Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter Three

Ellis

Learning Ginger doesn’t have a change of clothes, suggesting even further how ill-prepared she was for the Fest, I lead her to my truck. Grant has suspiciously wandered off.

Rummaging behind the front seat, I retrieve a flannel shirt and a Duncan Lumber sweatshirt. Both will be too big on her, but warmer than the lake water that changed her nipples to headlights and made her skin pebble. I want to run my tongue over both, heating her flesh and sucking those nips into the cavern of my mouth.

Quickly, I wipe away the image.

“Here.” I hold out both items to her. “A bit wrinkled but clean.” I think.

I always keep a spare set of clothes in the truck because you never know in my line of work when you’ll go from field to office to a night out. Although nights out have become increasingly rare. I’m grateful I’m able to catch a few hours of the festival’s fun, but this is also business.

Duncan Lumber is a major sponsor of Logger Fest. The weekend triples the size of our small town, so it’s good for local motels and restaurants, not to mention the grocer and nearby campgrounds. The large boost of income can help the area weather the difficult months between the high seasons. Fishing. Hunting. Camping. Summer. Your typical four around here.

Ginger eyes the clothing like I’m offering her something made of wool, material that might scratch and itch. Her skin is delicate, and I know she’s allergic to the fiber.

“What am I supposed to do with those?” She mocks before glancing down at herself. Her blouse is completely transparent, not disguising in the least her nude-colored bra. Those damn khaki shorts are plastered to her hips without a hint of a panty line. Her shoes might be trashed but I can’t help her there other than offer a suggestion.

“The local grocer sells flip-flops. Not ideal shoes for the day but better than your sloshed tennies. And either of these shirts might be huge on you, but warmer than what you’re wearing.”

“Tennies?”

“Tennis shoes.”

Ginger glances down at her water-logged shoes. “Gym shoes.” She lifts her head, something flashing in those brilliant eyes. “I don’t play tennis.”

I’ve struck a chord. One I can’t decipher and don’t have time to unriddle. I shake my arm, emphasizing the clothes held in her direction. “Take it or leave it.”

However, I want her to take one of them. I want to see her wearing my clothing and I’ll pretend for thirty-seconds she’s wearing them because I just had sex with her, and she tossed them on for comfort afterward.

Okay, maybe for forty-three seconds I’ll allow the fantasy because my dick is not going down at the vision of her in that damp blouse like she’s competing in a wet T-shirt contest. The only thing that makes me angry about her present attire is that other guys saw her. They’ve had a hint of what she looks like underneath that thin layer and they’re going to want a bite of her.

She’s not just a snack, though. She’s the entire meal.

Brains. Beauty. Sass.

“Fine.” She rips the flannel shirt from my hands and slips her arms into the long sleeves. I’m correct in my assessment. The size is large on her, but she quickly rolls the sleeves. Then she’s reaching underneath the front panels and working at something until her shorts drop to her ankles and she steps out of them.

God help me if she isn’t wearing anything underneath my shirt.

Her nose wrinkles in that adorable way she has. “Mind if I use your truck a second?”

She flings her shorts over the edge of the truck bed, positioning them so the sun will dry the chino fabric.

The driver’s side door is still open, and I step back, allowing her the space to climb up on my seat. A seat I want to follow her on and then watch whatever she’s about to do next. Would she let my hand slip underneath that shirt? Skim along those thick thighs? Feel my way between them? Slowly discover what she’s wearing, if anything?

Fuck. My dick isn’t going to get a rest today, and I’m so tongue-tied I don’t say a word when she reaches for the handle and tugs the door open, forcing me out of the way so she can close herself inside the cab.

I want to watch her movements, but I give her my back, adjusting myself before removing the towel around my waist. My shorts will dry soon enough. My shoes remain wet and uncomfortable, but I’ve worn worse.

Soaked socks in a rainstorm. Too thin winter jacket in a blizzard.

When the latch clicks, I step forward, allowing Ginger to exit my truck. She drapes her blouse over the edge of the bed next to her shorts.

With a bungy cord she must have found in the truck, she’s made a belt, and suddenly my flannel shirt is the sexiest damn dress I’ve ever seen on a woman.

Her arms flare out to her sides. She glances down at herself. “I’d ask you how I look but I know you’ll tell me I look ridiculous.”

