Page 53 of Own the Eights Gets Married
She reached between them and palmed his hard length. “We’ve never done it in a tent.”
“No, we haven’t,” he answered against her neck as he cupped her sex, rocking his palm against her in slow, delicious strokes.
She gasped. “And it wouldn’t really be sex.”
“It wouldn’t?” he asked with a mischievous lilt.
“No, it’s wilderness survival heat production,” she offered as a near-inferno smoldered between her thighs, thanks to Jordan’s touch.
“You are good at coming up with ways for us not to have sex,” he answered in a tight breath.
“It’s a gift,” she said, then moaned as Jordan freed his cock from his pants.
It was time to get down tonot-sexwilderness heat production.
She did a little shimmy-shake to get her yoga capris down past her ass as he did a scoot-scoot twist to work his track pants to his ankles. Disrobing in a sleeping bag was not for the faint of heart, but her guy was clearly up for the task.
“Try lifting your leg and turning your hips,” he offered, positioning himself at her entrance.
She shifted her body. “Hold on. I can hook my leg like this, and I think it’ll work.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” he said, gripping her hip and rolling on top of her until a sharp pain made her wince.
She sucked in a tight breath. “Ouch! Something hard is poking me.”
A dirty grin stretched across Jordan’s face.
She arched her back. “Not that, you, asshat! I think it’s the sleeping bag’s zipper.”
Jordan’s cocksure expression disappeared. “Let me roll us over so I can be on bottom.”
“Okay,” she answered, then caught a glimpse of the top of the tent, bowing and billowing inward. Thanks to their shit tent assembly skills, the unsteady quasi-shelter looked ready to topple over at any moment.
“Here we go. Get ready for the best wilderness survival heat production you’ve ever had,” Jordan said with a sexy smirk as the tent began to heave.
“Jordan, wait,” she said, a second too late.
Her CrossFit giant of a fiancé rolled to the side, catching the corner of the drooping tent and taking it with them as they maneuvered with the grace of a bull in a china shop.
With the tent resting on her head, she met Jordan’s gaze and tried to hold back a chuckle.
“That was smooth,” he teased as she shook her head, but before she could answer, a voice cut through the crisp morning air.
“What the heck is going on in there?”
Georgie gasped. “It’s Syd. We can’t let her know what we’re doing,” she whispered, knowing there was a good chance the wedding frau was in contact with the boot camp leaders.
Jordan’s gaze registered her concern. He knew it, too.
“You’re right,” he whispered back. He turned his head toward the side of the tent. “Whatever you think we’re doing, it’s not sex,” he called, then gave her a little wink.
“Not sex?” Syd parroted back.
“Why did you say that?” Georgie whisper-shouted.
Jordan grimaced. “I don’t know. It was the first thing I thought of.”
“If you’re not having sex, then, whatisgoing on in there,” Syd pressed.
