(Amber)
“. . . as a rock-hopper, log-balancer, and rough-trail-scrambler, you can also compete quite favorably with Mr. Average Man.”
—THE SIERRA CLUB WILDERNESS HANDBOOK, “WOMEN,” C. 1971
After twenty minutes, I lurch up from my outstretched position on one of the Empire Ambassador’s properly saggy beds to sit up straight. Peering into the dresser mirror across from me, I give myself an admonishing headshake.
No response to my texts. Zero.
Stupid, silly, irrational human being that I am, I expected a very different outcome this morning. An outcome that included Braden beating feet to get to me and a surprised-but-thrilled look on his face when I opened the door. Followed by the exchange of one lingering look worthy of a subtitled NC-17 movie and then a whole host of acts that would earn an upgrade on that rating. Later, I planned to have him take me on a proper date. A date on which I would wear the very tight, very hot blue dress I’d brought along, expressly to test out my previous theory about what look turns Braden’s crank. If I was right, my plan also included that dress ending up on the floor somewhere in his house.
And yes, I know how crazy all that sounds. To start, Braden probably doesn’t have a surprised-but-thrilled look in his arsenal of expressions. Furthermore, it’s possible he has other things going on and, you know, wasn’t simply waiting around for me to show up unannounced as I have. He could be working and out of cell range, busy nailing a poacher in the act of certain crimes against nature. Or maybe he and Garrett are off on some adventure, one that will end with them sharing some manly conversation over a breakfast of his sauerkraut and some sunny-side eggs. Or perhaps the Jolly Green Giant is sleeping in this morning, taking a break from his usual routine—one I know gets him out of bed by six a.m., because that is always when his replies to my nocturnal texts show up. Always. Although if this is a case of lazy snoozing, I hope it’s not the result of a long night with some meek, mousy, agreeable woman. Because the mere idea of that sets my nerves on edge.
A heavy sigh leaves me. Stupid, silly, irrational . . . These are the misfortunes of those afflicted with a crush. Let your loins and your heart get muddled up in this sort of thing, and it’s all bets off from there. Although reworking one’s schedule to hop a flight to Colorado, without fair warning to the object of all your crushing, might be a new low in the realm of infatuation.
Another pointed look at my reflection in the mirror, followed by a glowering stare. Then I round things out with the ol’ two-fingers I got my eyes on you hand gesture, which is enough to get me on my feet.
I kick off my sandals and set about pulling on a pair of wool socks and my hiking boots, tightening the laces with a good tug and a double knot. The July sunshine means my shorts and tank top make sense for the weather, but I’ve learned the hard way that hiking at altitude can lead to a wicked sunburn before you expect it, so I slather on plenty of sunscreen to be safe. My day pack contains some rain gear, a water bottle and snacks, a spotting scope and my range finder, plus the action camera I’ll use to film some b-roll footage. In all, everything I need to do the extra scouting I’m here for, which is the reason for this little jaunt. At least that’s the line I’ve offered to anyone who inquired why I was suddenly taking a whirlwind weekend trip to Colorado.
I tug on a ball cap, pull my ponytail through the back, and sling my pack over one shoulder. After grabbing my sunglasses and the keys for the rinky-dink rental car I picked up at the airport, I give my reflection one more scolding look, knowing that will be enough to remind me what demands my attention these days. And pining after a broody game warden is not it. Even if all that irrational pining is what drew me out here this weekend, my career has to remain my priority because if I lose that, I’ll be on my own—with only a blech-worthy reality show to break my fall.
Opening the motel room door with a hard yank, I know the burst of sunshine on the other side of the door will redouble my efforts to focus on what matters: doing whatever it takes to save my show.
Minor problem, though.
A big body is blocking all those sunbeams.
I stop short with a gasp. Braden’s hand is upraised as if he was ready to knock on the door, but he lets it drop heavily when our eyes meet, matching the move with a long exhale.
