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“Just come inside and dry off and we’ll work out what to do.”
He flipped the wet hair out of his eyes and looked around as if somewhere in the dark wetness of it all, he’d find a solution.
But really, what other choice did he have? He was soaked, his tent was missing its pegs and even if he got it up (Jesus, why that phrase now?), his sleeping bag would be floating around in a small pond.
Oliver gave up and followed Felicity into the Shaggin’ Wagon.
In seconds the windows had steamed up with the heat from their bodies. Felicity searched around and found him a towel. He dried his chest and his hair; his boxers were sodden and her eyes darted to his crotch for a moment. Looking down, he saw how the material clung to his cock, and thighs.
Do not respond, he muttered inwardly to his groin. But already he could feel the familiar warm tingle, the tightening of the skin around his cock. Luckily she’d turned away, sat on the bed and dried her hair with a towel.
He stood with his hands in front of his boxer shorts, feeling completely fucking ridiculous.
Felicity’s head popped out from under the towel. “You have the bed, and I’ll sleep on the seat at the front.”
“No way,” he huffed. “I’ll take the seat and recline it.”
“You’re heaps bigger and taller than me, you need to take the bed.”
“No. Sleeping on the seat will hurt your leg.”
“It won’t.”
They eyed each other like two combatants.
“Okay then,” she said, and he caught the schoolteacher in her tone. “Clearly an impasse. We’ll both just lie down here then. I’ll get the sarong out.” She smiled sweetly at him. “We’ve done it before, and it was fine.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Oh, thanks a lot.”
Shit.“I didn’t mean…”
She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “Here.” Grabbing the sarong, she did the sausage roll thing, which Oliver knew from experience was a total waste of time. Then she lay her body along the window side and smiled at him with her head resting on her hand. She patted the bed. “I promise I won’t bite.”
“Why do I not trust you on that?” he replied darkly.
But his head was spinning with anticipation as he gingerly laid his body’s length along the outer edge of the mattress, facing away from her. Even so, her breasts were bobbing against his spine. This was hopeless.
Her hand reached over him with the coverlet. “Are you warm enough?” This was delivered in the tone you’d use to soothe a baby and damn it, as if on cue a delicious heat permeated him from his toes to his scalp.
“Yes—thank you.” Was that her breath on his neck?
For very long moments Oliver lay, his body as stiff as a board, listening to the rain on the roof. He thought maybe her breathing had slowed, that maybe she’d fallen asleep.
“Oliver,” came a little voice against his shoulder. Nope, not asleep. “You seem really tense.” Christ, what did she expect? “Would you like me to massage your shoulders?”
“NO!”
“Okay, no prob.” He felt her shift away—as much as she could. Felt like kicking himself.
“Maybe.” Gruff.
He held his breath as her hands moulded over his shoulders, her touch feather light at first, gradually becoming firmer, more confident, as she expertly thumbed out the knots. “Ooh, that’s a big one.” She giggled and a growl of pleasure/pain punctured his lips.
“Sorry, was that too hard?”
“No, fine.” The knots in his back were unravelling for sure. In contrast, his cock had hardened with every nuanced little dig of her fingers.
