Page 52 of One Little Lie
“Rylan?”
“I can’t see you.”
“I know. Just keep talking so I can find you.”
“Give me a word, Hatty?”
My toe snags on the cot, and I lower myself to the ground, feeling my way up toward the pillows. Finally settling in beside her, I zip up the side of the sleeping bag and roll to my side.
“Dissemble,” I sigh.
“You never used to do that with me, Hatty. I wouldn’t have liked it when we were younger, and I don’t like it now.”
“I …”
Rylan squirms, and in the confined space of this fucking sleeping bag, she’s wreaking havoc on my manhood. My hand clamps down on her hip, and she freezes.
“You can’t move on me like that, sweetheart. Not when we’re zippered into a fucking sleeping bag that can barely hold the both of us.”
“I was just taking off the ice pack,” she breathes.
“Don’t. Move,” I hiss.
She leans into me, probably to ask a question, but her ass planted on my cock, followed by a sharp intake of breath, tells me she knows exactly what’s happening.
“Oh …”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“Umm …”
“Just stay still and I’ll take off the ice pack.”
She nods against my chest, and I pull away to undo the zipper a little. Sliding my hands down into the bag, I hold back a groan as my fingers accidentally skim the curve of her ass. Finally reaching the bottom of the bag, I unwrap the ace bandage as gently as I can, then toss it on the floor beside us.
Falling back into place beside her, I attempt to roll to my other side, and she makes a choking noise.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, sitting up, worried I’ve hurt her.
“You can’t roll that way, Hatty. You nearly choked me out with the edge of the sleeping bag. It isn’t big enough for us to face away from each other.”
“Well, I told you I should sleep on the floor.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor. You just have to spoon me, which was probably GG’s plan all along.” She laughs.
“Fucking GG.” Rubbing my temples in the dark, I try to think of sweaty balls. Old, wrinkly, sweaty balls. Then I recite math facts like I’m fourteen again. Nothing works to tame the wood that is lodged between my legs right now. “I can’t spoon you, Rylan.”
“Hatty Westbrook,” she scolds, “get over here and spoon me. We’re adults. I’m tired and freezing, so stop being a big fucking baby and spoon me.”
She has no idea what she’s asking of me, but her admission of being cold sets off that protective streak again. I’m also pissed off that she can still affect me like this, so I roll over with more gusto than necessary and pull her tightly into my body.
“Oh!” Her shocked gasp does nothing to tame the little fucker trying to play hide and seek in my boxer briefs.
“Yeah,” I growl. “Oh. Go to sleep, Rylan.”
“Ah, what about …”
“Don’t say a thing. I swear to God, Rylan, just go to sleep.”
