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“Russel, seriously though. How?”
“You’re welcome!” his far-off voice calls.
“Russel!”
Silence.
I glare at the shower. Might as well. After all the flurried activity—half of the crew really were as incompetent as I expected—I’m definitely sweaty. But a shower… now? In the middle of the rainforest?
“Why the hell not?” I mutter to myself, pulling off my clothes and climbing in. “Might be the last one I get for a while.”
Admittedly, once inside, the hot beads rolling down my body feel amazing. My eyes close as I soak in just how good this feels. Maybe this whole expedition is destined to be a fuck-up, but at least right now this hot water feels like bliss. I’ll have to tell Harley and the others that—
My cock stiffens.
Fuck, Harley…
Even her standing up to me, while it pissed me off, it also turned me on more, somehow. Fuck. I need to get her out of my head, off my mind. If I’m going to get any work done, I can’t be thinking about how much better she’d look out of her clothes, how I’d like to teach her a lesson in manners bent over my knee.
I lean my forehead against the wooden shower wall. This needs to stop. We have less than two weeks to shoot this thing. I can’t let myself be distracted like this.
Maybe if I just got it over with…
My hands close around my cock and start to run up and down my hard-on.
Maybe I just need to get her out of my system, rub one out to her and be done with it. Good riddance.
Some grumbling voice begins an objection in the far corner of my mind, but I’m already five steps ahead.
I can almost see her now, stepping into the shower with me. Her taut curves coated with wet, slick, her lips locking with mine. I can almost feel the suppleness of her tits, the firmness of her ass under my fingertips.
“Greyson,” she kisses into my ear, and that exotic roll of her voice makes me shove myself inside her.
She feels good and tight and perfect and we clutch at each other, smack into each other, our bodies throwing us more and farther and closer and… yes!
As I come, my eyes snap open.
Jesus, that was fast. Sure, Harley is hot, but… I shake my head.
Doesn’t matter now, it’s done. Now, I should finally be able to get some peace.Chapter 4Harley
Bong-gong-gong… bong-gong-gong…
My eyes open in a glare, settle on a scaly green lizard with black almonds of eyes.
“Damn gong lizard,” I mutter sleepily.
The lizard scurries away.
Hold on—what the hell is a lizard doing in here? I sit up fast, and, squinting into the sun, remember.
Getting the job, going on the plane, setting up camp.
What the hell was up with that gong, though? And somehow some lizard got into my tent too.
I scan the canvas to see a big-ass hole in the side.
Great, just wonderful.
I text Hannah: A ripped tent, seriously?
—Ooh. Was wondering when you were gonna notice.
You didn’t think to tell me?
—You had twenty minutes to get to the airport. I didn’t think it was the time.
Well I just woke up to a big ol’ lizard looking at me, so thanks for that.
—Really?? That’s so cool!
I toss my phone into my haphazardly packed duffel bag. Last night, in my sleepy stupor, all I managed to find was a strange profusion of bras, but now with the sun out I have higher hopes for finding my toothbrush and soap. Before I do, though, a tempting scent of roasted yumminess draws me out of the tent.
“Just in time,” Russel says cheerily, beside the gong he must’ve sounded earlier. “Manuel’s making roasted plantains.”
“A family recipe,” the tanned man says, waving a chubby hand. “I’m Manuel.”
“Harley,” I say.
In our harried arrival last night, I barely said more than two words to anyone other than Greyson, let alone exchanged names.
The corners of Manuel’s dark eyes crinkle. “Harley. Like the motorcycle?”
“The very same.” I don’t sigh, because Manuel looks so genuinely delighted, even though I’ve heard the comment about a zillion times. “Want to know what’s even better? My last name is Davis.”
At this, Manuel throws his head back and hoots with laughter. Russel gives him a happy pat. “My man, if your plantains are as good as your laugh, we are going to have one happy morning.”
“We’ll have one happy morning once Greyson tells us what’s happening,” a woman in a tight rhinestone tank top declares in a nasal voice, striding up with what looks to me to be exaggerated hip sashaying. But maybe I just need some coffee.
“Don’t worry, Samantha.” Russel sips at some brownish liquid that definitely isn’t coffee and smells suspiciously like whiskey as he nods to the newcomer. “I know Greyson. The man knows his stuff. Once we form a game plan, we’ll be golden.”
