11

PICK

Two hours after she bangs me into happy oblivion, Sarah Jo sneaks away. Or attempts to. Since we fell asleep naked and tangled up together, she’s facing a logistical challenge if she wants to make a getaway, and clearly she doesn’t want to go panty-less. After she wriggles out from beneath my arm, she sort of ninja-crawls across the floor, sweeping around for her clothes. I’d like to point out that some shit gets easier if you turn the lights on, but Sarah Jo’s a big fan of hiding. She might actually have a coronary if I shone a light anywhere near her. So I enjoy the show she’s giving me. Fucking sucks she’s about to cover up that fantastic ass, although not as much as her need to leave me alone and in the dark does. I consider letting her know I’m awake and that she doesn’t need to sneak.

Yeah. Don’t think that would go well, and I won’t stop her if she wants to leave. I’m not fooling myself, either. Sarah Jo’s not worried about the rest of the camp learning that we’ve hooked up. Sure, we’ll come in for some teasing, but the Rogues won’t push too far. Not once I make it clear that Sarah Jo’s feelings matter.

And when the fuck did that happen? She invited herself over. We should be firmly in hook up territory, and her leaving shouldn’t come as any kind of surprise. I’ve been pretending I’m down with whatever she wants, but the truth is that I’d like more. I’m ready to all Oliver Twist on her cute ass and ask for some more, please. And it’s not just the sex, although she’s amazing and I’d never want to go without sex. It’s that she matters to me. You know how you hit the grocery and you get flour, eggs, and a bag of other crap that you line up on the kitchen counter? By themselves, that shit’s just groceries. Mix it all together, however, and you’ve got cake and that’s something out of the ordinary. Sarah Jo’s my triple-layer fudge, my red velvet goodness, a cupcake with mile-high frosting and a hell of a lot of substance underneath all that sweet. I like her. Okay. Fuck that. I more than like her. She’s snuck up on my heart, and boom, there she is, front and center in everything I’m doing and thinking.

This is not a great state of events seeing as how she clearly doesn’t feel the same way. My big clue? The way she’s sneaking out of my place before the sun comes up and I can get a cup of coffee into her because she doesn’t want to say anything. Good morning is apparently too complicated for her, which is too damned bad. I have plenty of things to say to her.

She steals my T-shirt and shimmies into her shorts bare-assed. There’s some muttering, a jingle of keys, and then the door opens with a quiet snick; a flash of night sky fading fast into dawn, and she’s gone.

“Bye,” I say to the empty RV.

Fucking sucks. I roll over and punch the pillow.

I’ve never been in a hurry to settle down or marry up—but I’ve generally avoided one-night stands, too. I’ve never been a fan of sticking my dick anywhere with frequent flyer miles because I’m a special fucking snowflake about feeling special. I like my girl to know who I am, and I like to know her. If you can’t have a conversation with someone wearing clothes, how are you gonna do any better naked? So maybe I haven’t always had love, but I’ve definitely had like. Nothing about Sarah Jo screams permanent or keep me. She’s a temporary fire camp hire who’s made her intentions of moving on after the summer all too clear. So if quickie sex isn’t what I want—and my dick points out that parts of us are way okay with it—Sarah Jo should have been off-limits. Over and done with. No thinking about her, pining after her, or trying to get her into bed. I can’t have it in my mind that it’ll happen again.

Yeah. Right.

Non-naked talking isn’t on Sarah Jo’s to do list. We won’t be having long conversations about our favorite fucking movies or taking romantic walks by the lake. Not that that’s all bad because a mountain lake is freezing cold even in July, and I like my balls non-shriveled, thank you very much. No talking. No getting to know her. No anything. But some things don’t need words. Have you ever noticed that? So while I wait for her to come round and open up, I’ll just have to keep an eye out and watch over her some. And if that sounds stalkerish, just give me credit for having good intentions. Just watching her is a joy. Her laugh lights up a room. And trouble is definitely riding her ass.

So what if she doesn’t trust me? I text her to see if she’s gotten home okay. She doesn’t answer, but that’s okay. Texting and driving isn’t safe, and I want her safe. And happy. Happy’s good, too. Then I get up. I’ll go for a run because no way I go back to sleep now, and trust me, being a hotshot requires you to stay in peak shape. Somedays, hauling gear from point A to point B feels like trying to drag a cannon uphill in the grass.

By the time I’m lacing my sneakers and it’s gray outside rather than pitch black, Sarah Jo hasn’t text back and I know she has to be home. Unless she ran out of gas or that POS car of hers crapped out and she’s stranded by the roadside. I should totally check on that. I text again.

If you don’t prove you’re okay, I’m coming out for a welfare check.

Then I grab my earbuds and head outside. I’m debating between hitting the trail or hitting the highway when she finally texts back. She doesn’t waste any words on me, either. She just sends a picture. Of herself.

She’s in bed. Do you think that’s an invitation? Because I’d love to take it that way. Plus, she’s still wearing my shirt and my inner caveman demands I beat on my chest. Do some growling. Possibly tattoo Pick’s on her ass or mark her with my jizz. Too much? The thing is, I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of her.

You stole my shirt.

Think she might have stolen something else, but I’m not going there. Not yet. Not like I was doing much with my heart anyhow. She kissed me. She rode my big dick like a pogo stick and rode the hell out of me, but she doesn’t trust me. No matter how awesome the sex is, she doesn’t like losing control. I get that. From our first kiss to when she opened my door and came straight on over to my bed, she’s taken charge and she’s never really let go.

Does it sound like I’m a whiney bitch to complain about her take-charge attitude in bed? Because it’s not that I didn’t love fucking her and being fucked by her. I loved it. Think all the moaning and groaning I did proved that. It’s just that she’s busy taking charge because then she can keep me out of the important parts of her. And I don’t know how to fix that, because although I enjoyed the hell out of our night together, I do want more than acrobatics and a mind-blowing orgasm that still has me seeing stars and tenting the front of my running shorts.