5. Teagan
CHAPTER 5
TEAGAN
T he tent is illuminated in yellow and gold like we’re nestled in the center of the sun. Connor’s arm lies heavy over my waist, breath hot on the back of my neck. I trace his corded forearms, my body aching pleasantly, the soreness a reminder of how completely I’d surrendered to him.
To us.
A foreign sensation bubbles up inside me—something beyond mere attraction or affection. It scares me how quickly he’s gotten under my skin, past all my defenses.
His beard scratches my shoulder when he stirs, his morning erection pressing insistently against my lower back.
Oh god.
Heat pools between my thighs. I bite my lip, as I slowly rock against him. His breath hitches, eyelashes fluttering against my ear, but he keeps up the charade of sleep. Boldness surges through me—a heady cocktail of post-orgasm confidence and the lingering musk of him clinging to my skin.
I roll onto my knees, straddling his hips. His eyes snap open, so blue and hungry.
“Morning,” I whisper, trailing fingers through the silver-dusted hair on his chest.
He grips my thighs, thumbs circling inward. “You’re playing with fire, Smokey.”
“I can take the heat.” I lean down to nip his earlobe, relishing his growl. “Stay still.”
His hands fall away, fisting the sleeping bag as I kiss down his sternum. When I reach the trail of hair below his navel, he stops me with a choked noise. “Teagan?—”
I glance up through my lashes. “Please. I want to. Show me how.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Christ alive,” he whispers before gently guiding me.
My first tentative lick steals his ability to speak. Slowly, he continues, his instructions husky and patient. His hips jerk, a ragged “fuck” tearing from his throat as I take him deeper. Salt and musk explode on my tongue, his groans vibrating through me. Every gasp, every twitch of his abs feeds the power thrumming in my veins. When his fingers tangle gently in my hair, not pushing, just stroking, warmth blooms in my chest.
“Teagan— baby —that’s so good . I’m close?—”
I swallow him down, hollowing my cheeks. Then I slide up, swirling my tongue around his tip, and back down until he’s writhing beneath me. I guess I’m a fast learner.
Once more of that move, and he loses control, shouting my name as he comes. Satisfaction courses through me—pride in bringing this mountain of a man to the edge and pushing him over.
He collapses back, chest heaving, as I crawl up to kiss him.
“My god, you are some kind of naughty angel,” he pants, staring into my eyes. He urges me to lie next to him. “I need to tell you something.”
My stomach knots. Here it comes—the morning-after regret I’ve always heard about.
But instead, he says, "Been thinking about your research. And my camp."
I blink, thrown by the shift. "What about them?"
He sits up, bringing me with him. The sleeping bag pools around our waists as he reaches for his pack, pulling out a battered notebook, and a pair of glasses that he slides on.
As if he could get any hotter.
"Last night," he says, flipping through pages filled with rough sketches, "while you were asleep, I was thinking."
"Shocking."
He flicks my nose playfully. "Listen, smartass. What if we built the camp as a model of sustainable forestry practices?"
I stare at him. "What?"
"Look." He points to a crude drawing of cabins nestled among trees. "Traditional construction using reclaimed timber and local materials. Rainwater collection. Solar panels disguised to maintain historical accuracy."
I take the notebook, fingers tracing his bold handwriting. "You'd do that?"
"It's the future," he says simply. "No reason tradition can't evolve. We'd showcase how logging can coexist with conservation, teach visitors about forest management that prioritizes ecosystem health."
Hope flickers. "You'd include ecological education?"
"That's where you come in." His eyes hold mine, intent and earnest. "The camp needs a science advisor. Someone who understands mycological networks and understory biodiversity."
My breath catches. "Me?"
"Who better?" His hand finds mine. "You'd design the educational program, monitor the impact, make sure we're treading lightly. It could even be your dissertation—measuring the impact of controlled human engagement on forest health."
The proposal stuns me. It's actually...brilliant. A perfect synthesis of our seemingly opposing values.
"You'd change your entire vision for the camp?"
"Not change," he corrects. "Enhance. Make it better. My grandfather would've loved this approach—honoring tradition while protecting the future."
I set the notebook aside, mind racing. "You know, the University might actually fund this. Sustainable tourism is a growing research field, and having a real-world laboratory to study human-forest interactions..."
"Is that a yes?"
