I bit his neck again, liking the way he tasted, loving the texture of his skin on my tongue.
Cletus’s hands slid under the hem of my shirt, up the side of my waist to my ribcage, massaging and grabbing, each touch sending a thrill of nerves and awareness racing through me. Then higher, bunching the sweater under my arms, moving to cup me through my bra. I shivered and a short, hot breath of surprised wonder escaped me; he pulled my bra down and rubbed a tight circle around the center of my breast.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I chanted, arching, reaching for the clasp of my bra. “Touch me.”
I could offer no other direction, but that paltry demand seemed to be enough. With deft fingers, he unhooked my bra much faster than I ever could, and pushed my sweater and top over my head. He grasped my naked torso and brought his mouth to my breast.
My hips bucked at the sharp sensation of his teeth closing over my nipple, an instinctual movement. The aching heat had become a painful, restless thing.
“Shhhh,” Cletus said, blowing a cold breath over the wet patch left by his mouth, then scraping his teeth back and forth over the sensitive peak, sending a frenzied wave of goosebumps over my skin.
I tugged on his shirt, wanting the heat of his body. He lifted his arms obligingly, then immediately began lavishing my breasts with hungry, biting kisses, fondling and caressing with his big hands.
Everything felt so good. His mouth and hands felt essential. I could only push my fingers into his long hair and hold him to me, arching and straining for . . . something more.
As fantastic as this felt, it only served to increase my restlessness. “Cletus, touch me.”
“I am,” he said between frustratingly fantastic kisses.
“Please, Cletus. Please.” I couldn’t withstand this torture, this agonizing longing. I moaned, sucking in a needful breath followed by pleading words tumbling from my lips. He was holding back, I could sense his hesitation. I was dying and he gave me only raindrops to quench the thirst.
He stiffened, his hands moving to my sides and back. Hastily, he drew me from his lap.
I swallowed a groan of protest as he clamped a hand over my mouth and whispered, “Someone is outside.”
Cold fingers of fear unraveled the thread of desire, tugging me harshly back to reality. Deftly, he found my shirt and placed it in my hands while I strained to listen. A twig or a branch cracked. Leaves rustled and crunched under a booted foot. I held my breath and tugged the shirt over my head. It was too big. I was braless, swimming in soft cotton and the intoxicating smell of him. It was Cletus’s.
A flashlight moved through the trees, its beam passing over the car. But then it continued to move. They—whoever they were—hadn’t spotted us yet.
Then, Cletus’s phone rang.
He had it set to silent, so it buzzed and flashed. He lunged for it as though to reject the call, but then he stopped short, his frowning face illuminated by the small screen. His eyes lifted to the windshield, to the searching flashlight, then back to the phone.
He swiped his thumb across the touchscreen and brought the phone to his ear, whispering, “Hello?”
“Cletus It’s Jess. Where are you?”
I heard her voice in stereo, both dimly through the phone as well as distantly from outside the car.
He breathed out, switching the phone to his other ear.
“We see your flashlight. We’re not quite to the cabin, still on the side road.”
“We?” Her voice was still audible, and she made no attempt to lower it. The flashlight stilled, then moved in a slow, horizontal arc. “Who is with you?”
“We’ll come to you. Don’t move.” He removed the phone from his ear and ended the call, the screen fading to black.
“Cletus,” I fumbled for his hand, “I have to tell you something.”
The hand I searched for cupped my jaw just before he covered my mouth with a sweet, devastating kiss. His lips were amorous and cherishing; the slow slide of his tongue made me dizzy and breathless. I was reminded of drinking champagne two weeks ago at the talent show. Cletus left me fuzzy-headed and warm, wanting more.
Pressing our foreheads together, he said, “If you could just keep your thoughts to yourself for five minutes, I’d really appreciate it.”
“What? Why?” I asked automatically, covering his hand with mine.
“Give me five minutes to live the fantasy.”
I tried to see him, but it was too dark. His words sounded like a riddle and flooded my mind with questions.
Was I a fantasy? Or were we? Did that mean he wanted me? Or that we could only be together in a fantasy situation?
I cursed the dark, needing to see him to know better what he was thinking. My stomach fluttered with nerves, because—if we only had five minutes left in the fantasy—I wanted to kiss him again.