Setting the mood, her mind threw up. And after it had she wanted to throw up, too.I can’t do this, she thought of saying to him. But thankfully, he cut her off before she could do something that foolish. “Well, ladies first,” he said, and that made it a little easier. Or at least it did, when she considered what him going first would have been like. This way, she wasn’t trying to fumble her way over him to get to her spot in there. No crushing of his legs, no elbow in his face. No accidentally touching anything she shouldn’t.
Absolutely no problems, she told herself—and it felt right, too. Until she was nice and settled, on top of the plush sleeping bag on the left, and he started to take his turn.
His hand parted the tent flaps like a lover sliding up someone’s split dress.
Then the rest of him followed, and somehow that seemed even more weirdly sexual. He appeared to push through shoulders first, andgod, said shoulders looked enormous. They practically filled the tent from side to side. For a second they were all she could see. And once he was in he didn’t just unzip and shove himself into his sleeping bag, nice and straightforward and practical.
He began taking off his boots.
Caleb Miller, boot addict.
Removing them right in front of her.
It was obscene. It was terrible. It was like being a trapped patron of the weirdest strip show in the world. No real nudity, no real glamour, not even any sexy moves. He had to kind of crouch, all pretzel-like, just to get it done.
But even that didn’t make a difference.
It just meant she got to see a lot of oddly hot sights.
Like the underside of his thigh when he brought his knee up to his chest. All thick and broad, the muscle there tense enough that it strained the seams of his jeans. But also somehow vulnerable at the same time. Too exposed somehow. And the glimpse she got of his love handles was the same way.
He twisted, and his shirt popped free from his jeans. Then there was that tender curve, the thick and solid start of his stomach. Not the least bit sexy to most people, she would imagine. But she had never counted herself amongst them. Her eyes lingered on it, even when she told them not to.
Though not as badly as they did when he went to untie those laces. They were done up all tight and neat and sharp, obviously. And he had to work them loose, a bit at a time, with fingers that didn’t seem designed for such careful work. They were thick, and blunt-tipped, knuckles like hubcaps.
Yet he did it all so deftly, so carefully.
And slow, too. God, it was agonizingly slow. By the time he had them untied, she felt wrung out. Desperateto look away, but unable to really do it. Like she was transfixed. Like this was something far ruder than it was—a woman taking off her corset, she thought, unbidden.
Then had to stifle a too-sharp intake of breath.
And it wasn’t the only time. It happened again when he slowly eased those boots off. As if there was something forbidden about seeing his fuckingfeet—which she supposed in some ways there was. She was so used to seeing him with everything on. His uniform, his armor, him in his jacket all the time because even taking that off was seemingly too much for him.
Taking away pieces of it felt rude.
Especially when everything underneath was so soft looking. His socks had stripes on them; the skin above them was smooth. She saw the curve of his ankle as it slid into his heel, and thought of Victorian scandals, holes in stockings, someone touching him there with just the tip of their finger.
Like everything he’d revealed was just a little vulnerable.
Or, at least, it was in some ways. In others, everything was just fucking massive. Just absolutely the biggest feet she’d ever seen in her life.God, I hope the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, she found herself thinking mindlessly.
And right before he had to maneuver past her to get into his sleeping bag.
Carefully, of course. Oh, he did it like she was made of glass.
But that big knee still brushed her thigh. His shoulder came very close to her face. She probably could havepoked out her tongue and licked it if she had wanted to. Which she absolutely didnot. She didn’t even know what made her think something like that.
But whatever it was, she did it again when he said, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Voice all soft and flustered, like it came from someone other than himself. A gentle dork, she imagined, who didn’t like to be a nuisance. Then he was finally blessedly inside, stowed away completely from her line of sight, and she was free.
Or, at least, she thought so.
Until she looked at the state she was in, and realized. Now it was her turn to start stripping. Her turn to peel off her clothes and sneakers in this very confined space. And more horrifyingly, she had to do all of it while listening to a super disturbing soundtrack:
Him, going about the rest.
That was the clink of his belt buckle as she tried to get into a good position to untie her sneakers. The rasp of his zipper while she struggled. Hell, maybe she was strugglingbecauseof those sounds. They made her fumble-y somehow, distracted. She kept stopping without her own permission to glance over at whatever he was doing. And then he was done, and that wasn’t any better.
His jeans were in his hands now.
