A Beginner's Guide to the American West ✓

chapter thirty-seven

t h i r t y - s e v e n

*

Once the sun has slipped below the horizon and the campfire has burned out, and we’re full after a supper that Ade and Brannan cooked together over the flames, it's at last time to head back to our tent. I’ve had a pretty one-track mind for the past few hours, even moreso than the past week or so, unable to think of much other than what was left unfinished. I know Arjun's thinking about it too, every time his eyes graze over my body and his gaze lingers on my lips.

My hair’s still damp from a quick pre-supper shower, which was almost a disaster when I slipped on a stray sliver of soap, and I can smell Arjun’s lemon body wash on his skin when he holds me around the waist to make it back to the tent in one piece. In the dark, we stumble over the flap and end up on the ground, but that's just fine.

I may be a hazardous wreck on my feet, but I’m pretty good on my knees.

The moment we're alone, we can't keep our hands off each other and it isn’t long after the tent is firmly zipped shut that we find ourselves back in the position Young-mi walked in on. I catch Arjun’s thighs between my knees and plant my hands on his shoulders, slipping them to his hair when I take control of the kiss and his hands clutch at my back. They only drop when he scrabbles with his fly to free himself from his shorts. He groans against my lips when I move a hand between us.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask breathily, pulling away from his lips just enough to speak. It's not like we're going all the way tonight, but I know that Arjun has very little experience, and nothing like this. The last thing I want is to push him too far. But he nods and his hand goes to the back of my head, and he kisses me hard.

"Please," he says. The solitary word rough and deep and ragged, and it cuts off when I touch him.

This time, there are no interruptions. No distractions. Nothing to tear my attention from him; his attention is fixed on me as I do what I do best, and he buries his face in my neck to stifle his climax. His groan is hot on my bare shoulder, his nails pressing crescents into my skin as he pulses in my hand.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on than in that moment, silencing ourselves in a tent mere metres from the next, and I can hardly bear it when he recovers and rolls me onto my back. I know he hasn’t done this before so I’m not expecting much, but the ten days of anticipation makes up for any lack in talent; the lightest touch, his hand on my waist, is enough to send me into overdrive.

He kisses me deeply, taking my breath away as he fumbles in the dark, and the moment he touches me, I don’t know how long I’ll last. Not long, that’s for sure. I’ve dreamt about this exact situation at least a couple of times since we met, but none of my dreams can compare to the grip of his hand or the taste of his tongue or the weight of his body as he kneels between my thighs and touches me the way he has only ever touched himself.
 
Once he gets into a rhythm and I give in to the moment, I have to grab his pillow to quiet myself, my body jerking against his hand. He kisses me when it’s over, his lips brushing my ear.

“You,” he whispers, “are so fucking hot.”

I trap him between my legs, snagging him in an embrace as I kiss him hungrily, devouring him with the last of my breath. I’m totally spent, my chest heaving as though I’ve just run a marathon, my legs weak as though I’ve never done that before. I’ve had plenty of handjobs before, but never has the anticipation been so high. I've never craved it so much, so desperate for him.

“Gonna need another shower,” I mumble, searching blindly for a tissue to wipe my belly. I can’t find one in the dark, my hand only falling on my phone and my shoes.