And so it continued, until they finally reached the campsite.
Tyburn’s Wood was, once you got past the vast open field of expensive motor homes, a literal wood. Behind a series of huge log cabins and the neatly organized holiday park, a dense sea of tall, spindly evergreens stabbed the sky, upright and tightly packed like centurions. There were a few clear paths in and out with big, colorful signs depicting various trails and pitch-ready locations. As they unloaded the car—or rather, as Red unloaded the car while Chloe leaned against a nearby wooden fence—he pointed at one of the signs and said, as if he were talking to a toddler, “Look, baby, a map. You remember maps, right? Nice pictures with lines that show you where to go!”
She bent, scooped up a handful of bark chips, and threw them at him.
“Excuse me!” a brusque voice cut in. “Please don’t throw the bark!”
Chloe looked over, cheeks warm, expecting to see some campsite staff member glaring at them. Instead she found a pair of yummy mummies with about fifty-eight kids between them, some shoved into sporty-looking strollers, some perched on the women’s Lululemon-clad hips, most running around throwing bark at each other and having a fabulous time.
“Erm, sorry,” Chloe said.
One of the mums sniffed as if to say, You ought to know better.
The other mum pursed her lips as if to say, Setting a bad example for the children!
The sniff and the lip-pursing were very effective. Clearly, they were excellent mums. As they herded their broods away, Red wandered over to her and murmured, “How come you’re never so well-behaved with me?”
“You’re not a mum,” she said pertly, ignoring how close he was, how rough his voice was, how his body gave off sheer heat and she wanted to wrap up in him like he was a blanket. “You don’t get to boss me around.”
He dragged his gaze over her from head to toe, slow and sweet and sticky like honey. She wanted him to lick her just like that: thoroughly, everywhere.
He probably would if she asked.
His hands came to rest on either side of her on the fence, so that his arms caged her in, his body crowding hers. His lips hovered over her ear and he whispered, “You’d let me boss you around.”
“I would not,” she drawled, as if the ghost of his mouth over her skin didn’t send delicious little shocks down her spine.
“You sure? Not even if I think you’d like it?” His lips moved from her ear to her throat. He kissed her there, the sweet, subtle glide of his tongue making her body hum with erotic energy. Then he stopped for long enough to ask in a low, rough voice, “Would you let me boss you around if I made it good?”
“Maybe,” she admitted, her voice alarmingly breathy.
He kissed her throat again, hotter and wetter this time. “Just maybe?”
“Yes.” She bent her head, exposed more of her throat to him, her pulse racing.
“Good. Now, listen carefully . . .” His hand caught hers, but he didn’t lace their fingers together like usual. Instead, he gave her something that felt like paper and said seriously, “I want you to read the map.”
He stepped away, his slight smile coming into focus as her dizzying lust disappeared. She looked at her hand and found she was holding a printed-out Tyburn’s Wood leaflet that, according to the chirpy front cover, included a map of the campsites. Caught between outrage and laughter, she bit her lip, sucked in a breath, and said, “Redford Morgan—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you with your left and right.”
“I know my left and right!” she spluttered, shoving at his big, annoying, handsome chest.
“Sure you do, Button,” he soothed. Then he wrapped an arm around her waist, dragged her close, and laughed into her hair.
There were sites spread far and wide, but Red insisted they stay close to the edge of the woods. They chose a little clearing where the light filtered through the slender tree trunks like something out of a painting, and Chloe took a minute to fill her lungs with fresh, frosty air, the kind that was just cold enough to seem wet even though it was dry. The setting sun’s honeyed rays were so warm, golden fire just like Red’s hair, but they couldn’t touch the forest’s crisp autumn chill. She liked that. In fact, despite her last-minute misgivings, she liked a lot about this particular list item so far.
But she especially liked her companion. She turned to find him already grappling with the tent and said, “Did you choose this spot because of me?” She knew the answer. Just like she’d known she wouldn’t need to remind him of how far—or not—she could walk.
He gave her a wary look, then returned to fiddling with tent poles. “You don’t know how you’ll feel tomorrow morning. Seemed smart to stay near the car.”
There was no fighting the smile that crept across her face. She wandered over to him and grabbed a few tent poles of her own. “You’re very thoughtful.”
“Yeah. I thought long and hard about all the ways I want to defile this tent tonight, and I decided to factor that into our plans.” He shot her a grin that only widened when he caught sight of her face. “Aw, Chlo. Am I embarrassing you?”
A blush crept up her throat. She felt like she’d swallowed a star: hot, hot, hot, burning and bright and fundamentally unstable inside. “Does that mean—are you finally going to let me—”
“Screw my brains out?” he offered cheerfully.
She choked on fresh air.
“I am embarrassing you,” he said, clearly pleased. “Wait until you see the air mattress.”
“The what?” she almost shrieked.
He gave her an odd look. “Well, you didn’t think I was going to fuck you on the ground, did you? I’m not a complete animal.”
“You, sir, are a menace. A menace to good and decent society, and to noble, chaste women such as myself—”
She might have been insulted at how hard he laughed if she wasn’t giggling too.
Red put the tent up with disturbing speed, produced both the famous air mattress and a foot pump from his magical duffel bag—“I told you I had more important things than bug spray”—and slipped inside the tent to “arrange” things, whatever that meant. Then he came out and showed her a mysterious tin. Eyes bright in the growing darkness, told her, “Time for the campfire.”
She sat in the dirt outside the tent and was very proud of herself for not thinking about wolf poop or grass snakes or possessive, murderous wood fae. “Actually, Red, I’ve been researching, and campfires are illeg—”
He popped open the weird tin and said, “Chlo?”
“Yes?”
“Shhh.” He put the tin into a little well of dirt he’d created and took a silver Zippo from the pocket of his ever-present leather jacket. “No, I don’t smoke,” he said, just as she opened her mouth. She closed her mouth again. Was she predictable, or did he just know her that well? Possibly a bit of both. She watched in confusion, then something like awe, as he lit whatever was in the tin. He sat back beside her, and they let the flames grow.