“Please, Sh—” My name is barely on her lips when I latch onto her clit, sucking as hard as I can while pressing my tongue against the swollen flesh. Curling my fingers, I pet her from the inside. Claire screams my name as if she’s falling off a cliff.
Convulsing around my fingers, delicious on my tongue, Claire comes. Crying my name again and again, desperation turning to relief as she realizes that this time she’ll keep her pleasure. Her trembling body writhes and rocks, and I realize she’s released the branch to tangle her fingers in my hair, as if she’s scared I’ll stop before she’s squeezed every drop of ecstasy from this orgasm.
“Keep going,” she pleads, grinding on me so hard my teeth graze her clit. She yips but doesn’t stop. “Please, Shane,” she adds quickly, as if to make sure her request is granted.
I oblige, feasting on her pussy, unable to tell if this is one unending orgasm or multiple shorter ones. When her grip on my hair loosens, and the needy rocking of her hips slows, I give her one final kiss and pull away.
Tugging my T-shirt up to wipe my face, I glance at Claire. Hair wild, face red, legs wobbling, she’s dazed.
Good.
Rising from my knees, I smack her hip lightly. “Look alive, little deer. We’ve got a long hike out.”
Coming back down to Earth, she shakes her head, eyes focusing on me at last. “You’re walking back with me?”
I almost say that she looks like she’d wander in circles for hours if I left her to her own devices. “It’s a long walk. It’ll go faster with company.”
“Right.” Straightening, she sorts herself out, pulling up her leggings. Once she’s ready, we start the journey back. It’s a good ten minutes or so before she speaks, her voice still slightly groggy.
“Can I ask a question?”
If it means she’s talking, I’ll answer anything. I was starting to wonder if I’d tongue-fucked her too thoroughly. Caused some kind of cognitive injury by edging her so many times. “Of course.”
“How did you learn to do that?”
On second thought, I will not answer anything.
I refuse to tell Claire the truth. After she agreed to the contract, I had a minor moment of panic that my existing sexual knowledge might be inadequate. So I called the first professional I had hunted and hired her to give me a sex refresher course—making it clear that this would not be a “hands-on” teaching experience. She showed up with a silicone vagina and a few books, and I took detailed notes.
While it’s nice to hear the crash course was a wise investment, there’s no good way to tell Claire that I fingered a fake pussy to build an arsenal of techniques to try on her.
“Um, same as everybody, I guess? Trial and error.”
“I don’t think everybody knows how to do that.” Moseying along, pausing every so often to poke at an interesting-looking rock with the toe of her sneaker, Claire is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen her. “I’ve never come that hard in my life, and my pussy’s pretty agreeable as far as orgasms go.”
Suck it, Keith.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling as she turns to me. “Are you pissed that I stalked you?” Her face has gone serious.
The change of topic startles me. “Of course not. Pissed at myself for not considering the possibility, but it was a good challenge.”
“It seemed like a great idea,” Claire says. “But then, when you turned around, I panicked. All I could think was that maybe you’d wanted to hunt but not ever lose a hunt.”
I bark a laugh. “I’m offended you think my ego is that fragile.”
“Keith didn’t deal with losing very well,” she says lightly. “So I made sure he didn’t.”
The easiness of her admission makes me bristle. For what has to be the millionth time since she moved in, I find myself wondering how they lasted eleven years. While the fresh divorce would obviously bring negative aspects to the front of her mind, I’m curious about what made their relationship work.
“Today also proved you aren’t tracking me with this.” She pulls me from my thoughts, wiggling her left wrist, the one with the smartwatch on it.
Scandalized, I stop hard. “You thought I was tracking you?”
“I wondered,” she admits, looking back at me over her shoulder. “This thing has GPS, right?”
“Why would I do that?” I sputter, taking three long strides to catch up with her. “It would ruin the experience.”
Claire groans playfully. “I was sort of hoping you did use it. Then I’d feel better about how quickly you find me. Now I can’t blame technology, I’m just that bad at hiding.”
“Or maybe I’m just that good at finding.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her in a move so uncharacteristic that I immediately regret it. Until it sends her into a fit of giggles so unlike her that I almost stop dead in my tracks again. That sound. I want more of it.
Wiping her eyes, Claire shakes her head. “How does one become good at finding?”
“Our dad took Caine and me hunting a lot when we were growing up.”
A rabbit darts out onto the trail in front of us, thinks better of it, and whirls to bolt back into the brush. “Rabbits?” she asks, tilting her head in the direction it went.
“Deer, mostly.” Thinking of my father is rapidly deflating the pleasure created by Claire’s giggles, but I don’t show it.
“Did you like it?”
“I liked being in the woods,” I admit. “Liked that it gave him something to be proud of me for. Shot a ten-point buck when I was a teenager; he was prouder of that than when I got into law school.” Realizing I’ve become more transparent than I intended, I hurry to add, “Really liked that Caine had to shut up while we did it. He could talk the bark off a tree.”
“Your dad sounds…interesting.” Her voice is softer, the verbal equivalent of tiptoeing across a floor that might give way.
“He had a very specific idea of what type of men his sons should be.”
Claire makes a knowing sound in response to my cryptic answer. I don’t elaborate.
The last thing I want to talk about is my father. I rarely met his expectations, largely because they changed with his mood. One thread ran through them all, though: don’t be weak. It didn’t matter that I dual enrolled at the local college junior and senior year of high school, made honor roll, or was in debate club—he was unimpressed with me. That I spent Friday nights studying disgusted him, that I never snuck out or came home drunk confused him, and that he couldn’t provoke me into a fight when he was in one of his moods infuriated him. All in all, I was an enormous disappointment, failing to reach his standards for masculinity.
Dodging a fallen branch blocking part of the trail, Claire bumps me gently with her hip, knocking me out of my head. “I’m getting the sense your dad would be very proud if he knew how good a pussy hunter you turned out to be.”
My jaw drops; I slam to a stop.
Oh my god.
Claire does too, clamping her hand over her mouth.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I try to look serious.
Eyes wide, she sputters, “I’m so sorry, that was messed up. I don’t know why—”
A laugh almost breaks free. I try and fail to turn it into a cough.
Her eyes narrow. “Are you laughing?”
“No, I’m very upset right now.” I laugh-cough again.
“Are you sure?”
I lose it. Laughing feels good, but it’s better when she joins me, both of us cackling like fools. The sound is a shield, keeping unpleasant memories at bay. When we finally compose ourselves, Claire’s eyes sparkle and her cheeks are pink. Side by side, we continue down the trail until the woods grow too dense, forcing us to go single file.
