Chapter 13 Ginger #2
“Here, let’s get something on those two at least, you don’t want them getting infected,” he says and turns, showing off his glorious abs and thighs as he reaches for the first aid kit.
“Okay,” I say, barely above a whisper, and my tongue feels two inches thick.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see his chest rise and fall with each breath, and holy fuck, does he smell nice.
While he works—pulling out antibiotic ointment and a couple of bandages—I take the chance to really study his tattoos. There’s an eagle, mountains, a rustic arrow piercing what looks like a cross between a clock and a compass, and a word I can barely make out. Resilience, maybe?
I glance up at him as he tends to my feet, then let my eyes drift back to his chest.
A round, hammered pendant hangs from a leather cord around his neck—roughly shaped like a compass. My gaze trails up the ink on his arm, catching the bottom of an animal skull. His hair is mostly dry now, hanging loose around his shoulders and hiding the rest of the tattooed detail.
My fingers literally ache to run through it.
What?
He works in silence. His hands are huge, yet he handles the tiny bandages with ease, even in the dim light. I’ve felt the strength in those hands—how rough and hungry he can be. But this? This quiet, focused gentleness as he treats my battered feet?
It’s unexpectedly intimate. And so goddamn sexy.
“You’ve got more bites,” he says without looking up from my foot propped on his knee.
I’d been so distracted by the veins in his hands as he doctored up my blisters that I hadn’t noticed I was still scratching. This time, higher up on my thigh.
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say a little too breathlessly. “These ones aren’t as bad.”
“There’s more than one?” he asks, crumpling up the empty wrappers and gesturing to me. “Stand up.”
“It’s really fine, I’ll be ok—”
“I’m not going to be able to sleep with you itching all night and neither will you.”
His dark blue eyes find mine in the dim light. “I’ve had my face buried in your cunt, California,” he murmurs. “I think I can handle seeing you in your underwear.”
The vulgarity of his words, delivered in that low, almost tender tone, hits me straight between the legs. My mind flashes to both times he had his face buried between my thighs.
I bite my lip, replaying every second—how perfect he felt in my mouth, how I’d never wanted anything so badly. How I clung to every filthy word as he absolutely wrecked me.
Make a choice. Which do you want more, huh? My cock or air. 'Cause right now, you’re not getting both.
He lets his eyes drift up my body, and the look he’s wearing tells me he’s probably also thinking about one or both of those nights.
I’m literally the most shameless of hussies when it comes to this man, and I suspect he knows it.
He quirks a brow at me as if issuing a challenge. And oh my God, do I want to accept it. Feeling his hands—his mouth—on me again after all this time is all I can think about.
I let out a shaky breath and hook my fingers under the hem of my shirt, pulling it up to expose my thighs to him. Our eyes lock and every single one of my nerve endings lights up. All it would take is a flick of his wrist, and I’d be exposed to him again.
Hutch swallows hard and his eyes run over my bare legs. He could be looking for mosquito bites, but I don’t think so. I wonder if he’s having as hard a time as I am. I’m trying really fucking hard not to rip off my shirt and climb him like a tree.
“Show me.” The command is low, and it drops right between my legs.
It’s almost like my hands move of their own accord, the cotton beneath my fingertips as I slide it up ever so slightly to point out the three or four mosquito bites on my upper thigh.
Hutch nods, dropping his gaze back to his hands, but instead of squirting the cream onto my fingers, he squirts it on his own. And then his strong fingers are on my skin, and it takes every bit of restraint to not moan like a touch-starved whore.
“Feel okay?” he asks, voice deep and full of gravel.
“Mmhmm,” I hum, reveling in the feeling of his touch on me. The slow drag of his fingers over the bites shouldn’t be sensual, but it is. Fortunately, it relieves some of the itch but simultaneously sparks heat low in my belly, causing an itch that longs to be scratched in a very different way.
There’s no way he doesn’t know how turned on I am—I’m practically dripping for him.
Exactly like every other time, I’m a total slut for his touch.
It would take nothing to close the space between us, to step into the V of his splayed knees, shift a few inches, and have his hands on me—exploring every inch of bare skin.
The pull to touch him is strong, but somehow, I hold back.
We don’t do tender. We don’t do sweet. But the way he’s taking care of me—not just now, but earlier too—has me wondering if maybe…we could.
No. What the hell, Ginger? You can’t seriously be thinking like that. You’re touch-starved and lonely, and any red-blooded woman would be reacting the same way.
Hutch’s voice pulls me from my mental spiral. “Are there any more?”
My gaze flits to his and I shake my head, stepping back. “No. I think you got them all,” I say, barely recognizing my own voice. “Thank you.”
He nods, recapping the cream and setting it to the side. I move to straighten my shirt over my hips but his fingers, calloused and warm, move to cover mine, causing goosebumps to break out over my skin, and I can’t help the little moan that escapes.
I was not prepared for hair-down Hutch; the spread of his tattoos up close and personal, or the spicy, yet woodsy and somehow smokey scent of his skin. In the tiny, darkened van, he seems even bigger, somehow larger than life and so goddamn sexy.
“Your hair’s longer,” I murmur, loving how the sun has lightened the messy waves since I last saw him. It falls past his collarbones now, brushing over those massive shoulders.
The words don’t even make sense—long hair’s never been my thing. But here we are. “I like it.”
His only answer is a hand on my hip, tugging me forward between his knees. I stumble a little, caught off guard, steadying myself with a hand on his shoulder as his palms settle on my hips.
His thumbs graze the lace of my panties. Thick fingers splay wide over the curve of my ass.
Then he leans in, lifts the hem of my shirt, and presses his lips to the skin below my navel.
