Chapter 8 Sam #2
Elliott sighed. “They’re in a good place right now, but give it time.”
“I just want the hot and cold to settle.” Ezra set the guitar in his lap, fingers resting lightly on the neck. “Either be together or don’t. Quit making everyone else suffer through the tension.”
Elliott hummed in agreement, but his gaze fell back on me. He gave me a look, checking in that I was ok.
I nodded and smiled at him then I took another sip of my beer.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, the crackle and pop of burning wood soft and hypnotic, mixing with the distant sounds from other campsites. Ezra’s guitar lay silent now, but the mood it had set still lingered.
It was peaceful, in a way that settled deep in my bones.
I wasn’t sure if it was the long day of sun and swimming, the satisfying weight of food and drink, or just the quiet ease of being around Ezra and Elliott, but my body was starting to feel heavy.
Elliott sighed, stretching his legs out toward the fire. “I forgot how good it feels to just exist without having to be anywhere.”
Ezra tipped his head back against his chair. “We should do this more than once a year. Steal away for a week. Not just here, but anywhere.”
I nodded, letting my eyes drift to the flames, the soft glow licking against the dark night air.
“Maybe next time a cabin, though,” Ezra added with a smile, waving vaguely toward his tent. “I forgot how much I hate sleeping on the ground.”
Elliott chuckled, stretching out his legs toward the fire. “You’ve got an air mattress.”
Ezra turned his head slowly, fixing him with a flat look. “Yeah, and I’m praying it holds up through the night. If I wake up on the forest floor, I'll send a strongly worded email to the manufacturer before sunrise.”
Elliott laughed. “You haven’t even slept on it yet.”
“I’ve met me,” Ezra replied, adjusting the strap of his guitar. “I toss, I turn, I sprawl. That mattress has about six hours to prove it’s worth the hype.”
I raised my bottle. “Better hope it’s not one of those that lets out a slow death hiss in the middle of the night. Nothing like waking up in a nylon taco.”
Ezra groaned. “You’re not helping.”
Elliott reached over and gave him a mock-pitying pat on his thigh. “We’ll light a candle in your honor if it eats you alive.”
Ezra leaned back in his chair and strummed a few more lazy chords on his guitar. “Just make sure someone records it. If I’m going down, I’m going viral.”
We just laughed. The warmth, the quiet, the way the night wrapped around us like a heavy quilt. It was all making me slow and drowsy.
Elliott must have felt it too because he let out a deep breath and stood, stretching out the stiffness from sitting too long. “I think I’m gonna crash. This old man is tired.”
Ezra groaned and pushed himself out of his chair. “Yeah, me too. My body isn’t built for this level of relaxation.”
I softly laughed, grabbed my drink and stood as well.
“Another drink?” Ezra asked, raising an eyebrow.
I glanced down at my beer, half-finished, already warming from sitting too long. I shook my head. “Nah, I’m done.”
Elliott gave me one more lingering look, like he wanted to say something, but then he nodded, squeezing my shoulder once before heading toward his tent.
Ezra followed, humming something soft under his breath as he disappeared into his own.
And then, it was just me.
I climbed into my tent and zipped the flap closed. The sounds of the night circled around me like a weight. Stripping down to my briefs, I settled onto my air mattress, shifting under the covers until I found a comfortable position.
The night air was cool against my skin, the gentle rustle of leaves above me blending with the distant hum of crickets. It was calm. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that settled deep into your chest.
I let my eyes flutter closed, only half-aware of the moonlight seeping through the mesh ceiling of the tent. My mind floated, drifting between shallow dreams and the faint awareness of the camp sounds around me. A sigh. The zip of a distant tent. Laughter from somewhere in the woods.
Sleep tugged at me in waves. I would sink into it for a moment, only to rise again with a small start or shift, never fully under.
And then I heard him.
Liam.
His low laugh, footsteps slightly uneven in the dirt, the unmistakable sound of another voice close beside him. I didn't recognize the other voice, but it was deep and smooth, a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air.
The zipper of Liam’s tent slid open, fabric rustling as they ducked inside.
A beat of silence. Then a soft chuckle. Then the unmistakable sound of kissing, followed by the removal of clothing and the subtle groan of the air mattress under their weight.
I turned onto my side, staring at the dark wall of my tent, trying to ignore the slow, sinking feeling in my stomach. This is not my business. I am not jealous. Not…
But then I heard it. A low murmur, a question, a giggle. “Do you have lube? A condom?” My stomach dropped. My face burned. Confirmation, plain as day.
The sounds grew louder. Unmistakable now.
First, the faint rustle of movement, shifting bodies, the telltale crinkle of a wrapper, something being opened. The condom.
Then a pause. Heavy. Loaded. Like the forest itself was listening in.
A low groan broke the quiet.
Not the kind of groan that came from a bad back or an unpleasant sleeping bag. No. This one was rough and needy, tight with both discomfort and desire. “Oh my god, you’re big. I can’t take much more.” The voice was breathless, strained.
I held my breath as I froze.
Then, quieter, steady, almost amused, Liam’s voice replied: “I’m not even halfway in.”
My eyes went wide in the dark. I didn’t dare move. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t be hearing this. And yet, my cock stirred beneath the covers. A slow, traitorous throb that pulsed in time with the sounds I wasn’t supposed to enjoy.”
There was a beat of stillness, and then the sounds started again.
The next sound was unmistakable. Slow, rhythmic movements of bodies fucking.
The faint strain of the air mattress shifting under their weight.
Low grunts timed with thrusts. The occasional breathless exhale that sounded like it had been punched out of someone’s lungs.
“Feels so good…” the guy whispered, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss.
The tempo quickened. I could hear it. “Faster.” “Now.” “Harder.” Skin meeting skin. Gasping. Moaning. A steady build toward something inevitable.
I felt heat rise in my chest, that crept into my throat, my ears flushed. Every instinct told me to roll over, plug my ears, do something. But I stayed frozen and listened.
The sounds built, wild and unfiltered, until they finally hit a peak with choked cries, stuttering gasps, a breathless tangle of “yes” and “please” and “fuck” that cracked the night wide open.
Then, all at once, the tension snapped.
A final, broken gasp. Then silence.
I let out a breath, heart thudded a little too fast, unsure if I was flustered, fascinated, or just deeply, annoyingly awake.
As I lay there, my body still betrayed me.
Heat pooled low as my raging erection strained against the fabric of my underwear, the tightness suddenly unbearable, demanding relief.
But no way in hell was I about to jerk off to the memories of sounds of my friend fucking a camp rando.
I shifted onto my side, willing the arousal to fade.
I groaned and turned over.
Blue balls it is.