Page 173 of You've Got Hate Mail
He slides a hand under my shirt.
I slide my hands under his shirt.
He presses his erection into my belly.
I kiss him harder and deeper, and he responds with a low groan in his throat that I can feel in mine too.
Be brave, Cricket. Be brave.
Yes.
Brave.
“Are we alone?” I gasp as everything between my thighs swells and pulses in anticipation.
He bites my neck. “Yes.”
“For miles and miles?” God, I need to rub my nipples. Or him. He needs to rub my aching nipples.
“Close enough.”
“Hikers?”
“Maybe.”
Maybe.
Do I risk it?
Can I be brave?
“I want—I want to have sex with you here. Now. Out—outside.”
He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyelids low, eyes dark and glittering in the sunshine. “You’re sure?”
When he looks at me like that— “Yes.”
“I have to take your pants off.”
Those words make my clit tingle. “Yes.”
“You’re so fucking brave, Cricket.”
It’s the praise I didn’t know I needed.
The last bit of encouragement.
I rip my button open and unzip my pants, then shove them to my feet, kick my shoes off, and step out of them.
Bare-assed.
Standing on gravel in my socks.
He twists us so he’s pinning me to the side of the truck.
I grab the condom that I know is in his back pocket, then make quick work of unbuttoning and unzipping his pants too while he kisses me hard and fast and deep and possessively.
He grabs me beneath one thigh and hitches it up while I roll the condom down his length.
