He raises a hand.
“Guilty. Turns out, I’m really bad at camping.”
I laugh quietly and step toward him. My arms are still wrapped around my midriff, and I’m so cold and nervous that I’ve nearly forgotten about not wearing pants. Hunter quickly reminds me.
“Well, fuck me.” He plasters his palm over his mouth and jaw while his gaze fixes on my bare legs.
“I got hot. I’m not now, though. Clearly,” I say through a shiver.
“Yeah, I can see that. Also, you’re still hot. Just . . . different hot.” He laughs quietly at his own joke as his gaze lifts to mine.
I stop a few feet out of his reach, my chest tightening with fear of rejection—and a bigger fear of acceptance, which leads to a whole new rabbit hole of emotions. But it also leads to feeling something . . .anything.For just me. Satisfaction and appreciation.
Pleasure.
Hunter sits up tall and crooks his finger, motioning me to him.
“Come here.”
I bite my bottom lip. Cliché, but what the fuck. I’m going with it.
“Hi,” I utter, my voice soft, my hands cold.
I unfurl my grip on my sweatshirt and reach forward to take his waiting hands. He holds them out as his gaze scans down my body.
“You took your pants off because you were cold, huh?” His eyes flit up to mine as he bites his bottom lip, his fucking adorable smirk pushing a dimple into his cheek.
I shake my head.
“No.”
His lip comes loose as his grin widens.
“Why did you take your pants off, then?”
I step between his legs and guide his hands around my body, urging them lower until his palms cup my ass.
“Oh,” he groans.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, lifting myself on my toes. He drops his chin and tilts his head just enough that our mouths line up perfectly.
He nips at my top lip, and I nearly jump to catch his. He toys with me, though, lifting his head and smirking at me with playful hunger in his eyes.
“Confession?” His eyes narrow on mine, the curve of his mouth remaining unchanged. There’s a mischievous side to his expression. And it’s sexy as fuck.
“Hmm?” I lift my chin again, wanting to feel all of his mouth on mine. The warmth. What I predict will be strong lips. His tongue.
“I borrowed that tent from Roddy, knowing full well it was meant for one. And I kind of hoped . . .”
He bites the tip of his tongue and smiles, a downright bashful look in his eyes.
“What did you hope for, Hunter Reddick, number one draft pick?”
He nips at my upper lip again, and his hands slide up my back, under my sweatshirt, lifting the fabric up my spine and exposing my nearly bare ass and midriff to the night air. Rather than kissing me hard like I want, though, he holds me in this infinite purgatory of almosts.
It’s intoxicating, and the longer I stare into the deep blue of his eyes, the more I want to stay here on the verge of feeling something. Because the edge is powerful. It’s enticing. It’s like getting away with making bad choices without fully accepting consequences.
“I hoped,” he begins, his bottom lip full and open with his intensifying breath as his gaze drops to my chin and then my chest.
