Chapter 18 Ginger
Ginger
My mind is groggy, eyelids heavy when I blink them open, like I didn’t sleep well. The air is chilly on my arms—which feel heavy too, like I’ve worked out hard, but that can’t be right… I hate sweating—but under the covers, I’m surprisingly cozy.
Wait…why am I so warm?
I force open an eyelid and, without moving my head, the other sleep-blurred eye opens before drifting in the filtered early-morning light.
And realize my face is smashed against a solid wall of muscle.
My heart rate kicks up as my brain slowly comes online.
Like the drip of molasses, bits and pieces slowly break through the haze of sleep.
The ziplines. Rappelling. Hiking. Tequila.
And a lot of it. Then water, wet bedding, shivering in the dim light, dwarfed by my six-foot-six travelling companion in nothing but skintight navy boxer briefs.
A soft command to get into his bed without arguing.
Hutch.
My eyes go wide at the expanse of tattoos before me, and one—yes, one—perfectly pink nipple is the delicious cherry on top of one softly rounded pectoral muscle. Because, from the looks of things, my cheek is currently residing on top of the other one. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Jesus. Please don’t let me be drooling.
My mind wills me to sit up, get out of this bed and act like nothing happened. Well, technically, nothing did. I mean, not that I remember. Shit. Did I have that much to drink that I blocked it out?
Did we?
I take a quick physical inventory of my body as I lay there, worrying that if I move a muscle, it’ll jar him awake and I’ll have to face whatever this is.
Why can’t I tell if I had sex? Everything feels normal so it must be, right?
I would know if I’d taken an overnight trip to Pound Town…
right? No, I’m still dressed. Okay, that’s a good sign.
Not that a night of sex with Hutch wouldn’t be right up my alley, but I’d like to be sober if it ever happens. Oh God, I’m spiraling.
I try to sit up, but it’s like I can’t move. I can’t draw enough breath into my lungs because this feels so fucking good.
The slow, even breathing of the massive man beneath me has me sending up a silent ‘thank you’ while I try to figure out a way to untangle myself from the mass of blankets and limbs without waking him up.
Because this isn’t embarrassing at all.
He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, one arm thrown over his head.
His hair, dark at the roots but with sandy blond highlights throughout, lays loose and tangled on his pillow.
I know women back in California—who pay thousands of dollars per year to replicate the same wavy masterpiece that don’t pull it off half as spectacularly as Hutch does.
His other massive work-worn hand, scarred in a few places, tattoos taking up almost every inch of real estate on the forearm, draped over my hip, complete with braided leather and dark beads stacked on his thick wrist. The weight of which feels, even in sleep, possessive and at the same time, strangely right.
I’ve never been attracted to men with ink, but something about this man’s does it for me.
His voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, cuts through the silence. “Don’t be a tease, California. If you’re gonna hold it, tighten that grip and move.”
To my complete shock and horror, I realize all at once that not only am I sprawled across his torso like some shameless, half-drunk starfish, but my hand is, in fact, resting. On. His. Junk.
Motherfucker.
I jerk my hand away and sit up with my back to him, sputtering, “I didn’t—I wasn’t. That’s not—”
I’m cut off by a rumbling chuckle and I whip my head in his direction despite my embarrassment, ready to let him have it.
“You could have asked to share a bed. No need to sabotage the Vanagon.”
“Oh my God,” I bite out, more of embarrassment than anger. “You’re insane if you think I would purposely—”
He laughs again, and I glare at him, laid back against the pillows, both arms now tucked behind his head, blankets draped below his waist, wearing that sexy fucking smirk on his face.
My eyes so badly want to drink him in, to drop lower to what I know is the most gloriously delicious V-cut and further to what I also know is the most deliciously magnificent cock I’ve ever seen.
Also, why am I so flustered?
I manage an irritated—okay, horny—huff of breath and throw the blankets back only to be hit with the sight of him fully hard and on display in those barely-there boxers.
I’m acutely aware that I am in nothing but a T-shirt and panties when I push to stand up, but my mortification seems to be overriding that thought.
I mean, let’s be real, he saw me in less two nights ago.
That is, at least until I turn around and his eyes take a slow appreciative sweep of my body, from the tips of my toes to what I am sure is an outstanding show of bedhead.
Fuck.
His eyes meet mine for a split second before dropping to my chest.
I reach for a pillow and chuck it at his face. “Stop eye fucking me.”
“Hey, those things are eye fucking me.” He gives a pointed look at my chest and laughs, and I can’t help but smile.
