Clearly, George trusted me well enough, because it was the pinky wiggling that finally broke through his fear. Stiff as a board, the long line of those oh-so-sexy legs slipped through the gap in the fabric. He stood just inside the tent with his back to the open flap, eyeing the interior distrustfully.

George looked two seconds from bolting.

His hands were twitching, his nose scrunched up in disgust as he eyed the musty sleeping bag his dad had foisted off on me in preparation for the night. The thing looked like it’d seen better days—scratch that…decades, really. All torn at the bottom, and stained, from years sitting on a shelf in his basement.

My own sleeping bag was easily twice the size of his, practically brand new, and perfectly clean where it cushioned my ass from its position on top of my mattress.

I was a lot more prepared than George’s family had been. Not that they’d neglected him per se. He had a pillow too. Equally as old as the sleeping bag.

I suddenly wished I’d had the forethought to buy a second sleeping bag. Why I would have done that? I have no idea. My own setup was a lot more pleasant. The “nice” kind of camping mattress. The aforementioned six-hundred-dollar sleeping bag I’d bought because of its glowing reviews. Three puffy memory foam pillows, and a wireless space heater.

“You planned ahead,” George accused, even though it wasn’t my fault that everyone had opted not to warn him about the sleeping arrangements.

I couldn’t say I was sorry he was stuck with me for the foreseeable future.

“This is not…” George trailed off. His expression shifted into something forlorn as he turned back to the still-open tent flap and the cabins outlined in shadows at the top of the hill. Several yards away, I could hear one of my cousins—Martin maybe?—arguing with his wife over how to properly put stakes in the ground.

Their voices were muffled despite being loud, so I knew if I kept my volume down, we weren’t likely to be overheard.

“I know staying in a tent with me isn’t what you expected.” It was obvious he'd anticipated staying in the cabins. “I’m sorry.” I felt guilty. If the original booking hadn’t fallen through, he wouldn’t have had to deal with any of this.

“It’s…fine. I suppose.” George bit his thumb, whittling away at the skin as he focused his attention back on me. The weight of his gaze was heady. It made something hot and fizzy quiver low in my belly. Like arousal, but softer.

He was still on guard.

I had no idea if it was me or his surroundings—either way, I figured a distraction was in order. He’d feel better if he got his mind off the animals lurking outside the fences surrounding the property.

Tomorrow night, there’d be a bonfire. It was going to be a big deal—s’mores, music, the works. June had requested a playlist of almost entirely country—gross—and I’d acquiesced. She was the bride, after all. Tonight was slower. Everyone was too exhausted from setting up to do anything but take it easy. Cousins, aunts, and uncles—nephews and nieces—all were still arriving and would be late into the night. Most of June and my family lived in the Columbus area, so it wasn’t like it was a massive trip. A few, however, were flying in, just like George had.

The vast majority of the guests planned to attend the week-long festivities, but a handful, like my parents, were only going to be there for the rehearsal and ceremony.

Rising to my feet, I closed the distance between us. George’s pulse jumped, and I had to bite back the urge to lick his throat as I leaned around him, reaching for the zipper. Our chests brushed. More butterflies filled my belly. I could practically hear the rapid thrum of his heartbeat. As I lingered, George was a deer in headlights, a panicked breath escaping his lips.

Like he wasn’t sure what I was about to do.

His throat bobbed.

He was so cute.

Jesus.

I wanted to bite him so bad. To mark that pretty, pretty neck. To feel him swallow beneath my tongue, Adam’s apple shuddering.

George’s eyes were accusatory, questioning.

Right.

I was supposed to be doing something other than looming over him.

“Just shutting the door, Georgie Porgie,” I explained. I took my sweet time, lingering where I probably shouldn’t. He didn’t push me off, though he did scoff at the new nickname as my fingers dragged the zipper down. “Gotta protect his majesty from all the bad, bad bugs.”

“Bad, bad bugs,” he repeated, like he agreed that they were evil and out to get him—even though I’d been joking. My face was level with his shoulder, then his stomach, then his crotch as I pulled the zipper into place.

Licking my lips, I forced myself back up, even though I desperately wanted to shove my face against his pelvis and breathe him in. Wanted to mouth his cock through the denim. Wanted to distract him for real—with my tongue, and my throat, and maybe a finger or two if his little hole could take it.

I didn’t do that, though.

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