She pulls her underwear on, hiking them up underneath the towel, and then, facing the bed and away from me, she drops the towel. Bare, her back is long and slender, her shoulders narrow, delicate. Just the suggestion of her breasts on either side of her torso.
I grit my teeth and plant my feet, force myself to stay where I am. Takes all my willpower, though.
She puts the bra on the way…the waysheused to: clasping it at her belly, turning it around, and then shrugging into the straps. The sexiest part, for me, is when she flips her thumbs along the straps over her shoulders and then tugs the bra up with a cute little wiggling shimmy of her torso.
Wish I had the front view of that show, but I know I gotta wait.
She turns, and I swallow hard. Fists clenched at my sides, every muscle clenched to keep myself from ripping that shit right back off and ravaging her on the bed, eating that sweet tight pussy until she’s limp from so many goddamn orgasms she doesn’t know who she fuckin’ is.
“Done in the bathroom?” I ask.
She nods. “I need to let my hair dry a bit before I blow it out.”
“Gonna shower.”
Her turn to watch as I peel off my boots and socks, my shirt. Step out of my jeans. Not ready to shock her stupid with full frontal just yet, I keep my boxer briefs on until I’m past her, nearly to the bathroom. That’s when I drop them, and I feel her gaze on my ass.
Close the door, twist on the shower. Wait for it to get hot, and then step in.
I fight it, hard. I fight it until I got no fight left, because I’m so worked up it fuckin’ burns. Finally, I have no choice. I fist my cock and remember the way she sounded as I touched her, the way she felt. That’s all the liberty I give myself, is the memory. No picturing what I wish for. The memory alone is enough to send my cum shooting out of me like a fucking rocket after only a few rough, hard jerks.
I wish I could say I felt clean after the shower, but the filth on me ain’t dirt, it’s the past.
And that shit don’t wash off.
* * *
I stopby a sporting goods store before we leave San Diego and grab a two-man pup tent, a tarp, a coil of rope, an extra sleeping bag, and a hatchet. The back of my bike is gonna be full, but Anjalee seems to want the outdoor experience, and the country we’re going through, we’re gonna need more than a single sleeping bag. Tying all the shit down so it’s secure is a trick, since the old Indian ain’t exactly meant for cross-country cruises, but I manage.
Then, we’re off.
Out of San Diego, heading east. Anjalee clings to me, pressing her slim, sleek body up against me closer than ever, cheek resting on my back as she watches the countryside pass by. She twisted her hair up into a tight knot at the back of her head. Looks elegant, yet casual.
Hours fly by, and we stop for gas, stretch our legs, get a snack. I-15 North to I-70 East. More hours. She doesn’t bother trying to talk on the bike—she’s content to ride and hold me and watch the scenery. Occasionally she’ll tap me and point out a horse, or a wheeling eagle once—I felt her excitement when she spotted it.
I detour around Vegas, for her peace of mind. Normally, Vegas would be the natural stopping point on this kind of trip, a nice hotel and a hot meal. Instead, I take her to a truck stop—a nicer one—just off the freeway. I get a burger, and she gets a grilled cheese and fries.
Then, evening falling as we hit the Utah border, I start looking for a place to pull off. It’s rough country, here, dry hard hills and scrub and mesquite and brush. Finally, we’re angling up into the hills themselves, rattling and bouncing along a path that ain’t even rightly a road. I find a spot where the path turns, flattening out near a twisted old tree. The freeway is in the distance, just red and white lights in a slow-moving stream, sparser now that night is falling.
I let the bike stop and park it under the old tree, and we both swing off. Anjalee stretches, massaging her thighs and butt, twisting her spine, rolling her shoulders.
She goes to the edge of the hill and just looks. “It is beautiful, here.”
“Sure is.”
She looks at me. “We will make camp here, then?”
I nod. “Up for a night under the stars?”
She nods, eager and very pleased. “Oh, yes. That will be wonderful.” She touches my chest with her hands. “We will make a campfire as well?”
I can’t help but laugh, she’s so fuckin’ cute. “Ain’t camp without a fire, darlin’.” I gesture at the hills around us. “Collect some sticks for me, would you? Little ones you can break with your hands, all the way up to big ones. A lot of ‘em. Just don’t get out of eyesight of me, yeah? I’ll get shit sorted here.”
She smiles, almost giddy to be helping. In no time flat, she’s dumping an armload of kindling by the tree, while I sort our sleeping bags and make a fire pit. A few minutes later, she’s gathered enough deadfall to last us the night, and I build a fire. She watches, fascinated, as I peel bark off sticks and shred it, build a little nest. Scrape my knife against the flint a few times, until a spark catches. I blow gently, until smoke streams and a tiny flicker of flame licks at the bark. Then I slowly add tiny bits of stick until the fire is big enough to add a few decent-sized pieces. Finally, after a few minutes of building it up, we’ve got a nice little fire going, about a handful, enough to put off some heat and some light—it makes our little spot on the hill by the tree a camp, and not just a patch of dirt like any other.
“Why do you not make it larger?” she asks. “Would it not be better?”
“Well, I could. But I don’t, for a few reasons. One, I’d have to chop down some bigger branches for that, and a big fire eats a lot of wood. Two, this is all we need, since we’re not cookin’ nothing. Three, this ain’t a legal campin’ spot, so we gotta keep it small, not attract attention. And four, the smaller the fire, the less ash and other evidence I gotta cover and scatter.” I gesture north and east. “Once we’re more into the mountains, we’ll stop at a real campground and I’ll build you nice big blaze, and we’ll roast some dogs and make some s’mores.”
