Page 130 of Camp Bliss
Because I plan to spenddaysin bed with her.
No Airbnb guests on the premises. No landscaping work or repair jobs. No construction crews.
No clothes…
The shower taps squeak closed, and I mentally get a grip. Greta currently has no clothes on, and I shouldn’t be imagining that future scenario when she’s already naked. And wet.
Instead of torturing myself, I sit my ass down at our desk and look up our booking calendar to see when we’ll have a window to pave the pathway to Camp Bliss North. I’d like to give Greta’s back a chance to heal, but we already have the materials. If the cabin has a couple of empty days coming up, maybe I can get away with doing the work myself.
I’ve jotted down three potential dates between now and the end of December, but ideally, I’d like to have the paving done before the holidays. I don’t want our Camp Bliss North guests to think they're getting shorted with the dirt path leading to their cabin while the South one looks all kitted out.
Because the pathway looks damn good if I do say so myself.
I scratch out the last set of dates, intending to bring it up with Greta when the door to the bathroom slides open, and she steps out in form fitting yoga pants and a crop top that stops just inches below her breasts and leaves her middle exposed.
Kill me now.
Her hair is wet still, but not dripping, her curls combed out but already springing back into shape as they fall over her shoulders. She runs her fingers through her hazelnut tresses, and I could swallow my tongue.
“Goddamn,” I hiss because there’s just no other choice.
And I don’t regret it either because Greta’s smile lights up her whole face. She looks down at the light gray yoga pants that skim her thighs and form a little arrow-shaped crease right at her pussy.
She looks back at me, almost surprised at herself. “Too much? It’s cooler tonight. I can go put on sweatpants if—”
“Stop talking crazy.”
Greta giggles and then makes her way down the steps into the kitchen—slowly like someone with a backache—and over to my corner of the RV. She eyes the reconstructed couch meaningfully.
“Expecting company?” she teases, knowing I’ve folded up my pullout for her.
“I promised you a back rub, and I meant it.”
“Yes,” she hisses before sinking onto the couch. I’m already reaching for her when she grabs one of the big cushions, hugs it to her front and leans into it, giving me her back. Her crop top rides up, exposing most of her back, and I plant my hands on her waist.
Her skin is unbelievably soft. Touching her is like quenching a vital thirst.
As soon as I press my thumbs into her lower back, Greta lets out a moan that has my cock stirring.
AaaaandI’m an asshole. Because she’s sore, and my imagination has leapfrogged way ahead to something else entirely.
Scolding myself, I focus on her instead. What she needs. I use my left hand to steady her and the heel of the right to rub deep circles into that side of her lower back.
“Oooh, God,” she moans into the cushion. “Yeah… Right there…Jesus.”
She goes limp under my touch, making me smile. I shift my grip to the other hand, moving to her left, and she groans.
“I’m drooling…”
I chuckle, but while her body softens beneath my hands, my heart is softening too.
I get to take care of her. She’s letting me. How the hell did I get so lucky?
The first time I saw this stretch of skin? The day she nearly had a heat stroke? She told me she hated me, and if she didn’t mean it, it was damn close.
If Josh had been worthy of her, what would I have done? Would I have still fallen this hard? Would she have worn down my defenses some other way? Even if he was still in her life?
I fight a shudder at the thought.
