“Dirty girl,” I whisper against her ear. “You want to know what I think about?”

“Yes,” she replies breathlessly. Her hand squeezes my leg.

“I lick and suck your tits until they’re wet enough for me to slide between. Will you let me fuck them, Brooke? I want to. God, I’ve thought about it. Your hot little mouth opening for me, lapping at my head. Your gorgeous eyes going round while I milk my cum onto your nipples.”

“Oh, God,” she gasps.

“I dream about your tits, Brooke. And your arse.”

She blinks rapidly. “My ass?”

“Fuck yeah, your arse. Are you kidding? I want to come on that too.”

Her hand moves closer to my cock. “What else? Just . . . keep going. I won’t touch you. I just want to drive you a little crazy.”

I groan when her fingers brush against my length. “Brooke . . .”

“Oops. Sorry,” she says through a giggle, jerking her hand back. “I forgot how much room you take up down there. That was an accident.” Her hand tightens on my leg. “Go on. What happens before you come on my ass?”

I bend to kiss her mouth. I can’t fucking help it. Sugar coats my tongue, and again, I’m reminded of the way her skin tasted the other night.

My hand forms to her neck and she tilts her head. “I get you face-down on my bed. You ask me to spank you, and I make you beg for it. I bite and lick your skin. I straddle your legs and hold your ass so I can slide my cock between your cheeks. And then,” I pause, kissing along her jaw, smiling against her cheek when she lets out a shuddering breath.

“And then?” she asks.

“I found a quarter!” a tiny voice yells, way too fucking close to whatever the hell is happening on this bench.

With a muffled curse, I frantically move the sandwich bag further up my lap.

Brooke yanks her hand away and falls against my side, laughing unashamedly with a hand to her chest.

“Having a good time?” I ask her before addressing this little mood killer.

I pull back and stare between the round face in front of me and the coin that’s being held out for me to notice.

“Look!” The young boy turns the quarter in the air. “There’s only ever pennies in there. Sometimes nickels. I found an actual quarter!”

“Brilliant. Why don’t you run along now?”

“Aw, let me see.” Brooke holds her hand out and takes the coin. She studies it for a moment, smiles coyly at me when our eyes meet, then places it back in the boy’s hand. “That’s so cool. What’s your name?”

I gape at her.

Is she bloody serious? Does she not know how uncomfortable this is for me? What’s next? Asking the little bugger if he’d like to join us for lunch?

“Willie!” A woman yells, waving her hands in the air and running at me.

Jesus fuck! Can she see my cock from there?

Heart racing, I look down into my adequately concealed lap.

No. Everything’s good here. Nothing hanging out.

My pulse steadies. I suddenly remember how to breathe.

When the woman stops beside the boy and places a hand on his shoulder, I realize she was calling out for him, not announcing to everyone here that I was giving shows.

She gives me an apologetic look, then glares at the kid. “What have I told you about walking up to strangers? Come on. It’s time to go.” She tugs on his hand and leads him down the footpath.

Brooke laughs unapologetically as she settles back against the bench, then stares down at the bag covering my now flaccid cock. “How are things down there? Anything turning a shade of blue yet?”

“You’re the devil.” I move the bag and pick up my neglected roast beef sandwich. “Let’s spend the rest of your lunch-hour eating, shall we? Hands where I can see them.”

She picks up her fork and shoves a massive bite into her mouth. Her lips strain to close. “So good,” she says, although it sounds more like the noise a dying animal might make.

We laugh and eat under the midday sun, and I slip a little bit further under Brooke’s spell.

BROOKE

Camping . . .

Am I completely insane?

Not only do I have absolutely no idea why I agreed to this absurdity, I also have no clue how to pack for a weekend in the wilderness.

Outdoors. Zero climate control. According to my weather app, I’m looking at temperatures anywhere between forty and eighty-five degrees this weekend.

Say what? That’s basically my entire closet. Random Packing 101 right here.

I have jammed my oversized Victoria’s Secret duffle bag full of the oddest combination of clothing. Shorts, sweatshirt, bathing suit, a pair of snow pants just in case. I refuse to be unprepared for this. I even break another shopping rule and run out to the local sporting goods store to grab a few camping essentials, or at least what I classify as camping essentials.

Is there such a thing as too much bug-spray? Are road flares frowned upon at campsites? The answer is no and I don’t really give a fuck.

I have never been camping. I never wanted to be a girl scout. I have absolutely no desire to spend any time outside unless I’m lounging by a pool with a fruity umbrella drink.

There are outdoorsy people, and then there’s me.

So, why am I lugging this duffle out of my car and surrendering myself to Mother Nature for two days? Simple.

Orgasms. Mason’s mouth in general. That accent? Jesus. I can listen to him talk for hours. And . . . okay, if I’m being honest, it’s not terrible hanging out with him and doing things that don’t involve safe words.