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He laughs, his chest vibrating gently against my back. “Maybe I can help you cool off.”
“How?”
His mouth traces the skin of my shoulder, and this time, goose bumps spread all the way to my feet. “Like this.”
“I don’t think shivering necessarily means cooling off,” I croak.
“No?” His mouth travels up to my ear, his warm lips cooler than my skin, and I shudder again. Again and again, he plants kisses along the slope of my neck, and I lose track of why I shouldn’t tilt my head to give him more room, so I do.
“You’re burning up,” he whispers. “Isn’t this helping?”
No. Yes. Depends on what with.
His fingers caress my stomach, and I nearly lose my damn mind.
I hate this. I hate that my body is betraying me like I’m a horny teenager. I hate that I want him, of all people.
But I do. Right now, it’s all I can think about.
I close my eyes. What’s the worst that could happen? If I trust what his mouth and hands are telling me, he wants this too.
I push my hips into his, almost moaning when my ass meets his crotch.
Oliver inhales sharply and grips my waist firmly. “Charlee,” he warns, but it’s too late, because I can already feel him hardening. “Charlee . . . this isn’t . . . What are you doing?”
I push farther against his length, my body melting against it.
“Nothing,” I whisper coyly. “Just”—I wiggle, pleased at the sound escaping his throat—“getting comfortable.”
His fingers dig into my waist. “Stop.”
I halt the movement, holding my breath. Fuck. Well, now shit is definitely going to be weird.
Oliver relaxes his fingers around my skin. “Just . . . not this. Please.”
“I’m sorry. I thought . . . I mean, I figured maybe you . . .” God, Charlee, just get the fucking words out. “Don’t you want to?”
Is this what it’s come to for me? Begging for sex? Ridiculous.
“I do. You know I do. But not like this.”
Not like this? Okay, Mr. Sending Mixed Signals for the Last Ten Minutes. What, then? What does he mean “not like this”? Does he want me to turn around and straddle him? Or would he prefer to take me from behind? Is that the “not like this” we’re talking about? Because we can absolutely negotiate.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, you know,” I say, still feeling his erection poking my ass, his fingers still pressed into my skin. “We’re both adults, and sex can be just that.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to,” Oliver replies, his voice hoarse. “I’m not a one-night or an it’s-just-sex kind of guy. Sex means nothing to me if it’s not with a person I love.” He hesitates but adds, “You of all people should know that.”
Rejection pricks at my skin like a hundred needles. Suddenly, the sleeping bag is far too small for the space my mortification takes up.
How did this sound like a good idea a few minutes ago? I did know him, and the Oliver I remembered would have jumped at the chance to be with me. Inside me.
Because he was in love with you then.
I shoo that damn thought away.
Not only will I be wedged against him for the rest of the night, but I’ve also managed to get myself super worked up. And there’s no release possible within the confines of this tent.
Oliver moves, readjusting his front. “We should sleep,” he whispers, hammering the final nail in my shame coffin.
