I flinched, my breath hitching in my throat.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, eating up the space between us until the sheer, radiating heat of his body felt like a physical weight against mine.
"I know what you were really watching, Ivy," he murmured. His head dipped lower, hovering intimately in the crook of my neck. "And I know you were picturing yourself beneath me."
I swallowed hard, my jaw shifting as I gathered every ounce of my courage.
Slowly, I forced myself to meet his gaze. My trembling hands came up to rest flat against his bare, damp chest, anchoring myself as I pushed up on my toes. I deliberately closed the remaining distance until only a fragile sliver of air separated our mouths.
"You're right," I breathed against his lips, my voice an unsteady whisper I barely recognized as my own. "I was picturing it."
The teasing edge in his eyes instantly melted away, replaced by something incredibly dark, possessive, and hungrily satisfied. A slow, terribly fond smile spread across his lips.
---
By the time we navigated the winding mountain roads and reached the campsite, the temperature had plummeted. So had Mom’s health.
“I feel awful,” Mom murmured, shivering violently as Paul finished pitching the main canvas tent. “Don’t let me spoil the fun, you two. I just need to crash.”
I watched him drive the iron tent stakes into the frozen ground with effortless, brute strength, the fabric of his flannel shirt pulling taut over the powerful flex of his broad back and heavy shoulders.
Once the tent was secured, Paul set up the bedding, unzipping the sleeping bags and overlapping them like puzzle pieces to create one massive layer.
Then, I watched those same massive, calloused hands move with surprising gentleness as he tucked the thick blanket securely beneath Mom’s chin.
It hit me harder than his brazen teasing ever could. In that moment, Paul seemed terrifyingly perfect.
With that lingering thought, I headed down to the creek to wash up. But the image of his shifting back muscles and the unexpected tenderness of his touch burned in my brain. My pulse thumped, thick and erratic. The freezing water did absolutely nothing to cool the filthy heat simmering under my skin.
When I dried off, I deliberately left my panties balled up in my bag. I slipped the sheer, light cotton nightgown directly over my naked body. Thin straps, a loose bodice, and absolutely no bra.
When I returned to the clearing, Mom’s breathing from inside the tent had already deepened into the heavy, rhythmic snores of a dead sleep.
That left only the crackling fire and the man who haunted my every thought.
Seeing Paul sitting there alone, his large frame cast in the flickering orange light, the memory of what had happened just hours ago—right before Mom had suddenly appeared to rush us out the door—hit me all over again.
My breath hitched.
Paul’s head turned slowly. The moment his dark, intense gaze locked onto me, the very air in the clearing seemed to stall. He didn't try to hide where he was looking. His eyes dragged slowly up my body, taking in the damp ends of my hair, the shivering flush of my skin, and the unforgiving thinness of the cotton.
“It’s officially my birthday,” I teased, my voice dropping into a low, playful hum.
Picking up the bottle of champagne, I deliberately leaned right over him to fill his glass. As I bent forward, gravity pulled the loose bodice of my nightgown away from my chest, offering him a perfect, unimpeded view of my soft curves. The sheer, backlit fabric hid absolutely nothing from his tracking gaze, putting the tight, sensitive peaks already hardening in the cool night air on full display.
I watched his jaw tick, his eyes darkening into pure, predatory hunger as they fixated on the shadowed dip of my cleavage.
Finishing the pour, I straightened up and brought the bottle to my own lips. I locked eyes with Paul, holding his stare as I took a slow, deep sip. I let a single, golden drop of the liquid escape, tracing a lazy path down my chin and onto my collarbone, my eyes never once leaving his.
He stood up then, the sudden movement making me catch my breath. With one heavy boot, he kicked dirt over the glowing embers.
"Time to turn in," he commanded.
I followed him, the alcohol already humming a warm, reckless tune in my veins.
Inside the pitch-black tent, Mom—deep in her medicated slumber—had rolled over at some point, sprawling her limbs across the exact center of our makeshift bed. That left only a narrow sliver of space on the far edge. We had no choice but to squeeze into the corner of the patchwork bedding together.
Paul lay on his back. I crawled in beside him, moving agonizingly slow. I could feel the biting night air hit my bare skin as the hem of my nightgown hiked up, bunching at my hips.
