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I clutched his shoulders. The T-shirt material bunched in my fingers, and I worked the unwelcome material up. It was blocking me from his chest.
His tongue twined with mine, licking, tasting, devouring. I wanted that on the rest of my body. The more I wiggled, the more the sleeping bag was pushed down. With a tug and a pull, Archer lifted me free of the downy material and rolled me onto his chest.
I stretched over him. There was way too much clothing around him. His shirt was gathered around his shoulders. His sleeping bag was between us. I still wore way too much clothing, and he had his shorts on. But I was on top of him, and for a moment, it was enough.
The moment passed. I stuffed the top of his bag down and splayed my hands on his hard pecs. Finally, I got to touch him. His heart hammered under my fingers, and I ground into him. He might not have felt my efforts, but I needed to do something to answer the ache between my legs.
A hard ridge buried under goose down and cotton pressed up.
I let out a frustrated growl. I wasn’t close enough. I wanted more.
Archer answered by tunneling his hand between us. He stopped at my shirt and broke our kiss to slip it off. I did the same with his.
“Fucking bra.” His big hands cupped each breast and kneaded the fabric-covered flesh. I lifted my torso to give him more room.
I agreed. Fucking bra. But what he was doing was better than the nothing I’d had for the last year and a half.
The sports bra fit too well for him to pull the fabric down and bare more skin, so he continued farther, sweeping his hand down my belly and slipping beneath my shorts.
The bra had served to keep me from flashing the world my nipples on the way back from the shower. The shorts had been something easy to get on while I was damp and that would cover my parts from public view.
“God, Delaney. No underwear? This whole time?” With his other hand, he gripped behind my head and brought me down for a searing kiss. Just as he was licking me, he slipped a finger through my heat and slid through the wetness until he landed on my clit.
A ragged moan echoed deep in my chest. My hips bucked and then ground into his hand. He held me, one hand on the back of my neck and one working my clit like the expert he was. I stuck my ass in the air and encouraged him. I needed him inside me, but the position we were in made it hard for him to adjust the angle of his hand.
I whimpered, writhing in his grip. He held the kiss so I wouldn’t moan his name and alert the entire campground to what we were doing. A rhythmic metallic banging resonated from somewhere outside the tent. A horse snorted and stomped.
The rough pad of his finger stroked me. Almost there.
I met his tongue stroke for stroke. I was so close to coming in his arms, staggered by how badly I wanted this. How badly I wanted this man. How lonely I’d been without him.
The metallic banging got louder. I broke the kiss, panting and staring at him in the dark.
“Someone’s horses are having issues,” he murmured.
We stared at each other for another heartbeat. A horse whinnied, followed by more banging.
“Shit,” we both said at the same time. I scrambled off him, trying to find my shirt. The one I grabbed wasn’t mine, but I yanked it over my head anyway. Archer was out of the tent with his boots on before my head cleared the fabric. I stuffed my feet into my boots and clambered after him, praying the horses were okay, but also hoping the situation was important enough to make me stop and think about what I was doing. Because if I had to crawl into that tent with Archer again, I would be naked in thirty seconds flat. Maybe I should be the one to sleep in the pickup.
* * *
Archer
“I can’t believe he did this.” I squatted and wrapped my arms around Bolt’s thick neck.
Why Bolt chose sunset for a dust bath, I didn’t know. But he’d managed to wedge his head under the corral and get good and stuck. He was on his side while Target peered over from her corral, and they nickered back and forth. In the beam of our flashlights, we could see Bolt try to roll up only for his neck to get held down by the gate. He didn’t realize he could curl his head in and wiggle out. He needed to be guided.
I held him down as Delaney lifted the corral panel. It wasn’t more than an inch, if that, but it was enough for me to help the furry fool change the angle he’d been trying to free himself from.
As soon as Bolt’s snout jerked free, I jumped back. He rolled up and lifted himself to standing. I pressed into the corner to keep from getting a hoof to the gut or headbutted as he turned and shifted.
Delaney kept repeating, “It’s okay. You’re fine,” in a calm and even tone to prevent a panic attack in a full-grown horse.
He shifted side to side, but he calmed down and nosed Target. Bolt chuffed back and forth with his friend.
Light slashed between me and the horse as Delaney aimed the flashlight toward Bolt. “Is he okay?”
My wife asking about Bolt first, and relief that it was a minor hiccup in an otherwise relaxing weekend, made me grin. “He’s fine. But he won’t win any awards for smartest horse in the campground.”