I hesitate, needing to ask. "This isn't just because we slept together, right? Because if you're only suggesting this to?—"
"Teagan." He cups my face. "I had these ideas before I knew what your skin tastes like. Before I knew how you sound when you’re coming on my tongue and on my cock.”
Heat spears low in my belly.
He smirks. “Been thinking about it since you showed me those damn mushrooms."
I laugh. "Such a romantic." But, wow…
"I'm serious." His thumb traces my lower lip. "You made me see something I was missing. A way to honor my heritage without compromising yours."
The sincerity in his eyes undoes me. Without overthinking, I kiss him hard, trying to pour everything I can't articulate into the connection.
When we break apart, he chuckles. " That felt like a yes?"
"It's a maybe," I say, but my grin betrays me. "Show me more details."
For the next hour, we remain tangled in the sleeping bag, designing our vision. Connor's practical knowledge of construction and forestry complements my scientific understanding. Where I see challenges, he sees solutions. Where he proposes shortcuts, I offer sustainable alternatives.
"Boardwalks here," I suggest, pointing to a marshy area on his crude map. "Elevated paths protect the soil. We could install info panels about wetland ecosystems."
He nods, making notes. "And here—demonstration area. Show proper cutting techniques, how to select trees without disrupting the stand structure."
"What about waste management?"
"Composting toilets." He grins at my surprise. "What? I've been to eco-lodges before. Know more than you think."
I nudge him with my shoulder. "Apparently."
His hand finds mine again, our fingers intertwining naturally. "This could work, Teagan. Really work."
"It could." The admission feels momentous. "But what about your lumberjack friends? Will they support this eco-friendly version?"
He snorts. "Those old bastards? They'll grumble about 'tree-hugger nonsense,' but they'll adapt. Most of them are like me—they love the woods, just show it differently."
My phone chirps from somewhere in the tent. I disentangle myself to find it buried beneath discarded clothes.
"Finally got signal," I mutter, checking the screen. Three missed calls from my dissertation advisor, Dr. Whittaker. “Crap."
"Problem?"
"My advisor. Probably wondering why I missed our check-in." I hesitate, then add, "He's kind of a big deal in forest ecology. Published that paper on climate adaptation in northern coniferous forests last year."
Connor's expression shifts subtly. "Sounds impressive."
"He's brilliant," I say, scrolling through messages. "Pioneered methodologies I'm using for my research. Got me this permit to study here when no one else could secure access."
"Quite the champion you've got there." Connor's tone is carefully neutral.
I glance up, suddenly understanding the tension in his shoulders. "Are you... jealous?"
"Of some middle-aged professor with leather elbow patches? Please." He sniffs, reaching for his shirt.
"He's thirty-six," I correct automatically. "And he wears Patagonia, not tweed."
Connor's jaw tightens. "Riveting."
I bite back a smile. "He's also married…to a man…with twins."
Connor pauses mid-button. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh." I crawl over, taking his shirt from his hands. "Besides, I prefer my men with calluses, not keyboard imprints."
His expression softens, arms wrapping around me. "That right?"
"Mmm-hmm." I press a kiss to his neck. "Men who know how to use their hands."
His low growl vibrates against me. "Careful, Smokey. Storm's passed. No excuse to stay in this tent all day."
"Maybe I don't need an excuse."
His eyes darken with renewed hunger, but he gently sets me back. "Much as I'd love to test that theory, we should get out of here. Storm might've brought down trees across the trail."
Reality intrudes like a cold draft. The world beyond our tent still exists—my research, his permits, all the practical obstacles to our fledgling collaboration.
"You're right," I sigh, reaching for my clothes. They're still damp, clinging uncomfortably as I pull them on.
We pack in companionable silence, the tent coming down much faster than it went up. The forest smells cleansed, petrichor rising from sun-warmed soil as we shoulder our bags.
Connor takes my hand as we start down the path toward my campsite. "You know this doesn't end here, right?"
"What doesn't?"
He stops, turning me to face him. "Us. This. What we're building."
The vulnerability in his eyes catches me off-guard. This man—this impossibly strong, skilled, stubborn man—is afraid I'll dismiss what happened between us. He really is a softie.
"I know." I squeeze his hand. "We've got plans to make. Permits to amend. A dissertation to design."
"That all?" His eyes search mine.
I rise on tiptoes, kissing him softly. "And maybe a few nights together in less soggy place?”
He laughs, the sound echoing through the sunlit forest. "I’ve got the perfect solution.”