Fuuuuuuck me.
Chapter Two
Maddie
Jamison clears his throat and pulls away from the woman as my stomach bottoms out with embarrassment.
Seriously. Why?
Why couldn’t he have just kept going? Why?
“Hey, Maddie,” he says. “I…um…didn’t know you were there.”
“Yep, I’m here all right,” I chirp, forcing an upbeat note into my voice as I stand. I wiggle mortified fingers at the blonde, who clearly isn’t happy to have company. “But I’m on my way back to the campground this very second, so…” I salute the couple and instantly feel ten thousand times dorkier than I did a second before. But I’ve committed to the gesture now so I bleat, “As you were, soldiers,” and bolt.
But, of course, I trip over my own discarded sandals—of course I do—and nearly fall before I right myself at the last second, snatch my shoes, and flee across the sand without a backward glance, my cheeks flaming.
I’m not surprised to hear the woman break out into laughter behind me—the kind of laughter that leaves no doubt I’m being laughed at, not with—but it still hurts.
The thought that Jamison is probably chuckling right along with her hurts even more.
It hurts so much, in fact, that when I arrive back at the campsite and see Dawn and her new friend, Helen, busting out the whiskey and Coke, I don’t hesitate to accept a red Solo cup of my own. I down the first drink quickly, letting the smoky vanilla liquor burn the shame from my belly.
When Jamison wanders up the ocean path ten minutes later—alone, I can’t help but notice—I’m already pouring my second.
An hour later, as the organizers light the bonfire and everyone gathers around to continue drinking and flirting, I’m feeling no pain. And by the time the fire dies down and most of the campers retreat to their tents or the shadows for some privacy, I’m ready to rumble.
“Skinny dipping,” I announce, rising from my towel in the sand to point one arm at the ocean. “The time has come.”
Shelley, the only other member of our group who hasn’t gone to bed, giggles from her perch on a piece of driftwood beside graying Harry Potter. “Oh no, the whiskey strikes again.”
“It’s not the whiskey,” I say, each word crisp and clear despite the fact that my blood feels too hot in my veins and my head is buzzing. “It’s my destiny.”
“You could drown,” a serious male voice announces from the darkness behind me.
I turn to see Jamison standing in the shadows at the edge of the dying fire’s glow. “Are you spying on me?” I ask, torn between being annoyed that he’s lurking and pleased that he isn’t off sucking face with the mean-laughing blonde.
“I’m watching out for you,” he says. “And I’m not above restraining you if you try to do something stupid.”
“Restraining me?” I laugh as I cross the sand to where he’s standing with his arms folded over his chest. “Sounds kinky.”
He gazes down at me for a long beat that makes my boiling blood feel even hotter before he says in a husky voice, “It could be, I guess. If that’s what you’re into.”
“I’m not sure what I’m into,” I shoot back, crediting the whiskey for the fact that his words didn’t steal the breath right out of my lungs. Sure, Jamison and I banter all the time, but not about things like this. But thanks to Mr. Jack Daniels I don’t miss a beat as I add, “But I’ve always thought I might like getting tied up. Or blindfolded. Or tied up and blindfolded. During sex, of course. Not by a kidnapper or a bank robber or something.”
He mutters something beneath his breath that sounds like a curse.
“What was that?” I ask.
“You’re drunk,” he says, his voice tight. “I think you should go to bed. We can continue this conversation tomorrow when you’re sober.”
“And I think you should relax, you look very tense,” I say, my fingertips tingling as I reach out, skimming my hand down his rock-hard chest, feeling the outline of his muscles through his thin T-shirt.
The man is built like a Roman gladiator, and I suddenly can’t stop imagining him in a gladiator’s loincloth and nothing else.
“I’m not tense, I’m concerned,” he says, his condescending tone making my nose wrinkle.
“You’re bossy is what you are. And annoying.” I order my hand back to my side, but it isn’t in the mood to be bossed around either. Instead, my fingers curl into his pectoral muscle and my nails dig into the deliciously firm flesh.
God, I would really like to do more of this.
Preferably without his T-shirt in the way.
“Stop playing with me, Maddie,” he rumbles low in his throat.
My brows shoot up my forehead. “Playing with you? I’m not playing with you. I’m just hanging out by the fire minding my own business. You’re the one spying in the shadows.”