Page 16 of Red, White, and You

My body is abuzz with desire, but Brady’s popularity has derailed us again. The crackling flames of the campfire dance before my eyes, its warm glow casting shadows on the faces of the campers gathered around. The air is filled with laughter and the sickly-sweet scent of toasted marshmallows, but I can’t think of much past the euphoria still humming through my veins or the tenderness of my breasts from Brady’s earlier assault.

Wrapped in his flannel shirt, his scent surrounds me even though he’s across the bonfire talking with some of the campers. If someone knew what to look for, the outline of my underwire bra tucked into the pocket of his jeans is obvious, but a secret only the two of us share. We were on our way to the cabin to continue what we started on the bench when he was called over to the campfire, but the distraction is a welcome one; it gives me time to collect my thoughts.

I stand at the edge of the fire circle, watching as campers eagerly skewer marshmallows onto long sticks, their eyes aglow with excitement. Even as he’s trapped in conversation, Brady steals glances my way every few moments. He seems completely at ease, effortlessly blending into this tranquil atmosphere. I envy his ability to relax, to fit into whatever situation, wherever he may be.

I haven’t sat around a campfire since my early teens. Already, I know the smell will be tough to get out of my hair, and the thought of having to wash and blow dry it tonight before bed adds a level of discomfort to the evening. It’s a time-consuming task, and I’d hoped to not have to do it on the very first night.

“Hey, Brie, you don’t have any s’mores,” Jarron says, joining me on this side of the fire. His voice is laced with enthusiasm as he holds out a bag of marshmallows and a metal roasting stick. Brady’s head of operations is a bearded brute of a man, his sheer size enough to intimate me into eating a roasted marshmallow against my will, even as his eyes hold nothing but kindness and joy.

I glance across at Brady, catching him watching me expectantly.

I straighten my shoulders and smile.Take the marshmallow. Show him you’re not uptight.

With a deep breath, I reach out to accept the marshmallow, sliding it onto the stick. The sharp metal ends are black from marshmallows past, and I try to ignore the thoughts that spring to mind. How clean is this thing?

The heat of the fire kisses my face as I hold the marshmallow above the flames. It begins to singe the sugary treat, searing the edges into a deep golden brown. Then it catches fire, a blue orange flame licking at the marshmallow, and a familiar scent wafts through the air, bringing back memories of my youth. Days spent at the beach or weekends at the lake, vacations with my family, my beloved sister, then later, when I reached adulthood, vacations with Brady…

My eyes blur as I watch the marshmallow slowly burn, its edges crisp and bubbling. When I was a kid, I liked them dark, burned to a crisp. My sister would tease me for letting them siton the fire so long and, more often than not, I’d lose them to the flames, but there’s just something about a burned marshmallow.

I lick my lips.

Stomachache be damned, I’m eating this thing tonight.

Startling me with a gentle nudge of his elbow, Brady joins me on this side of the fire. His eyes crinkle at the corners when I look up into them. “You still like them barely edible, I see.” He grins.

“I’ll have you know, this is the only way to eat a marshmallow.”

He holds up a graham cracker in one hand, and in the other, another graham cracker with a square of chocolate on top.

I blow out the flame on my marshmallow and carefully set it onto the chocolate, then Brady covers it with the other graham cracker and smooshes the layers to combine them into one sticky mess.

“Perfect,” I whisper, gazing down at it. My stomach rumbles.

“Yes, you are,” Brady says.

My eyes flick up to his. The fire dances in his deep blue gaze, but there’s so much more in his eyes. Love. Desire. Appreciation.

An unspoken promise.

He blows on the s’more, then lifts it to my mouth.

Lost in his eyes, I take a bite.

The sweetness of the chocolate combined with the richness of the burnt marshmallow and the crunch of the graham cracker takes me back. I close my eyes and revel in the sensation, the memories. An earlier time. An easier time.

Brady’s fingers grip my chin and I open my eyes as he leans forward. His tongue flicks against the corner of my mouth, sending a current of sensation through my cheek. My body rocks toward him and he runs his tongue over the sticky seam of my lips, pulling a whimper from my throat. The brief contact tightens my belly and I have to bite back a groan of frustration.

We share the s’more, and when we’re finished, Brady slips his hand into mine and politely excuses us from the bonfire.

We walk quietly and with purpose back toward Cabin 17, the air growing thicker with the sexual energy snapping between us. By the time we reach the cabin, I’m practically panting—and only partially because of the uphill walk.

We step inside.

Brady closes the door.

Locks it.

Then he spins me toward him and rips the flannel shirt open. Buttons fly everywhere, hitting the cabin walls and floor.

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