Chapter 29 Stormy
Stormy
Ford’s fingers glide over me, teasing my arousal across my most sensitive area. His hand is a contradiction, rough and calloused, marked by years of labour and strength, yet when he touches me, it’s with a gentleness that feels almost unreal.
“Ford … Please,” I continue to plead. My voice is unsteady, heavy with need. Anticipation curls tight in my stomach.
“You don’t have to beg," Ford breathes, his lips tracing a slow, delicate path along my throat.
The words ripple through me, a whisper of electricity skimming down my spine.
Heat pools low, and desire surges—wild and insatiable, setting me ablaze.
He ghosts over my entrance once more before he slides a finger inside.
I gasp loudly out of need and satisfaction, and Ford’s breaths grow heavier.
He withdraws it at a deliberate pace, then eases it back in, repeating the motion before introducing another finger.
I tense, caught in the buildup, and a surge of euphoria rushes through me, setting every nerve alight. His fingers curl, brushing that sensitive spot inside me. He eases out, dragging his fingers up over my clit once more, and I let out a moan of frustration.
“Shh,” Ford murmurs, his words laced with quiet amusement. “You need to be quiet.”
I can barely talk, barely think. My body is alive beneath his touch, overwhelmed. But somehow, I find myself.
“You know exactly what I need.”
He hums his response with his body firm against my back. His other hand finds my head to thread his fingers through my hair, sweeping it back from my face.
“Then take it, Stormy,” he whispers, his voice thick. He presses his lips against my temple tenderly.
Those words, almost demanding but achingly permissive, allow me to claim what I want, what I need, what I desire.
They hit right in my core, and I whimper as his fingers continue to curl inside, coaxing a wet warmth to trickle out of me, coating his fingers.
He must notice what his words have done, how unbelievably aroused I am, how much I'm enjoying this, because his hand pauses for a moment, and a strangled noise escapes the back of his throat.
“Oh, fuck …”
But I want more. I want him.
I reach behind, dragging my hand up his thigh, hungrily. I trace the tight muscles beneath the fabric he wears, making him shudder out laboured breaths.
But then, a voice outside the tent cuts through the moment like a blade, jolting me from my haze.
Ford’s hand goes still, and his body stiffens behind me. I pull back my own hand. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves, trapped in the tension, like prey sensing a predator nearby.
My pulse roars in my ears.
Missy stands just beyond the thin fabric separating us. “Stormy, are you okay in there? Thought I heard you crying or something?”
A humiliating wave of heat rushes to my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut. My voice wavers, hoarse, uncertain. “I’m fine,” I manage. “Just … a bad dream.”
Silence. Then, “Can I come in?”
The tent’s zip begins to slide up, the tiny sound scraping against my raw nerves.
“NO!” The word erupts from me, sharp and frantic, and the zip halts. My stomach twists. “I … um … I’m not … decent. I’ll be out in a bit.”
Missy pauses, then simply says, “Okay.”
Fortunately, I hear no suspicion lacing her voice. Her footsteps retreat, growing softer until I can’t hear them anymore.
Relief crashes over me, stealing the breath from my lungs and behind me, Ford shifts, carefully withdrawing his touch. He sits up, draping his arms over his knees, head dipped forward. The unsaid hangs over us like a grey cloud.
What’s he thinking?
Does he regret this?
And then the full weight of reality settles onto my chest like a boulder.
What were we doing? What was I thinking?
I hadn’t even considered Missy—her feelings, or the betrayal this might be. Ford is her brother. She’s become a close friend, someone who has stood by me when I needed her most. And now? Now I’ve thrown that loyalty into question. What kind of friend does that?
I know she was invested in the whole ‘Ford likes you’ thing. But we never actually talked about it. Not really. Not about whether there could be something between us. Whether it would be okay. Whether it would hurt her.
And now I’ve probably crossed a line.
The silence stretches between us uncomfortably. I shift beneath the sleeping bag, pulling it higher, suddenly aware of the cold now that Ford’s body heat is gone.
He runs a hand through his hair.
"I should go."
His voice is quiet and restrained, but there’s an edge to it. Guilt. Hesitation … Regret? Something else I can’t quite place. I glance at his hand, and the memory of what we were just doing floods through me. I swallow hard. I should say something.
"Ford …" I start, but the words falter. What do I even say?
That was one of, no, that was the most incredible sexual experience of my life.
I know it wouldn’t seem like much by anyone else's standards, but to me?
It was everything. The anticipation. The way he made me feel.
The way my body sang from his touch. No one has ever cared for me like that before, wanted to give me what I need, rather than taking.
But was it wrong? Was it a mistake?
His eyes meet mine, and my heart stutters. I can’t read him. I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Ford’s eyes trace my face before he finally murmurs, “We’ll talk later, okay?”
I nod, and he begins crawling over my legs towards the tent door.
His body brushes against mine, and a wild impulse to grab him, pull him close, and find out what his lips taste like strikes.
But instead, I shift, pulling my legs up and crossing them into a sitting position, trying, really trying, not to focus on how wet I am for him right now.
Ford slowly pulls on the zip, carefully peering through the gap.
He exhales a breath of relief, then glances back at me once more.
And for a moment, he just looks at me. Then, barely there, the corners of his lips twitch into a small, unsure smile, and then he’s slipping out of the tent, moving as quietly as possible, cautious not to draw attention.
I wait a few moments, then reach forwards, pulling the zip closed behind him.
With a sigh, I flop back onto the sleeping bag with a thud. My mind is a whirlwind of everything we just did. The tent ceiling blurs above me as I replay every touch, every word. And the thought of it makes my stomach flutter. Like a kaleidoscope of butterflies set loose inside me.