Page 7 of Wild Skies (Rugged Loners #3)

Six

Greg

I t’s harder than I could ever have imagined to keep my hands off Maren after our day in the river.

Every spare moment, my brain drifts to the tiny sounds she made; the heat of her body against my fingertips; the way she tensed up and shuddered as she came.

The glint of sunshine against her blonde hair, and the ravenous way she tore into a burger on the riverbank afterward, eating like a starving thing.

Maren is on my mind from dawn until dusk—then in my dreams, too.

I clamber out of my tent in the mornings and stumble to the showers, thinking of Maren.

I sit on the overheated bus each afternoon and check all our equipment piece by piece, thinking of Maren.

Even the nightly meteor shower is barely a distraction, because with each magnificent display, all I want to do is drag Maren to a telescope and hear her reaction.

In short: I’m cooked.

If my beautiful student realizes that fact, she shows no mercy.

Each time she catches my eye across the fire pit, Maren smiles and bites her lip in a way that makes my abs tense with need.

When we all hike up to the viewing point each night, she makes sure to brush past me at least once, our knuckles tingling from the brief contact.

And once darkness falls and we’re all anonymous shadows on the mountaintop, Maren seeks me out without fail and presses against me, her back to my chest, both of us staring up at the stars while our pulses go haywire.

To an outside observer, we’d look calm. Completely professional, both watching for the meteors, with nothing amiss.

But each night, the second the scent of Maren’s shampoo reaches my nostrils, my cock gets harder than iron—and she feels it. Likes it, too, judging by the way her ass presses back, rubbing against me until I can’t barely think straight, every muscle in my body taut with desire.

Then the little minx skips off to chat with the other students and look through a telescope, and I’m left to prowl our site in the darkness, too worked up to speak to another human being for at least twenty minutes.

Being around her like this… stealing glances and teasing each other with brief touches… it’s torture. But a torture I crave.

I need more.

It’s madness, but I’ve been smart, measured, sensible for my whole goddamn life. Maybe I’m due a meltdown.

On the last night of our trip, the students throw a mini party at our campsite, hauling s’more supplies up from town to roast over the fire pit.

They set out crates of beer too, shooting me nervous glances where I’m packing up the equipment at the bus, but I pointedly turn my back and keep working on my checklist.

They can drink if they want. They’re all over twenty one, and we’re not hiking up to the mountaintop tonight, so they’re completely free.

But I won’t be joining them. Lord knows I’ve crossed enough lines this trip already.

Their laughter drifts across the campsite, getting louder and looser as the evening wears on.

Maren joins in, perching delicately on a folding chair between Rex and Tommy and sipping at a bottle of beer, her nose wrinkling with distaste after the first swig.

I stifle a laugh at that, dragging my attention back to my clipboard.

They all chat and joke and yell over each other, bursting into cackles when Rex does an impression of one of the other professors back on campus.

Curiosity immediately snakes through my gut—do they do impressions of me ?

What would that look like? It’s not my place to butt in and ask, but I chew over that image as I pack up the last of the cameras and lenses, locking them safely in the vehicle for the last time.

Night falls, owls hooting in the trees around our camp, while the moon hangs waxy and low above the treeline. In the far distance, there’s a faint wolf howl.

The students don’t hear it. They’re too busy drinking and laughing and burning their s’mores, the acrid scent of charred sugar drifting on the breeze.

With all the equipment cataloged for the last time and locked safely away, I stand for a moment in the darkness, outside of the pool of firelight.

What the hell do I do now? I sure as hell can’t drink with my students, but I don’t want to hang around the fringes of their party like an eavesdropping nanny either.

Blowing out a long sigh, I shove my hands in my pockets—and squint at the dark trees.

We’ve walked the mountain trails plenty of times by now. I won’t wander too far; won’t risk getting lost.

With one last hungry glance back at Maren where she’s sitting in the glow of the fire pit, I turn and plunge into the trees.

* * *

Three hours later, when I step back on camp, the party is over.

The fire has burned down to embers, glowing red in the fire pit, and the folding chairs are all abandoned, scattered in a loose circle.