“Finally.” His eyes scan my face for a moment then begin a slow descent. “The kid at the desk wouldn’t give me your room number, like this is the goddam Four Seasons and he’s the head of security. I didn’t see your truck, so I was forced to start knocking on doors, which means I woke up more than one guy who smells like a half-empty beer bottle that’s been used as an ashtray.”
I raise my brows. “A more direct route might have been to text me back. Ask what room I was staying in.”
“Still wasn’t convinced you being here was real. That I wasn’t dreaming this up.”
“Dreaming it up? Sure it wasn’t a nightmare?”
Braden’s gaze has fixed on my bare legs, but his eyes now drift back up to mine. And say hello to the NC-17 look I was hoping for, because it’s right there.
Right. There.
Our eyes lock, and everything about Braden tenses, fighting what looks like the sudden urge to barrel through the doorway and give me the rest of what I had previously imagined.
“Definitely not a nightmare. Not even close.”
My lips part a fraction, in reaction and invitation, struck stupid by the reality of how much I want him—and how relieved I am to see the same on his face.
Braden’s voice becomes a touch stern. “Now explain yourself. Tell me what you’re doing here, why you didn’t tell me you were coming”—he pauses and works over a labored swallow—“and how long I have you for.”
All the sarcastic, mocking replies I’ve come to rely on with Braden go missing, just when I need them most. Instead, I take a moment to absorb the full picture of him, standing there in a pair of jogger pants and a graphic tee emblazoned with a logo for the clean supplement company I’d give anything to have an endorsement deal with. He has a ball cap on backward and his five-o’clock shadow is about twelve hours past.
I suspect he either was having a lazy snooze day or he was working out. And let me tell you, I’d love a chance to watch Braden work out. Even more so, I’d love to work out with Braden—and I don’t even mean it that way, I mean actually work out. Sweat it out together until we determine who can best who. I answer him almost robotically, while also imagining a very sweaty Braden trying to keep up with me.
“I’m here to get in one last scouting trip before season. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to see you, but I wasn’t sure what you’d say.” Braden’s jaw tenses, his hands flexing impatiently. “You have me for the next two nights.”
“Good.” Every inch of him relaxes slightly. “You headed for the trail right now? I have my day pack in my truck; we can go scout some of those game trails I sent you pictures of.”
“Absolutely,” I nod, giving him a smile, and eat up the way he very nearly smiles back. “Let’s go play in the woods together.”
Oh. My. God.
How did this happen? How?
How is this even possible? I ask silently, to every rock, tree, and bush in my path.
How did we not only manage to leave the motel but then drive to the trailhead and hit the dirt, all without greeting each other properly? And by “properly,” I mean groping and kissing until we’re nearly passed out.
That’s the sort of proper I’m interested in.
To boot, we’ve now made it three of five miles into a laborious hike where I’m bringing up the rear. Behind his rear. Braden’s very meaty but firm, sculpted, and mesmerizing rear. The one I’m currently too preoccupied with to feel entirely sure of my footing.
We come upon an especially steep section where a few large, jagged boulders interrupt the trail, unavoidable and inconvenient. When Braden clears them by taking long, max-incline StairMaster steps, then bounds over the last one with a nimble backside-becoming leap . . . I crack.
That’s it. I’m done.
Unwilling and unable to take another step, I come to a halt in the middle of the trail.
“Wait,” I blurt out.
Braden lurches to a stop and spins around. “What? You OK?”
I press a palm to my forehead. “No.”
He curses under his breath and starts his way back down the trail toward me.
“Sit down, head between your knees, and take deep breaths. How much water have you had today? You can’t mess around with this altitude, Amber. You have to take it easy and acclimatize yourself.”
“That’s not it.” I sigh.
I spy a smaller, flat boulder just a few paces off trail. Stomping that direction, I step atop it to put myself reasonably eye to eye with the man who’s now looking befuddled. I flick a hand toward my chest.
“Come here.”