Our legs brushed immediately. My bare thigh against the coarse, heavy denim of his jeans. I didn’t pull back. Neither did he.
“Cold?” His voice was a low vibration I could feel in my own chest.
“A little,” I lied. My blood was actually simmering.
He reached out and hauled the heavy blanket over us both. Then his massive arm came around me, the sheer weight of it pulling me in flush against his side. I turned, letting my head rest on his chest, right over his heart. Thud. Thud. Thud. It beat frantic and heavy—way too fast for a man who was supposed to be sleepy.
I shifted deliberately, curling my body closer and half-draping myself over him. My breast pressed flat against his ribs, the nipple a hard, sensitive peak rubbing through the thin cotton of my gown and directly against his T-shirt. I felt him lock up instantly. Every muscle in his torso snapped taut beneath me.
“Sorry,” I murmured. I kept my voice tiny, but I made sure my lips brushed the warm skin of his collarbone. “S’just… you’re so warm.”
He took a long, jagged breath through his nose. “It’s okay, Sunshine.”
It sounded like he was gritting his teeth. I nuzzled in deeper, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like woodsmoke, pine, and masculine sweat. I shifted my weight, hooking my bare thigh entirely over his hips, dragging the soft skin of my inner thigh up the rough denim of his jeans in a slow, heavy glide.
“You always make everything feel better,” I breathed against his pulse point.
His hand found my upper arm. His fingers flexed, digging into my skin, his calloused thumb making one slow, crushing sweep back and forth. His breathing was unraveling into a ragged staccato.
“Still dizzy from the champagne?” he asked. His voice was like rough grit sandpaper now.
“Mmm,” I hummed. I rubbed my cheek against the coarse stubble on his jaw. My lips grazed the blistering heat of his neck, close enough to feel his pulse hammering a frantic warning against my mouth.
I lifted my head, propping myself up just enough to look at him. In the dim moonlight, his eyes were endless black pits. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked frantically beneath the skin.
“I can’t sleep,” I whispered, my lips a hair’s breadth from his. “You feel too good.”
With a sudden, rough jerk, his arm locked around my waist, yanking my hips flush against his. I felt it then—thick, iron-hard, and unmistakable, straining furiously against the fly of his jeans right where my inner thigh rested. The shock of his size sent a fresh, violent rush of wetness between my legs.
His hand flexed hard on my bare hip, his blunt fingernails digging into my flesh as he anchored me there.
I didn't back down. I slid my thigh higher, pressing my dripping heat deliberately against that massive, straining hardness.
“You’re drunk, Ivy,” he ground out.
“No, I'm not,” I breathed, staring him down. “Okay... maybe a little.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower. The strap of my gown had fallen completely, exposing the pale curve of my breast and the dark, aching tip of my nipple in the shadows.
"Go to sleep," he commanded, though his voice was trembling.
But his hand stayed clamped on my hip, and his lower body didn't move an inch away from mine.
Mom’s soft snores continued just a few feet away. I stayed molded to him, my heart slamming against my ribs, my core throbbing with every ragged breath he took. I was slick, swollen, and begging—and he was as hard as stone, just waiting for the last of his control to snap.
I shifted again, grinding my bare, wet center directly against the thick, hard ridge in his jeans. With every slow circle, the rough denim scraped deliciously against my swollen folds. The itch between my legs had grown into a raw hunger that I couldn't ignore anymore.
I was done with his restraint.
Driven by pure desperation, I shifted my hips back just a fraction of an inch—just enough to slide my hand down into the narrow, dark space between our bodies. Bypassing the bunched fabric of my gown, I reached down until my palm wrapped firmly around the hard, throbbing length of him.
Even through the thick denim, he was terrifyingly massive—a solid, pulsing weight that matched the frantic, heavy beat of my own heart.
My hand could barely fit around his incredible thickness. I squeezed, hard, feeling the rigid, scorching pressure push back against my palm. Then I did it again, slower, dragging my hand up and down the full, agonizing length of his erection, forcing the rough fabric to grate against his ultra-sensitive flesh.
"Is all this for me, Daddy?"