Paisley held up the pole with one hand and pointed at the loop with the other, giving me the look she’d been giving me since the morning she spread trail maps across my booth at the Pancake House. The one that said, “I’ve done my research and you’re winging it.”
Five years, and that look still made my blood run warm.
We were at the Mountain Road Overlook—the wide turnout about two miles up the mountain with the best view in the county. In tourist season, this spot was bumper to bumper with cars. But it was mid-October now, the festival crowds long gone, and we had the overlook to ourselves for the night.
Our daughter, Magnolia, was with my mom for the weekend—her first overnight away from both of us at the same time. Paisley had checked her phone twice since we parked. I’d hidden it in the glove box after the second time.
Life looked different than it had five years ago. Paisley’s mom was debt-free—with our help. Paisley worked from home now—data entry, part-time, flexible enough to set her own hours around Magnolia’s schedule. I was still running tours with Dash, still out on the trails every morning during the season, still coming home smelling like pine and sweat to a woman who kissed me like I’d been gone a week instead of six hours.
We were trying for a second child. Had been for a couple of months. No pressure. No stress. Just—trying.
Frequently.
Enthusiastically.
“Give me the pole,” I said, stepping closer and reaching for it.
She held it behind her back. “Admit you had it in the wrong loop.”
“I’m not admitting that.”
I stepped closer again, and now we were chest to chest, the half-assembled tent collapsing slowly beside us like it had given up on us entirely.
“Give me the pole, Paisley.”
“Make me.”
Two words. That was all it took. Her chin tilted up, her eyes locked on mine, and the tent pole clattered to the ground because my hands were on her waist, pulling her against me, my mouth finding hers in the fading golden light of an October sunset over the mountains we’d built our life in.
My hands started roaming first—sliding up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her shirt—while hers slipped under the hem of my flannel, nails scraping lightly over my stomach, tracing the line of hair that disappeared into my shorts. She made this small, hungry sound against my tongue, and that was it.
Game over.
I spun her around so her back pressed to my chest, her ass nestling right against the thick ridge of my cock. She arched instinctively, grinding back in a slow circle that had me biting off a groan. My palms slid under her shirt, shoving the soft cotton up until I could hook my fingers in the lace cups of her bra and yank them down.
Her breasts spilled into my hands—heavy, warm, nipples already tight little peaks. I rolled them between my fingers, tugged gently, then harder when she whimpered and pushed her chest forward into my grip.
“Evan,” she breathed, barely audible, head tipping back against my shoulder. “God, yes.”
My right hand drifted lower, following the soft curve of her belly, dipping beneath the button of her shorts. One flick and the button popped open. The zipper rasped down.
I shoved my hand inside her underwear—cotton this time, damp already—and my fingers found her clit, swollen and slick. I circled it once, slow, then pressed firmer, rubbing in tight, steady strokes the way I knew made her legs shake.
She moaned—low, broken—and rocked back against me, her ass rubbing my cock through our clothes in the same rhythm I was using on her. Every grind sent heat spiking up my spine. I could feel how wet she was, how her hips jerked every time I dragged the pad of my middle finger right over the sensitive hood.
“Shhh, baby,” I murmured against her ear, voice rough. “Gotta stay quiet out here. Sound carries.”
She tried—God, she tried—but when I slipped two fingers down to coat them in her wetness and brought them back to her clit, faster now, she couldn’t hold it in. Little gasping whimpers spilled out, muffled against her own forearm when she pressed it to her mouth. Her thighs trembled. Her whole body tightened against mine.
“Come for me, Pais,” I whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Let me feel it. Quiet, sweetheart—just give it to me.”
She shattered. Her knees buckled. I caught her around the waist with my left arm while my right hand kept working her through it. A choked, desperate sound tore out of her throat—half sob, half moan. Her hips bucked hard against my palm as she came, slick pulsing over my fingers, clit throbbing under each stroke until she was shaking and boneless against me.
I eased my touch but didn’t pull my hand away until her breathing steadied. She started to turn, reaching for me, eyes glassy and dark with want, but I caught her hips and held her in place.
“Uh-uh,” I said, voice gravelly. “Get in the tent, Paisley.”
She smiled—slow, wicked, still flushed—and backed toward the half-pitched tent, ducking under the sagging rainfly. I followed, kicking off my hiking boots as I went.