Braden approaches with caution, keeping his hands gripped tightly to the shoulder straps on his pack, stopping too far away for what my objective is. I flick my hand again, jerky motions to match my impatience. He steps in to close the distance, his toes nudging the boulder I’m standing on while eyeing me warily.
“Kiss me,” I announce.
“What?”
I let out a frustrated rumble, trying to figure out where to begin, either in rationalizing my demand that he kiss me or my recent decisions in general. I set my hands on my hips.
“You have a great butt—you realize that, right? I mean, it’s great. I feel like I should be paying for the privilege to watch you hump it up this trail, it’s that good. And this is the second time I’ve been forced to walk behind you, trying not to stumble over my own feet. But at least last time you were wearing cargo pants and layered up for the weather. Today, though?” I wag a finger toward his jogger-clad lower half. “No relief.”
Braden’s lips part and he makes a garbled attempt to speak. I cut him off.
“We should’ve gotten this out of the way back at the motel, but we didn’t. I don’t really know why, but we didn’t. Doesn’t matter. The last time I saw you, your hand was up my shirt and we discussed sexing it up on your desk. Now I’m here again and I want to pick up where we left off. So don’t play dumb. Just kiss me.”
The hesitation written across his face a moment ago disappears. Even so, he doesn’t do what I’ve commanded. Instead, his parted lips press together and he studies me for a moment, every second that passes sending a thrill down my spine.
“Say it again,” he finally rumbles.
“Which part?” I counter.
Braden blinks once, slowly and deliberately, a wordless warning for me not to test his patience. A chaser of anticipation follows the earlier thrill that ran through me. I allow that sensation to fill my body until I’m equal parts emboldened and weak-kneed, like I’m suddenly the best kind of drunk—the sort that feels warm and good and worth whatever hangover comes later.
“Kiss. Me.”
A smirk creeps across Braden’s mouth, triumph mixed with unabashed want.
Based on that grin, I expect his mouth on mine instantly, in a rushed collision that’s as blundering as it is hot and wild.
But what I get is nothing like that. Instead, it’s the restrained advance of Braden leaning in slowly—in complete control—allowing our mouths to meet in a tease, his lower lip brushing over both of mine so lightly it drives a whimper from my throat.
That sound is his undoing. Braden sets his large hands to my waist and yanks me forward, nearly setting me off balance until his body becomes an anchor, my hands landing on his chest to steady myself, keeping them there even after, my fingertips digging in despite the T-shirt in my way. Our mouths fuse together, teeth nipping and tongues teasing. Braden’s grip slips down to my hips, then lower, then again. His hands settle where my thighs meet the hem of my admittedly short shorts. I tilt my hips back to encourage him, and his touch sneaks up underneath the cotton fabric, the rough pads on his fingertips gripping my ass like it belongs to him, and I want him to own it.
We break for air. For some relief. Braden’s hands stay put, retreating enough to fix our eyes to the other’s, searching. Braden’s chest is heaving, and I can feel it working against mine.
“More,” I whisper.
His eyes flare. “Here? As in, more more?”
I give him an overeager nod. Braden’s jaw drops open, pausing as he tries to find whatever words it is he’s looking for. He sucks in a long breath.
“I don’t make a habit of carrying condoms in my pack. Do you?”
My eyes drop closed. Damn the practicalities of safe sex. You’d think that since something like this was on my agenda, I’d have come prepared. But—insert tortured sigh—I did not.
“No.” I cut a look his way. “You don’t have one in your wallet?”
He shakes his head. I stamp my foot like a disappointed child, letting out a huff. Braden chuckles and tips our foreheads together. “Sorry.”
Another huff from me. “ ‘Sorry’ won’t cut it. I’m dying here.”
We stay silent, breathing in each other’s disappointment until Braden’s hands start to squeeze my backside, almost absentmindedly. I give in to a soft moan and circle my hips, hoping he’ll knead harder.
