Page 64 of The Player in New Zealand
“What do you think it is?”
“Well, have you heard of the drop bear? It’s an invasive species from Australia.” I gripped his forearm. “But I think, in this case—”
“BLEAT!” erupted right in front of my face. I gasped, and Tane started to vibrate behind me, laughter bubbling up. “BLEAT!” the sheep said more insistently.
“You fucker!”
At my explosion, the sheep took off, little hoofbeats sounding against the grass. Tane’s laughter burst out of him, and I uselessly pushed him away from me. Moving him was like trying to move an elephant. I heaved and only succeeded in getting myself stuck in the space between the tent wall and the air mattress.
“Jesus,” he said, choking between laughter. “I’m gonna piss myself.”
I’d been swallowed by the gap, so I couldn’t see Tane’s desperate escape from the tent to make a break for the restrooms, but his laughter faded with him.
TWENTY-TWO
After repeatedly assuringme that there were no bears—or any predators bigger than a house cat or stray dog—in New Zealand, we drove away from our campsite in the morning and made our way into Tauranga. We visited the beach, hiked up the nearby Mount Maunganui, and watched paragliders take off from the top.
We were back at the campsite with fresh supplies in time to watch the sunset and have another picnic dinner.
The next day we packed up our too-small tent and the rest of the gear into the back of the truck. I climbed into the cab, but before I could buckle my seat belt, Tane put a hand on my thigh.
“I had a lot of fun with you,” he said, squeezing my leg.
I grinned over at him and leaned across the console. “I did too.”
Tane met me in the middle, pressing his lips against mine. When we backed away, I bit my lip, longing for more, remembering the way we had kissed in the tent, the slow, quiet slip of Tane’s lips over mine.
When I looked up at his eyes, Tane was staring at my lips. He let out a grunt, bringing a hand up to cup my neck and pull me back in. We met harder this time, our mouths opening in a kiss slicker and more urgent than I’d ever had before.
Maybe it was the pent-up energy, or maybe it was how Tane had seemed unbothered by the sexual tension I felt. Flickers of heat in his eyes were rare; he was usually so controlled. But now he groaned and pressed harder. I tilted, opening as much as I could as his thumb slid across the front of my throat. I swallowed, and his grip, momentarily, tightened.
And then he was gone. He bent over, turning the key in the ignition and bringing the engine to life.
“Fuckin’ kids,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ tent.”
And then he peeled out of the parking spot and toward the road.
I laughed, and as the miles passed under us, Tane relaxed, sliding into a comfortable posture. He let me pick the music, and I hummed along. A few songs in, I tilted my head, watching him. He wasn’t listening to the music, and his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
Raising his hips slightly, Tane reached down and adjusted himself in his shorts. A flare of desire shot through me as I caught sight of the bulge. He was hard.
I turned back toward the road ahead of us. We were out in the sticks, miles and miles of pastures on either side. Propping my left foot up on the dash, the farthest one from Tane, I closed my eyes and slipped my hand under my jeans. I kept two fingers together, making small circles on my panties, pressing harder with each go-around.
“Claire,” Tane warned. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t answer, pressing up with my heel and lifting my hips higher, wriggling down in the seat. The cotton was starting to get damp, my fingers shifting back and forth over my clit. I wouldn’t be able to get off like this, but it would serve its purpose—torturing Tane.
The truck slowed and I opened my eyes just in time to brace myself as we turned down a country road. A minute later Tane pulled over and slammed the truck into park.
“Pants off,” he commanded.
Both of our seat belts clanged against the windows as we stripped out of our clothes. Tane leaned over me, pressing a button on the side of my seat to electrically move it back. He grunted impatiently as I slowly moved backward, inch by inch. I encouraged more grunts by kissing his neck, just behind his ear. He switched buttons, and I started to recline until the headrest hit our bags in the back seat.
“I’m going to fucking regret this,” he said, but he swung a leg over the center anyway and settled between my thighs, kneeling on the floorboards. Two thick fingers plunged into me, pumping hard. “God, you’re fucking wet.”
He brought his mouth down on mine hard and pulled back, his tongue, his fingers, leaving me momentarily while he slipped the condom from his wallet on.
“Legs up.”
