Page 118 of Far From Sherwood Forest
“Why not? He’s a grown man.”
“Because you’re an overprotective asshole.”
“And possessive,” Will chimes in. “Jealous. Obsessive.”
Grinning, I rise to my feet. “I suppose you have a point, Will.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes as I round my chair and march away from the campsite in the direction Robin went.
One day while Will was recovering from that arrow, I wentout to the ranch to visit Robin before he moved in with me. Will thanked me for helping to save his life. I was honest and told him I did it for Robin, not for him. He insisted he was grateful anyway.
Since then, we’ve beenmostlycivil.
More like I put up with him for Robin’s sake.
I move quickly through the trees before slowing my steps, keeping them as light as possible when I sense I’m catching up with him. The fire’s glow eventually dies behind me, swallowed by the trees and their shadows. Robin’s footfalls move steadily ahead, unhurried and unguarded.
When I drag my boot over the earth with purpose, a branch snaps beneath me. Robin’s pace falters. I can make out the faint turn of his head as he scans the darkness. Then he keeps walking.
Another snap, louder this time. He stops dead.
“Great,” he mutters. “Going to get eaten alive out here by some wild animal.”
Oh, I’mdefinitelygoing to eat him alive.
I melt into the shadows, circling him, careful to stay just out of reach. His steps start again, quicker this time, leaves crunching as he continues down the trail toward the truck. I match his pace, moving when he moves, stopping when he stops. Every sound I make is deliberate—the rustling of underbrush, the scuff of my boot, the low snap of another twig.
His breathing sharpens, and he breaks into a jog. If he knows it’s me who’s following him, he plays along.
I allow him to go ahead, letting him think he’s gaining ground. Then I cut wide, slipping silently through the trees until I’m on his flank. When he slows, uncertain, I drag my nails down the bark of a tree. The rasp echoes through the quiet night like claws.
Stopping again, he stiffens, chest heaving.
“Not funny,” he calls out, voice carrying just enough to cover his nerves.
A low growl rolls through my chest.
He bolts, sprinting now, his breath ragged. The sound of him crashing through the woods grows louder. I stalk him in silence a few seconds longer, then rush forward, leaves whipping and snapping at his back. He curses, nearly tripping, and veers hard to the left.
I dart ahead, cutting across his path to beat him to the end of the trail. He barrels into the clearing and skids to a stop, his head sweeping back and forth as he peers into the darkness.
Then I’m right behind him.
Arms snaking around his waist, I crush him against my chest, my cock already hard from the chase. He gasps, a sharp sound that rips through the night, and his whole body locks tight against mine.
“Caught you, little thief,” I whisper roughly in his ear.
They’re my favorite words.
He thrashes wildly, but I don’t let go. The heat of him presses into me, his pulse pounding against my grip. He smells like smoke and sweat, like adrenaline and something sharper—want.
But he fights me anyway because it heightens the thrill before he gives in.
The moment I grind my erection against his ass, he goes still. Groaning, he hits that moment of inevitability and pushes his ass back.
We’re not far from the truck, so I haul him over while he continues squirming in my hold, partly from half-heartedly trying to get away, mostly from rubbing his ass against my clothed cock.
“Don’t worry, Robin. I’ll give you what you need.”