But he leans back instead, removes his hands from my behind, and casts a determined look to the area around us. I nearly stumble off the boulder when he grabs my hand in his, but my reflexes kick in as he drags us deep into the wooded area off trail, occasionally tossing a glance over his shoulder toward the main path. Twigs, leaves, and underbrush crunch beneath our feet as we edge down a small slope and into a stand of aspen trees. Sunlight dapples through the leaves, but the grove is still shaded, and when Braden comes to a stop a chill hits my skin. He shrugs off his pack and tosses it on the ground, then starts to help me out of mine before I have chance to catch up with what’s happening and my arms get tangled up slightly. Once he has my limbs sorted out from my pack, he drops it next to his and eyes me from head to toe.
“Hat off. Hair down. I want to get my hands in it.”
I balk only long enough to realize he’s dragged me here for a reason—so we can greet each other properly—then immediately find my mettle. I shoot him a firm look while doing what he asked, slinging my hat to the ground and yanking the elastic from my ponytail before shaking my hair out.
“You, too.” I wiggle a finger at his hat.
He tosses it off. His dark brown hair is longer than it was the last time I saw him, a few tendrils now sweat-dampened, curling his hair into a wild mop that matches the wild flare in his eyes. Braden reaches for me, slinking a finger around a belt loop on my shorts, tugging me forward while turning me so my back can rest against the trunk of an aspen tree.
No more talk after that. His hands are in my hair, tugging and tangling handfuls of it through his fingers as we start to kiss again, finding a rhythm, the pace we both want.
Braden’s big hand leaves my hair and starts to work open the button on my shorts. When he yanks down on the zipper, I freeze, giving up a moan so he knows that I don’t want him to stop; I’m preparing myself for what comes next. I want to be entirely present when he slides his hand over my belly, then lower, finally letting his middle finger slip to the place where I’m already so wet.
“Christ,” I breathe, savoring the sensation of Braden’s hand between my legs. I step my legs wider, allowing room for his one finger to become two, circling my clit softly. I curse again, bucking my hips enough to meet the heel of his hand.
He grunts and gives me a rough rub of his palm. “God, it’s too much. You are too much. So wet, so fucking greedy. Love that.”
I make a desperate sound, hoping he knows what I’m really trying to say. Yes. Keep doing that. Keep saying those things. I am so fucking greedy, I must be.
I start to fumble with his jogger pants, more thankful than I ever have been for a drawstring waist. If he couldn’t decode that noise I just made, this should help. Drawstring loosened, I slip the waistband over his erection, sliding my hand down until the length of him is in my grip. Braden’s busy hand stops and he sucks in a harsh breath. Even if the lust centers in my brain want his hand back on task, I understand why he’s checked up, because a first touch like this demands it. I slide him through my gentle grip, up over the tip, where his precum coats my palm, and back down to the root. Braden drops his head, setting the hand he had in my hair to the tree trunk. Another heavy groan from him when I tighten my hand around his shaft.
“You . . . fuck.” His words taper off into a moan. “You don’t have to do that.”
A soft laugh escapes me. “Yes. I do.”
Braden sighs and starts to move his hand again, with renewed purpose, and I respond with the same, stroking him with an almost rough grip he seems to like.
“Amber, I . . . God, don’t fucking stop, OK? Please. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
My breath catches, soaking up the sound of him begging me and the feel of his hand working my body in all the right ways. My climax hits in a rush and his follows, spilling warm and wet into my palm and running over my fingers while Braden works hard to draw out mine, letting up on the pace of his fingers only slightly, all while trying to wring what he still can from his. Finally, we both slow our hands, nothing but fitful jerky movements between us and vain attempts to catch our breath.
Braden presses his mouth into my hair and sighs, holding my satisfied body up with his own. And it’s a hell of a nice feeling. Sweet, safe, and indulgent.
Despite all my time outdoors, every excursion into the backcountry and all those days spent afield, this is new territory for me. But I get it now.
No wonder Colin and Teagan find themselves off trail so often.