My tongue is still tied. With her hair still piled on her head and my shirt as her dress, she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

“You’re—” A simple compliment won’t be enough.

“Whatever.” She waves her hand and turns away from me. “Let’s find Grant.”

I pull the sweatshirt she didn’t take over my head, knowing I’m going to be too warm, too fast under the blaze of sunshine heating up this summer day.

I’m also going to overheat spending more time with her.

However, with my eyes trained on her ass again, swaying quickly side to side as she walks away, I follow her like a pup afraid to lose his person.

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We don’t find Grant. Instead, we stumble upon the ax throwing contest which doesn’t allow open-toe shoes, so for now, Ginger continues to wear her wet gym shoes. Because she registered us as partners in the mixed couple competition.

She shrugs. “I figure those strong arms know how to swing a thing or two.”

She has no idea what I want to swing in her direction. Or how I’d swing her, if given the chance. The thought is ridiculous considering that damn ring on her finger. The one I’m surprised she didn’t lose in the lake, or give a thought to, while log rolling. That rock could have easily slipped off her finger and been lost forever.

Wouldn’t that be a shame?

The thought is unkind. Grant has told me over and over again how his sister is in love. Wesley is the greatest. He’s rich and cultured, and blah-blah-blah. I hardly listen when he talks about him, and Grant’s mocking tone tells me he doesn’t like to hear the praise either.

Wesley. Wesley. Wesley. What kind of name is that?

A man who probably plays tennis and wears wool.

“Duncan. Solomon.” Our names are read as if they are one, and for an instant, I wonder if Ginger will hyphenate her name when she’s married. Duncan Solomon has a nice ring to it, even with the names reversed.

When another couple is called—The Fishes Named Wanda—wearing matching shirts decorated with jumping trout and fishing poles step up, I remember Ginger and I can never be a couple.

“Ladies first,” the announcer states as Ginger and I enter the pen set up for us. The wooden bull’s eye looms at the end of a long, narrow, fenced galley, similar to a batting cage. Two lines are drawn in the dirt.

I point to the closer one. “You can stand there.”

Ginger narrows her eyes. “Because I’m a woman?” She speaks like the label is offensive when the beautiful honorific best defines those curves, that sass, those distinguishing breasts. There is nothing wrong with her being a woman. And I’m curious if she’s still wearing her nude-colored bra beneath my shirt. Or are her bare nipples brushing against the inside? Is the material soft? Does it excite her?

Squinting, I can’t tell either way and then I quickly divert my glance.

“Just stand on the line,” I demand, sharpening my finger-point. Watching as she steps up and lugs the ax over her head, my breath catches. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

She’s standing in such a manner that her swing could lead to momentum and she’d chop off her own leg. I take one large step closer to her and clasp her wrists.

“Like this.” I reposition her arms, lowering the ax a bit. Placing my head beside hers, my bearded cheek to her soft flesh, I breathe near her ear, “Focus.”

Her shoulders rise, suggesting she’s taking a deep breath. Whether the exhale is for concentration or the fact that suddenly she seems to be breathing heavier, faster, and she’s trying to calm herself, I can’t be certain.

I kick my foot between hers, forcing them to spread. “Widen your stance for balance.” My voice remains low, ragged even. Her head tilts back. The nape of her neck hits my lowered shoulder. I turn my head, my nose tickling up the side of her throat.

“Aim the tip,” I whisper, the sound a hushed croak.

I release the arm holding the ax and place both my hands on her hips to steady her. Or maybe it’s to steady me, because I want nothing more than to tug her closer to me. Feel her back against my chest. Have her drop the ax, and the uptight act, and give into me. Let me bend her forward and take her rough and sweet. Let me show her I can love her. I’ll be the greatest. Uncultured, not well-financed, but rich beyond means in other ways.

“Ellis.” Her voice is raw, low and seductive. “You need to step back.”

The warning startles me and I quickly straighten, watching Ginger catch herself with her foot as she tips backward unsteadily.

Had she been leaning against me as much as I was leaning into her?

With a final brush of my hands over her hips, still unable to confirm if she is wearing anything over her ass underneath my shirt, I take a large step back and allow her to take her turn at ax throwing.

She’s horrible.

But adorable in her efforts.