“You smell fine.”
After a moment, his hand comes up to run lightly through my hair, the rhythmic glide of his blunt fingernails soothing. My eyes slip shut, my own hand over Oakley’s heart, that pressure in my chest gone like dandelion fluff on the wind.
I’m nearly asleep when I hear Oakley murmur, “I feel safe with you, too, Law.”
I should maybe wonder at the way my heart skips with that. At the warmth that blankets me. But I’m too tired to hold on to the thought, slipping instead into a dream-filled sleep that reminds me of sailing through the skies as a child.
When I wake, it’s dark. Rain is pattering softly onto the top of the tent, the air muggy but cool. It takes me a second of foggy thought to figure out what roused me.
Oakley is plastered half over my body, his face pressed to my neck and soft words leaving his mouth that are too quiet for me to discern. He’s clearly still fast asleep.
He’s also hard. His cock is nestled against my hip, the feel of it ratcheting my pulse between one beat and the next.
For a long moment, I don’t move a muscle. If I were to wake Oakley, he’d shift away from me, ever respectful. But I don’t want him to. Not in the least.
Slowly, I slide my hand down between our bodies, the fit tight. Oakley’s breath stutters when my fingers curl loosely over his cock through the material of his shorts. I wait, my pulse feathering, Oakley’s soft groan and the unconscious flex of his hips causing my desire to bloom, like a reactionary storm, quiet as it is.
Oakley comes to consciousness quickly, his indrawn breath preceding his voice, rough like gravel. “Is that your hand on my dick?”
“It is.”
“Did I put it there?”
“No, you did not.”
He lets out a garbled sort of moan as he ruts once against my palm. I take it as permission, slipping my hand into his shorts, the heat of him, the feel of him filling my grip making my gut clench in the best of ways. Oakley’s breathless sigh speaks of deep satisfaction, his stubble like electricity as he brushes his lips up and down the side of my neck.
I arch my head further, wanting Oakley’s lips everywhere they can reach. Wanting him to cover me in sparks.
The rumble Oakley lets out in response is barely audible over the patter of the rain. I stroke my hand up and down his shaft as he scrapes my neck near raw. “You tryna make me come?”
“I didn’t have a plan,” I tell him truthfully. “Just wanted to touch.”
Oakley hums, the sound one of approval, before reaching down to pop the button on his shorts. It gives me more room to maneuver. “And you? Do you wanna be touched?”
“Think so,” I say, my own need like a distant thrum rolling closer.
Oakley doesn’t hesitate. He shifts over me, straddling my waist and opening up my shorts. He must shove his own lower because, all of a sudden, there’s no barrier at all as I map the shape of him with my fist. His cock is hard in my grip, hot, and I like the weight of it there, the way his breath hitches when I run my thumb over and around his cockhead.
Oakley’s fingers drag over my own cock like a tease, waking me quickly up. He wraps his hand around me once I’m semihard, pumping with just the right pressure. I can’t see his features or even the movement of his arm, but I can feel him looming over me, his face close to my own, his panting breaths and quiet exhalations a whisper against my ear.
“Open your hand,” he murmurs. When I do, Oakley settles lower, his grip closing over my own to trap our cocks together. “Just like that, princess.”
My pulse stutters as Oakley rolls his hips once, twice, before letting go, the friction and rub of his cock on mine making me wonder why I never tried this before.
I know why, of course.
But it doesn’t change the fact that this, right here, is so much more than simply chasing a physical high. It’s deeper in my chest, singing through my very bones. I don’t have to think or encourage myself to react. There’s no worry that I’m doing something wrong. Or thatI’mwrong.
I’m not broken. I finally,finally, found someone who’s right for me.
I lock my hand in Oakley’s hair, holding him close, my other hand fisting our cocks as Oakley drives against me. He’s not inside of me, but he’s still fucking me, and there’s no room foranything in my mind but joy and aching relief and a vicious sort of protectiveness for what I’ve found.
It’s humid in the air of the tent, and Oakley’s breath on my neck is damp. But I welcome the building heat, tugging him even closer, nearly jolting when he takes the hint and sucks against the bend of my shoulder. He keeps at it, kissing me with an open mouth as if trying to devour me, the softness of his tongue and the coarseness of his stubble a contradiction that has my nerve endings on fire. My dick starts to leak, and Oakley sucks harder.
Ah, fuck.
He shifts, shoving some sort of fabric—a shirt?—between our bodies, his mouth barely leaving my skin. “Can you come like this, princess? With my cock on yours?”
