She whimpers, and her back arches.
“I … I want you to touch me,” she says, her voice raw, breathless.
My restraint completely unravels, and I slide my hand further. The feel of soft curls beneath my fingertips causes me to rock forwards instinctively, pressing my erection hard against her ass.
“Please, Ford,” she whispers, “Please. Touch me”
I slide my hand deeper inside her underwear, and I almost lose control when I feel how wet she is.
I groan, my teeth tugging on her ear as she presses her head back against my shoulder. She lets out a small moan when my fingers begin to glide across her entrance and back over her clit, circling slowly before moving back down.
“Ford … Please.”
Her words are barely audible, and I’m undone by the way she writhes against me.
29
Stormy
Ford’s fingers glide over me, teasing my arousal across my most sensitive area. His hand is a contradiction, rough and calloused, marked by years of labour and strength, yet when he touches me, it’s with a gentleness that feels almost unreal.
“Ford … Please,” I continue to plead. My voice is unsteady, heavy with need. Anticipation curls tight in my stomach.
“You don’t have to beg," Ford breathes, his lips tracing a slow, delicate path along my throat.
The words ripple through me, a whisper of electricity skimming down my spine. Heat pools low, and desire surges—wild and insatiable, setting me ablaze. He ghosts over my entrance once more before he slides a finger inside. I gasp loudly out of need and satisfaction, and Ford’s breaths grow heavier. He withdraws it at a deliberate pace, then eases it back in, repeating the motion before introducing another finger.
I tense, caught in the buildup, and a surge of euphoria rushes through me, setting every nerve alight. His fingers curl, brushing that sensitive spotinside me. He eases out, dragging his fingers up over my clit once more, and I let out a moan of frustration.
“Shh,” Ford murmurs, his words laced with quiet amusement. “You need to be quiet.”
I can barely talk, barely think. My body is alive beneath his touch, overwhelmed. But somehow, I find myself.
“You knowexactlywhat I need.”
He hums his response with his body firm against my back. His other hand finds my head to thread his fingers through my hair, sweeping it back from my face.
“Then take it, Stormy,” he whispers, his voice thick. He presses his lips against my temple tenderly.
Those words, almost demanding but achingly permissive, allow me to claim what I want, what I need, what I desire. They hit right in my core, and I whimper as his fingers continue to curl inside, coaxing a wet warmth to trickle out of me, coating his fingers. He must notice what his words have done, how unbelievably aroused I am, how much I'm enjoying this, because his hand pauses for a moment, and a strangled noise escapes the back of his throat.
“Oh, fuck …”
But I want more. I want him.
I reach behind, dragging my hand up his thigh, hungrily. I trace the tight muscles beneath the fabric he wears, making him shudder out laboured breaths.
But then, a voice outside the tent cuts through the moment like a blade, jolting me from my haze.
Ford’s hand goes still, and his body stiffens behind me. I pull back my own hand. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves, trapped in the tension, like prey sensing a predator nearby.
My pulse roars in my ears.
Missy stands just beyond the thin fabric separating us. “Stormy, are you okay in there? Thought I heard you crying or something?”
A humiliating wave of heat rushes to my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut. My voice wavers, hoarse, uncertain. “I’m fine,” I manage. “Just … a bad dream.”
Silence. Then, “Can I come in?”
