Suddenly something slithers through grass close by and I scream so violently, a chorus of finches shoots out of a nearby tree. Without thinking, I launch myself at Ryder, a petrified monkey, plastered to his body. His hands cup my ass as he watches the grass protectively and I almost orgasm on the spot.
Goddamn, that guy looks hot in his mountain man element. I’m all safe up in the stratosphere, watching his eyes dart across the grass. He’d murder that snake for me in a heartbeat. Then he’d spear it on a twig and roast it for me over the fire just to spite the amphibious abomination.
“Is it gone?” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine again. He tips his head.
“Is it gone?” I ask louder.
He nods. Our eyes search each other. The moment we almost had, another almost kiss hangs in the air between us. Unless…unless he wasn’t going to do it. Unless I had dirt on my face or a booger.
Oh, shit. What if I’m imagining all of this?
Ryder easily holds me one-armed and reaches for his phone in his pocket. I’ll admit it: I’m terrified of what he’s going to say. Is he about to set me straight? Tell me to quit making sexy eyes at his mouth and rubbing myself on him like a koala in heat?
I’m a pathological avoidant, I know this, but for me, facing painful emotions is like fear of heights—the moment I’m too close to a potentially fatal drop, I scramble back and bolt.
I slink out of Ryder’s arms and brush by him. Pushing forward, I can hear the faint din of the falls, and a sulfurous odor tinges the air. It’s a sobering scent, breaking the heavy sweetness of what we just did. It reminds me why I’m here, to hike and check off a box for asshole MacCormack. If I lose sight of that, there’s more than one way that I could fall off course. None of those ways are remotely safe.
The next mile is a gradual ascent, maybe another 150 to 200 feet, that brings us to the Lower Escondido Falls. It’s a fifty-foot cascade, its pool of water flanked by moss-covered rocks and dewy ferns. The sulfur smell is stronger here and plenty of people seem to be happy ending their trip at this peaceful spot. Ryder told me we could easily call this our halfway point. Sit and relax, enjoy the view for a while, then turn back.
But I’m competitive. I love a good challenge, and I’ve never been one for taking the easy road, at least when it comes to making demands on my body. What I read when I did my recon for this mission was that for those willing to work for it, Upper Escondido Falls might be three times as high but it’s infinitely more beautiful.
To the right of the lower falls, there’s a treacherous wall of limestone. It looks like it will be difficult to ascend and downright crazy to scale on the way back, but we’re both wearing hiking boots, and Ryder said it’s intuitive. Grab on tight and enjoy the ride down, Sunshine.
It’s by far the hardest part, a gain of nearly 200 feet over less than a quarter of a mile. We grapple for roots, rely on a length of rope afforded us for a stretch. At one point, Ryder has to reach down and yank me up to him, until the climb finally flattens, bringing us to land at the base of Upper Escondido Falls.
The path veers left, and we trudge through massive, old roots, crawl between and over equally ancient boulders. Then, suddenly my breath is ripped from me.
Water roars, spilling past a fortress of moss-slicked stones. I’ve heard it’s not the best flow this time of year, but the waterfall’s power is still tangible. Its steady pound resonates in my chest, as it pours down the rocks and lands in a wide glassy pool.
This breathtaking view was worth the work.
As I stare up at the water, movement snags my peripheral vision. I turn, only to see Ryder yanking off his shirt. I swallow a choked sound, as my body incinerates, my every sense tripping like a wall of breakers. All those muscles I’ve gripped and poked beneath his shirt, muscles I saw for one fleeting moment in a drunken haze and wanted to punch myself for not being sober so I could remember them…
There they are. And shit. Ryder’s bigger than I thought he was. He has a lean grace to his body. His clothes drape off his frame, suggesting a narrow build, but those flannel shirts have been lying. Ryder’s shoulders are powerful and rounded, his pecs cut and shifting under his skin as he tosses his shirt. His waist is solid, his every abdominal defined. Lots of guys in college still have boy bodies.
Not the lumberjack. The lumberjack’s a man. And I’m a woman. Whose body is molten hot and bothered looking at him.
Next go his shorts.
Boxer briefs. Thank you, Lord Jesus, boxer briefs. Powerful quads that I recognize. Soccer quads. A scar across his knee. Long, solid calves. My eyes are stuck somewhere around the soles of his feet when Ryder shifts, jerking my attention upward again.
There’s a shallow overhang behind the falls that he stares at, hands on hips. Slowly, his head tips my way, his eyes trailing my body. One eyebrow lifts. You coming, or what, Sunshine?
Dammit, it’s like he’s infiltrated my brain. With only a tip of his head, a tilt of his brow, I know exactly what that asshole wants from me.
“Fine,” I huff, ripping off my shirt. I’m down to a sports bra, as I bend over and toe off my boots, then peel off my socks. Finally, I yank away my shorts. When I glance up at Ryder, his eyes are dark, their gaze traveling my body. Slowly. Patiently. How I imagine his hands would be. Calloused palms that would sprawl across my skin, slide up my calves, then my thighs. A hard grip that would spread my legs wide and pin my hips roughly.
I swallow. “Hell of a team-building exercise, huh?”
Ryder’s gaze finally meets mine. His grin is slow. But it’s warm and genuine. And somehow, I know it’s all for me.
12
Ryder
Playlist: “Set Fire to The Rain,” Noah Guthrie
Even if my hearing was sharp, next to the falls it’s difficult to talk, let alone hear. We climb our way to the overhang beneath the water and my body’s in hell. Willa’s wearing black panties that are sporty of course, a modest bikini, in some kind of stretchy material. They wrap around her magnificent ass that’s unsurprisingly perfect—muscular, soft, round.
I try to avert my eyes, but she slips once, and I have no choice but to brace a hand on her backside and shove her ahead of me. My palm burns from touching her, just how it felt when she leaped into my arms and almost pissed herself at a little garden snake. Jesus, her body, molded around mine as I carried her. Her tits smashed to my back, the heat between her thighs flush against my waist. My fingers still buzz from gripping her strong legs, feeling that smooth, velvety skin.
Finally, we make it onto the ledge behind the waterfall. Willa drops down, immediately leaning against the mossy wall of the overhang. Water sprays in a fine mist, dampening her hair against her neck and her cheekbones. Her eyes hold mine, her chest heaving with exertion from the climb. My own chest rises and falls harshly. My lungs tug for air they can’t seem to get enough of. I feel lightheaded, and it’s not because of the climb.
Willa tears her gaze away, reaches inside her sports bra and pulls out her phone, wiping the front clear of residual water. “Right, time for this godforsaken ‘getting to know you’ questionnaire.”
I groan in agreement, ripping my phone out of my armband case. I use it for running or other times when I need to be hands-free and I’m without pockets. Willa sighs and crosses her legs at the ankles as she swipes through the list. “First things first. Full name.”