Page 23 of When It's Us
I swing the pack up from where I dropped it in the dirt and unzip it, pulling out a thin, button-up flannel. The sun is dipping behind the trees, and it’ll drown her, but at least she won’t be cold. I hold it out to her.
“What’s that for?” she asks, eyeing the shirt.
“You cold?”
She runs her hands over the skin on her upper arms. “A bit, yeah, but it’s fine. Let’s just go.”
“Put it on.” I push the flannel toward her.
“I said I wasfine,” she protests.
“Jesus. In five minutes, the sun is gonna drop below the tree line, you’ll be shaking like a leaf.”
I didn’t know how to show concern for her without sounding like a complete lunatic—that’s not who we are to each other—so I barked it at her, instead. It was fine as long as she wasn’t a popsicle by the time we got back to the campground.
“Take it.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
Her eyes flash to mine in surprise and heat flares in them. She bites her lip, eyes dropping to my mouth. I hadn’t meant for it to sound sexual, butfuckme, what I wouldn’t give to see just how obedient she would be if she let herself.
She blinks a couple of times before yanking the flannel out of my grasp.
She says nothing as she slips her arms into the flannel. The sleeves fall past her fingertips, and when she pulls the flannel closed around her middle, the material reaches the opposite sides. Ginger is tall and curvy, but the flannel is still oversized on her, and I can’t deny how much I like her in my clothes.
There goes my dick again. Fucking hell.
“Thank you,” she says, barely above a whisper, and I nod, turning to let her lead us back to camp out. And when I do, I swear I catch a glimpse of her burying her nose in the collar.
Hutch
WalkingbehindGingergivesme a great view of her legs on the way down the trail. I can’t see her ass anymore thanks to my flannel, but I’ve got a crystal-clear mental image of her riding me in nothing but that shirt, and—yeah. I’m bricked up. Again.This woman seriously messes with my head—both of them.
A twig snaps off to our left, and she stops short, shoulders tensing.
“Did you hear that?” she whispers, glancing back.
I nod. “Probably just a squirrel.”
“What if it was a bear?” Her voice tightens.
“It won’t bother us,” I say, keeping my tone easy.
She edges closer without realizing it. “Are you serious right now?” she whisper-shouts.
“Don’t worry, California. I’ll protect you.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “Oh, really? How many bears have you fought off?”
“None.” I grin. “Choked a couple cougars, though.”
She scoffs, rolls her eyes, and stomps off.
I chuckle and fall in behind her—just in time to notice how stiff her steps are. She’s hurting. Her shoes are probably designerbut useless out here. She’s slipped more than once, and every time, my chest seizes.
Back at the van, I gesture to a chair.
“Sit,” I tell her before moving around the back of the vehicle and opening the rear door.
Digging around the small closet that holds a few jackets, some T-shirts, and other shit, I find the small first aid kit.