Empty beer bottles are grouped together in a pile.

Some tents are lit up from the inside, with shadows moving behind the fabric and giggling, while snores reverberate from other, darker tents.

Inhaling slowly, I stride through the wreckage and pick up the gallon jug of river water from its spot beside the fire pit. The fire has burned down to embers and it’s surrounded by rocks, but you can’t be too careful. Not with these mountain winds.

The embers hiss loudly as I douse them, steam billowing up the stars, then I set the jug back down before heading to my own dark tent. My footsteps echo in the quiet.

My tent is set far away from the others—away from the giggles and snores.

Away from the whispered conversations and the stifled moans that say this was a successful party, at least for some.

And I’m glad that I walked up to see the stars for one last night; glad that I gave my students some privacy.

Even if my chest burned with need for Maren all that time. Even if acidic jealousy ate at my gut for the hours I watched the night sky alone, wishing that things were different. That we were not professor and student; that we didn’t have to sneak around and keep things hidden.

Wishing that I could have walked to the center of that party and scooped Maren up against my chest, kissing her for everyone to see. Claiming her as mine.

My tent zipper scratches open, and I kick off my boots then crouch down to crawl through the flap. It’s a small tent, not especially roomy or fancy, and my sleeping bag is already laid out on the mat.

I turn back to close the zip, then start to lay down—and freeze when I find a warm body already there. My heart lodges in my throat.

“Maren?” I choke out, my voice hushed.

She hums, the sleeping bag whispering against itself as she shifts beneath me. “Who else would it be?” she teases.

Oh, thank god.

“You can’t be in here,” I whisper, but then her hand is on my chest, stroking idly across my shirt, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears. That scent of her shampoo is stronger in this small space. Her warmth seeps through my clothes.

“Come on,” Maren murmurs. “They’re all drunk or asleep. No one will know.”

“ You’ve been drinking.” I say it to remind both of us, because already I’m harder than granite, every cell in my body urging me to lay down on top of her, sealing us together. “This can’t happen.”

Maren scoffs. “I had one beer, three hours ago. Less than one, because let’s be honest, beer is gross. I drank like half of it.”

Her hand keeps roaming across my chest, mapping me through my shirt, and Christ, what I’d give to feel her touch me all over. Soft hands on bare skin.

“That still counts,” I grit out. “This can’t happen, Maren.”

She huffs, and the sleeping bag rustles as her hand drops down. We’re both shadows in the dark, both hidden from each other, but even without the benefit of sight, I can feel her stiffen up. Can feel her mood turn bleak.

“So that’s it?” Her voice is so quiet, I can barely hear it, even from this close. “A few sips of beer and we can’t do anything ? You don’t want me here at all?”

The silence spreads between us, so awkward that my teeth ache. But when Maren sighs and starts to move, shifting around me to reach for the tent zipper, panic spikes and I stop her with one hand on her shoulder.

“No.” She’s so delicate beneath my touch; so warm and soft and perfect. Fuck. “No, that is not what is happening here. I always want you near, Maren. Even if we’re not… even if we were just talking, or lying together in silence. I always want you there. Never doubt that.”

Something tells me that the giggly conversations taking place in the other tents across the campsite are very different. Much lighter, less strained, with fewer tortured undertones. Less risk of someone getting fired, too.

But hey, Maren and I have wanted each other for months now. There’s a lot of baggage piled up between us; a lot of craving that has gone unsatisfied for too long.

Would it be the worst thing if she stayed a while? I won’t… do that with her. Not here, not in this cramped little tent when I can’t even see her expressions.

But perhaps I’m being too strict with us both. Especially on our last night in the wilderness, halfway up this mountain, in a moment as fleeting as the meteor shower.

“Maren?” I whisper.

She hums, softens beside me, the tip of her nose tracing a tickly path up my throat. Her breath puffs against my overheated skin. My hand trembles against her shoulder.

“Fuck,” I say, giving in. I guide her to lay back down, to stretch out on my sleeping bag, before lowering myself over her.

It’s been months and months of craving this young woman, and my self control has worn thin.

Ducking my head, I find her lips in the dark.