Page 12 of Wild Skies

Wishing that I could have walked to the center of that party and scooped Maren up against my chest, kissing her for everyone to see. Claiming her as mine.

My tent zipper scratches open, and I kick off my boots then crouch down to crawl through the flap. It’s a small tent, not especially roomy or fancy, and my sleeping bag is already laid out on the mat.

I turn back to close the zip, then start to lay down—and freeze when I find a warm body already there. My heart lodges in my throat.

“Maren?” I choke out, my voice hushed.

She hums, the sleeping bag whispering against itself as she shifts beneath me. “Who else would it be?” she teases.

Oh, thank god.

“You can’t be in here,” I whisper, but then her hand is on my chest, stroking idly across my shirt, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears. That scent of her shampoo is stronger in this small space. Her warmth seeps through my clothes.

“Come on,” Maren murmurs. “They’re all drunk or asleep. No one will know.”

“You’vebeen drinking.” I say it to remind both of us, because already I’m harder than granite, every cell in my body urging me to lay down on top of her, sealing us together. “This can’t happen.”

Maren scoffs. “I hadonebeer, three hours ago. Less than one, because let’s be honest, beer is gross. I drank like half of it.”

Her hand keeps roaming across my chest, mapping me through my shirt, and Christ, what I’d give to feel her touch me all over. Soft hands on bare skin.

“That still counts,” I grit out. “This can’t happen, Maren.”

She huffs, and the sleeping bag rustles as her hand drops down. We’re both shadows in the dark, both hidden from each other, but even without the benefit of sight, I canfeelher stiffen up. Can feel her mood turn bleak.

“So that’s it?” Her voice is so quiet, I can barely hear it, even from this close. “A few sips of beer and we can’t doanything? You don’t want me here at all?”

The silence spreads between us, so awkward that my teeth ache. But when Maren sighs and starts to move, shifting around me to reach for the tent zipper, panic spikes and I stop her with one hand on her shoulder.

“No.” She’s so delicate beneath my touch; so warm and soft and perfect. Fuck. “No, that isnotwhat is happening here. I always want you near, Maren. Even if we’re not… even if we were just talking, or lying together in silence. I always want you there. Never doubt that.”

Something tells me that the giggly conversations taking place in the other tents across the campsite are very different. Much lighter, less strained, with fewer tortured undertones. Less risk of someone getting fired, too.

But hey, Maren and I have wanted each other for months now. There’s a lot of baggage piled up between us; a lot of craving that has gone unsatisfied for too long.

Would it be the worst thing if she stayed a while? I won’t… dothatwith her. Not here, not in this cramped little tent when I can’t even see her expressions.

But perhaps I’m being too strict with us both. Especially on our last night in the wilderness, halfway up this mountain, in a moment as fleeting as the meteor shower.

“Maren?” I whisper.

She hums, softens beside me, the tip of her nose tracing a tickly path up my throat. Her breath puffs against my overheated skin. My hand trembles against her shoulder.

“Fuck,” I say, giving in. I guide her to lay back down, to stretch out on my sleeping bag, before lowering myself over her.

It’s been months and months of craving this young woman, and my self control has worn thin.

Ducking my head, I find her lips in the dark.

Seven

Maren

Iwake up with tender lips, a dry throat, and a hard body pressed behind me.

It’s early, and birds chatter in the treetops, calling out to each other like they’ve done every morning at dawn. The muted, blue-tinged light that comes before sunrise seeps through the tent. Theunfamiliarblue tent, definitely not my own shabby green one.

Oh, shoot.

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