Hung

I have the feeling my mouth is opening and shutting in a troutlike fashion I’ll regret later. Something about Sarah Jo knocks me off balance, starting with the unexpected offer coming out of her mouth. Apparently, she isn’t waiting for my answer, however, because her fingers walk up my neck, find my ear like she owns it, and just like that I’m even harder. I definitely want to do that again.

And her. Performing wicked, naughty sex acts on Sarah Jo’s willing body is high on my to-do list right now.

“My shift is over,” she announces.

Does that mean what my dick is praying it does? Could be she’s just making awkward conversation or is leading up to abandoning me and my hard-on, but it’s hard to not be hopeful.

“Mine too,” I growl. Meant that shit to come out as a whisper, something soft and teasing, but the blood’s abandoned my brain and nothing about me is smooth and easy. Sarah Jo’s fucking gorgeous, and she’s got me so hot for her that I’m about to spontaneously combust. You think I should be romantic about this? Come up with some heartfelt compliments and do the woo? I’d like to, but my dick is in overdrive and this is so not what I thought would happen when I followed Sarah Jo into the cafeteria. I was planning on a beer and some dancing of the fully-clothed variety. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a woman who would kiss me in front of an entire fire camp would also make it clear what the next step in our not-relationship should be. I like that she’s not afraid to show me what she wants.

She dances me straight out the side door and into open air, executing a clever little twist that reverses our positions so I’m once again between her and the parking lot. Are you confused? So am I. Not sure if this is really about sex or not, but I can’t help hoping. Which makes me an even bigger dick than I already am because if she’s scared or worried about shit, I shouldn’t be taking advantage of her.

I’m still wrestling with my inner good guy (FYI he’s fucking losing), when she stops. Inner Good Guy abruptly comes over to the evil sexy hook up side when she goes up on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder, her pussy rubbing against my dick as she turns my body into her own personal ladder. “You know what’s inside that cabin? Is it open?”

She points. I turn my head and look. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have a conversation about who gives orders and who gets them.

Typically, my days start and end with the fire cache housed in the rundown wooden cabin at my back. Forty feet by forty, the one-room cabin is stuffed full of ordered supplies and twelve-packs of tools half-broken into, cardboard boxes and piles, piles, and more piles. When I’d opened the cache at the start of the summer, I discovered that someone had gone crazy with an ancient label-maker, sticking precisely lettered strips of black-and-white everywhere, although no amount of labels could ever corral the mess of Pulaskis and axes, sleeping bags and hard hats. Everything has been ordered in by the caseload and in multiples—and then left to explode everywhere.

“Supplies,” I growl out, maneuvering her a little closer. Her hips are the perfect fit for mine—we slot together like two pieces in a sexy puzzle. But she’s asked me a question, so I try to concentrate. Supply depot is definitely too fancy a term for what lies inside that cabin. More like dumping ground or organizational nightmare. Maybe, if there were fewer fires, I’d give a damn. And maybe pigs will fly.

She beams. “So it’s empty.”

If you count metal shelves crammed with crap empty, then, yeah. Totally empty.

She bounces against me, and turns up the wattage on her smile. I’m pig enough to ignore the forced cheer because holy fuck, the bounce move slides her pussy up and down the front of my jeans yet again, and I’m in unexpected danger of going off like a rocket.

She pats my chest. “Let’s go in.”

What the lady wants, the lady gets. I’m an absolute fucking gentleman like that. Possibly, I nod like a bobblehead because something about Sarah Jo short-circuits the thinking portions of my brain. Or maybe it’s just that all available blood has stampeded south of my belt where there’s a whole lot of happy and turned on going on.