Page 8 of Should I Fall
“Ready, Miss Sunshine?”
“Take a few,” she says, handing me her phone, unbothered by my nickname. Hmm, maybe it’s not the first time she’s heard it. For some reason, that irritates me. As though I have some claim on that pet name when it comes to her.
Our fingers graze, ever so slightly as I take the phone from her. Spending countless months in this fire tower watching the weather, I’m familiar with the crackling sound lightning makes when it strikes. I swear I hear it now, as I take her phone. But it’s not a real strike, out in the mountains. It’s an invisible jolt of electricity between us from the light but undeniable brush of skin on skin.
Fuck.
Whatwasthat?
“Take a few,” she says, adjusting her mouth to fix a smile in place.
I can think of a few ways to make her smile without having to pose. Ways that involve her calling out my name as I make her come harder than she’s ever come before. The sated smile that would grace her lips when she comes down from the highIgave her.
My cock begins to harden, and I quickly snap a couple of pictures before a full-on tent is pitched in my fucking pants for her to see.
“Let me see them,” she says, grabbing for the phone. Her tit brushes the side of my arm, and my gaze zeroes in on the hard nipples poking through the thin fabric. I immediately note two things. One: she’s cold. Two: I’d give my very last cupcake to suckle those pebbled nipples.
I need to get away from her.
Now.
“These are no good,” she says, shaking her head. “Can you take?—”
“I need to get some firewood,” I call back to her, already halfway down the stairs before she can finish her sentence, desperate to put some distance between us before I do something stupid, like fuck her senseless on the balcony for Mother Nature and Brutus to witness.
Chapter Five
Stormi
Dash Sullivan is many things: rugged, strong, brave, grumpy, even thoughtful when he wants to be.
But a photographer, he is not.
The two measly pictures he took of me are blurry, and my eyes are shut in one of them. Before I could convince him to take new ones, he practically ran away to get firewood. As though the thought suddenly popped in his head after two hours of me shivering in my coat. Or maybe it wasmehe wanted to avoid.
He wouldn’t be the first guy to act that way around me.
I shiver again, reminded how chilly the tower is. I was beginning to think that the stove was broken. I was prepared to tough it out for the couple of hours I have left on this tour, but I was secretly hoping he’d build a fire. Or that he’d find other ways to keep me warm, which might be the subconscious reason I chose to sit on his bed when there were two perfectly good folding chairs at my disposal.
While Dash busies himself in the lower level room of the tower gathering firewood, I notice the sun starting to disappear behind the clouds again. Judging by the thick, dark nature of them, I suspect this will be the last of the sunlight during my visit. If I want to get the perfect profile picture for the reinvention of Stormi Winters, I’ll have to do it myself.
Though the bridal party has sworn off social media until we board the plane home in order to keep our whereabouts a secret, I want this very important picture ready the minute I can post it.
But I’m terrible at selfies.
Which is why I snap dozens, all at different angles, desperate to capture the mountains with that ray of sunshine in just the right lighting. But none of them are quite right.
I lean back against the railing andfinallysee the perfect photo come into frame.
Blaze pops to all fours, bumping into my knee just as I snap the photo. He starts that low growl again as the phone flies out of my hand and lands on the ground a good twenty feet below.
“Oh no!” I cry, rushing down the stairs to retrieve the phone I desperately hope is not destroyed beyond repair.
At the bottom of the staircase, I plow run right into Dash with his arms full of firewood.
“My phone?—”
“Stormi, stop!” he shouts at the same time.