Just a little. Because even though I’m embarrassed, I kind of like that he’s looking. Okay, that’s a damn lie. I love that he’s looking.
I drop my hands on my hips; head canted to the side. “Will you get some clothes on so we can go eat? I’m starving.”
He takes the pillow I hit him with and stuffs it behind his head, then grins up at me.
I can’t help the delighted little thrill that goes through me when his eyes drop back to my tits. It’s nice knowing I’m not the only one who might be struggling to hold back, even if we don’t really have to.
“How about a good morning, Hutch, thanks for sharing your bed with me so I didn’t freeze to death last night?”
I give up trying to keep my tits and thighs covered and huff out a breath. “Good morning, Bigfoot,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we get dressed and go?”
His mouth hitches up at the corner in that perfect smirk before he climbs off the bed. I have to take a half step back, but that’s all the room in this tiny godforsaken vehicle, and his height in here without the roof lifted puts him crowding me from above.
I shamelessly let my eyes roam from the bulge tenting his boxers, up all the ridges and dips of his abs, to the roundness of his pecs. His chest, dusted with dark hair, pink nipples, and miles of tattoos, stares back at me. His throat works over a swallow as my eyes trail up to meet his.
His gaze is heated as he stares down at me, tension palpable between us. Just when the silence is more than I can take, I think he’ll lean in and kiss me.
Instead, he reaches up and boops my nose, which only irritates me slightly, before he says, “Good morning to you and your nipples.”
I swat his hand away and I shoot him a glare, both insanely turned on and now a little irritated by the fact that while I was so busy checking out his insane body, he seems completely unaffected.
I can’t believe I was holding his junk. How the hell had I managed to miss that anyway? That thing is massive. The cock to shame all other cocks. I’m not kidding when I say it’s a masterpiece of epic proportions. And I should know, like he said, I’ve had it in my mouth twice.
Fuck. Stop thinking about his cock and find some clothes, you moron.
Hutch chuckles in that easy way of his and moves to grab his shirt from yesterday. He pulls it on as I turn away to rummage through my bag on the passenger side seat, even though it puts my ass on display, and I’m only a little sad to see him cover up all that skin.
I locate and pull on a pair of leggings, then pull both of my arms into my shirt to slip on a bra. It’s still raining and chilly outside, so I also pull on a sweatshirt.
When I turn back around, Hutch is pulling his jeans up, and he smirks at me when he catches me watching him do up the button and then his belt.
I dip my head, cheeks heating. What is wrong with me?
A handful of hours sharing a bed, and every time our eyes meet, I’m blushing like a twelve-year-old with her first crush.
I have got to get my shit together. We have…
however many days left in cramped quarters, and there is no way I am going to be able to share a space with him without jumping him if I don’t get my head on straight. Which reminds me…
“What happens if the rain doesn’t stop?”
Hutch sits on the bed and begins pulling on socks and boots. Without looking up, I can tell he’s still wearing that stupid cocky smirk when he says, “We’ll build an ark.”
“No, I mean, the bed situation.”
He does look up at me then, finished tying his boots. “Worried you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself if we have to share a bed again?”
I expect him to crack that cocky grin, but he doesn’t and the intensity in his eyes has me looking away.
“No, I just…” I glance up. “You said last night you shouldn’t close the roof with it wet. Will it get ruined?”
When I look back at him, the intensity in his eyes is gone, and he’s looking at the roof as well.
“It could, but we’ll hopefully outrun the rain today, and I’ll open it when we hit the next stop. Dry things out a bit.”
I nod, secretly hoping it doesn’t.
Hutch runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back before tying it up. “I’ll put the bed up if you wanna grab those blankets and lay them out. They probably still need to dry.”
“Sure.” I sit on the captain’s chair and pull on my socks while Hutch quickly folds the bedding and tucks the bed back into a bench. Then he slides open the side door and ducks out, shutting it behind him.
The van falls quiet. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. He’s so damn distracting—annoying, but unexpectedly sweet. Normally I hate it when he teases me, but this morning it was almost…endearing?
Footsteps crunch on gravel. I jump up and swipe open the curtains, revealing a dreary, drizzly day. The last thing I need is for him to catch me daydreaming like some lovestruck idiot.
I finish folding the blankets—still a little damp from the leak—then flip the chair back around.
Hutch opens the door and climbs in, starting the ignition. I crawl over the center console, careful not to step on it, and settle into the front seat, tucking my fuzzy blanket around my legs.
He glances over, chuckling and shaking his head before pulling out of the campground.