“Here?”
He leans in, his warm breath tickling the side of my neck, igniting a fire that’s been burning inside me for so, so long.
“Here,” he whispers against the shell of my ear.
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“We should get back to the house.”
“It’s too far.”
He’s right, but still…I’ve never had sex in public before. And besides, unless he’s packing supplies, how would we even do it?
“We can’t,” I repeat.
“Why not? There’s no one around for miles. Here, hold this.”
He hands me the picnic basket as he unfurls the blanket wedged under his arm and swings it over our heads, covering us both beneath it. Everything goes even darker.
“I can’t see very well,” I say, my voice a little shaky.
“Give it a sec. Your eyes will adjust.”
I’m tempted to tell him they won’t, but I keep my mouth shut. He takes the picnic basket from me and tosses it onto the ground. The rain is pouring down, but the blanket covering the upper halves of our bodies is preventing us from getting wetter.
Well, mostly.
“See? It’s working.”
A nervous laugh wheezes out of me. “This is crazy.”
“It is,” he agrees, grazing my cheek with the back of his hand. “Let me blow you, Jackson.”
I pray he can’t see my face right now because I’m pretty sure I look like a dumbfounded owl. I can’t see for shit. We’re out in a field in the middle of nowhere. It’s raining cats and dogs. And Maverick Benson is offering to go down on me.
How is this my life?
“All right, fine. But I’m killing you later.”
“Deal.” He chuckles, and a few seconds later, I feel his hands tugging on the waistband of my shorts. “You keep the blanket over our heads, I’ll take care of things down here.”
He presses his palm over my erection through the wet material, and I heave out a breathy groan. Guess my body got on board before I did. “Okay.”
After some wrangling, he manages to yank my cock out of my soaked-through shorts. The inside of his hand is soft and warm. He strokes me a few times and makes an appreciative humming noise.
Or it could be the wind.
It’s starting to blow a gale out there.
I lower my arms, resting the picnic blanket on the top of my head, which lets me hold it up with one hand only. The other finds its way to Maverick’s shoulder.
I can’t see what he’s doing down there, and I really wish I could. I’ve developed an annoying habit of fantasizing about Maverick in variousscenarios, including one involving an open field—although the roles were reversed in that one, and I was the one blowing him.
But now that it’s actually happening in real life, I’m forced to use my feeble imagination to picture what’s happening. Whatis going through his mind right now? Is this the most out-there thing he’s ever done, or is it just me?
I latch onto his shoulder, needing to secure a better grip as sparks of pleasure erupt and make me weak at the knees. He’s not even blowing me yet, but that tongue-flicking thing he’s doing on the underside of my crown is driving me wild.
