“You suggested sledding.”
“Only because I don’t ski, and now that I’m here, I don’t really want to sled either, and I feel terrible you paid for all this, and I’m such a chicken?—”
I slam my mouth over hers and grab the back of her head, angling it so I can invade her with my tongue. She fucking melts under my touch, her body, instead of becoming taut and unsure, relaxes, and she strokes my tongue with hers. My dick jumps, ready to fuck, but there’s kids everywhere and I’m a perverted cartoon ready to happen. Some dad’s gonna hit me with a shovel in the back of my head and bury me here.
With that in mind, I peck her lips, then lick mine. “Go put your tube over there.” I point at a place where I see people are leaving things like backpacks and diaper bags.
Isla blushes prettily but does what I ask her while I throw my tube onto the snow and watch what the kids are doing. Belly down, arms out, one boy jumps on the tube, screaming his lungs out as he slides down like a rocket. We won’t be doing that. I wait for a girl to go, and she sits on the tube, little feet dangling. I do the same, lifting my big-ass feet, and keep watching her. Her dad steps up, eyes on me, head tilted. It takes me a second to understand that murderous look on his face. He thinks I’m a creep. I am many horrible things, but that ain’t one of them. Ikeep staring at him, daring the bitch to come at me, because I’m fucking offended at what I presume he’s thinking. He takes his kid off the tube and sits on it himself, then puts her between his legs, taking off, looking back, still glaring at me.
Isla approaches, and I do what the dad did and sit, then pat a place between my legs. “Come on.”
Isla bites her lips and shields her eyes from the crisp sun, gazing down the hill.
“Get on.”
She starts backing off, and I sit up. “Wait, watch your step.”
Too late, Isla loses her footing, slips, falls on her ass, and one kid bumps into her. She grabs his tube, screams, and they start sliding and spinning, her hair flying everywhere, and as I’m freaking out that she’s going to break a leg or two, she starts laughing. She and the kid make it to the bottom, both laughing their asses off.
I push off with my hand and don’t move much. I push again, then use my legs to try to slide. Nope. Awkwardly, with my long legs, I kind of crab-walk myself down until I pick up speed and finally glide after her. At the bottom, I leap off the tube and walk to her. She’s lying on the snow, doing scissors with her arms and legs as I hover over her, hands on my hips. She extends a hand, and I help her up.
Her breaths come out in pants. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Just when I think she’ll forfeit the day, she says, “I want to go again.” She tucks her hand under my elbow and drags me toward the line.
We sit in the lift, and she stares ahead. “I think I’m looking for a thrill ride.” She turns to me.
I lift an eyebrow.
Neither of us is thinking about sledding.
5
We stayed on the slopes the entire day, and besides pausing for lunch, Isla didn’t stop, even climbed by herself and sledded headfirst, which I disapproved of, but she didn’t listen. I get the impression this girl makes the best of her day. Maybe every fucking day. Her energy is addictive, and I’m gonna be the leech who’ll suck it all up. We walk into the cabin like zombies, and Isla throws herself into my chair, legs and arms splayed out. “I’m beat.”
Hot as fuck from the daily activities and walking back up to the cabin, I kick off my boots and jacket, grab the sweater, shirt, and undershirt all in one bunch, and just get that shit off my body. I walk to the kitchen and am gulping water when I see a hand extend from behind the sofa. “Please.”
I grab her a bottle of water and throw it into her lap as I slump onto the couch with a grunt, eyes on the stairs where the shower is. I dread climbing the stairs. Why, oh, why did I need a loft cabin?
“You wanna hit the shower first?” I ask her.
When she doesn’t reply, I glance her way.
She’s not taken a sip of her water. Her eyes are wide and taking in my body, namely the canvas of tattoos on it. Fuck. I sit, elbows resting on my knees. “What?”
“Some of those are prison tattoos,” she says, and puts the water on the table.
Instantly, I go on the defensive. “How would you know?”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Why were you in prison?”
This is the last thing I wanna talk about before the night. I have plans for this girl. She looks like she’s ready to bolt.
“My dad is a cop,” she adds, as if I don’t remember that bit.
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” Jesus, I don’t do civilians for free. What the fuck? “And I owe you no explanation. Prison or no prison. Don’t ask about it.”