I shudder.
My eyes fall closed, and I bite back a sound that’s halfway to a whimper, because holy hell—every part of me is screaming to climb on top of him and ride his face like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.
“I don’t think there’s any mosquito bites there,” I tell him.
His answering chuckle melts my insides. God, it’s unfair how attractive he is, how broad his shoulders are, how his breath fans out of the skin of my stomach, making my knees nearly buckle.
“It’s not mosquito bites I’m after.” His thumb brushes lower and slips over my clit through my panties.
“No?” The word comes out high pitched and breathless.
“Tell me something, California,” he says, voice low. “If I buried my face between these pretty thighs, would you be soaked for me?”
“Oh fuck,” I breathe out.
“Is that a yes?” His eyes find mine and I shake out a jerky nod.
“Yes.”
With that one word, he doesn’t hesitate—but grabs the back of my thigh, hikes my leg up, and hooks my knee over his arm. Then he pulls me straight against his face.
I have to grab the edge of the bunk above to keep from falling, heart hammering in my chest.
He breathes me in like he needs it, and the groan that rumbles out of him punches straight to my clit—before his mouth finds me.
I whimper, clutching the bunk rail with both hands, knuckles white, trying to stay upright on one leg while he licks, nips, and sucks at me through the thin fabric of my panties.
Then he drops my leg, grips my hips, and falls back onto the bed—dragging me with him. I land hard on his chest, breath knocked from my lungs.
And before I can process it, he shifts me like I weigh nothing, positioning me over his face, knees braced on either side of his head.
“Sit,” he says, gripping my hips.
I shake my head in protest. “But I’m on your hair—”
“I said sit.”
“But my underwear—”
“Will you do what you’re fucking told?” he bites out, then forces me down on his face, panties and all, making me moan.
His teeth nip at my fabric-covered clit, and I suck in a sharp breath. I wouldn’t want to stop this filthy assault on my senses, the sound he makes as he devours me through my already soaked panties, making it nearly impossible not to rock my hips.
He groans against me, his words muffled by my sex. “Fuck, California, you taste amazing.”
My cheeks heat. There is something so filthy about knowing he’s tasting me through my panties, and I break out in full body goosebumps, trying to keep from grinding down on his mouth harder, both hands braced on the low ceiling the bunk above us creates.
My thighs burn with the effort it takes to keep all my weight off him, but when he slips a finger inside my panties and pulls them to the side before taking one quick swipe of his tongue over my clit, they start to shake.
“Oh shit, oh fuck,” I mumble, head thrown back, eyes clamped shut, and white-hot need igniting in my veins. He’ll have me coming in five seconds flat if he keeps that up. It’s been so fucking long since he’s touched me—since anyone has.
“Get your hands on those tits,” he tells me, but I know the second I do, I’ll have nothing to hold onto and my full weight will be on him.
“But won’t I smother you? I’m too—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he says, lapping at my clit and making my eyes roll back. He grabs my shirt at the hem and yanks it off over my head. “Tug on those pretty nipples while I eat this perfect pussy.”
I hesitate but he gives me a look before landing a cracking smack on my ass cheek that has another long moan ripping from my throat. “Move.”
When I don't respond right away, he pulls back to look up at me, the stubble of his short beard scraping my thighs; his pretty blue eyes locked on mine.
“Let’s not pretend, California,” he says, all deep-timbered, low and assertive, like silk over my skin. His eyes bore into mine. “You like it when I’m in control, yeah? When I tell you what to do?”
My core clenches involuntarily, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. Yes. I love it when he’s in control. Crave the fact that I don’t have to be. God, what does that say about me?
“Sit.” The one-word command has me reeling.
My nipples harden and I can’t help but do as he says and lift my hands to touch myself.
I’m in nothing but my panties, hovering over him.
I love the command in his voice and the control he has over my body.
I knew Hutch could play me like an instrument with his hands and tongue, but his words? Holy shit.
Doing as he says, I tug on both my nipples, rolling them until they’re hard and peaked.
“Yeah, just like that, now ride my face, filthy girl,” he says before diving back into my pussy.
I’m so lost to the sensation of his heat underneath me, his hand holding my panties aside, and his fingers gripping my thigh.
His tongue works against my clit, then down to my entrance, gathering wetness to swipe back up to my clit with a moan, the feel of his beard scratching against my skin and the cool air on my nipples, it’s like sensory overload in the best fucking way.
Hutch pulls away, and I whimper at the lost contact. “Do you need to get that?”
“What?” I stare down at him through lust-drunk eyes, chest heaving.
“Your phone is ringing.”
I’d already been so close to coming that I’d thought my ears were ringing. I still when I register it as Peter’s ringtone.
I scramble off Hutch and stand on my tiptoes, rummaging through the blankets on the top bunk to find my phone. As I pick it up, the screen goes dark, but not before I see the FaceTime notification from Peter. I nearly whimper because I was so fucking close.
A text comes through.
Peter: Hey, Tate wanted to talk to you. I tried to tell him it’s late, but he’s pretty upset. Call us back if you’re still up?
Shit. What am I doing? Grinding on Hutch’s face when my son needs me? I really need to get a fucking grip.
“I have to take this,” I say, swiping my T-shirt up before rummaging in my bag for pajama pants and pulling them on.
I look over at Hutch in the dark. He’s laid back, arms behind his head. He nods, but doesn’t say anything.
Grabbing a blanket from the bunk, I wrap it around myself and slide open the side door before climbing down. I slide the door shut as I bring up Peter’s number and redial. Almost immediately, Tate’s tear-stained face fills the screen.