Old flame reignites in the tent

“Do you still take it black?” Tate asked, the question dropping into the low murmur of the group gathered around the fire pit.

“Since when do you keep track of my coffee?” Rina asked back, her tone catching slightly on the second half of the sentence.

“I always kept track,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low enough that the others wouldn’t hear it over the burning wood.

“Two sugars now,” she murmured, sitting heavily beside him on the cooler instead of taking the empty camp chair across the circle.

“Sugar,” he repeated, the word sounding rougher than it should have. “Got it.”

“You’re quiet,” she said an hour later, falling into step beside him as they carried the remaining supplies away from the extinguished fire.

“Just thinking,” he answered, the shape of the words quiet between them on the dirt path.

“Are you still humming when you think?” she asked, her jacket sleeve brushing his arm as the trail narrowed.

“Only when you aren’t talking,” he told her, the sentence losing its steady rhythm as her knuckles brushed his palm and lingered there.

“I’ll be quiet, then,” she breathed, the sound barely clearing her throat before they reached the edge of the campsite.

“Do you want me to zip the flap?” he asked once they crawled inside the small canvas dome, the space tight enough that their knees immediately bumped.

“Give me a second,” she said, her voice muffled as she tugged at her boots.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” he said, the endearment slipping out before he could bite it back, entirely new to the space between them.

“What did you call me?” she asked, the question dropping the pitch of her voice completely and altering the temperature of the narrow tent.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started to say, but the syllable broke open against her mouth as she closed the distance, her breath hitching into a sharp, sudden gasp.

“Don’t take it back,” she commanded, the words fracturing as she shoved her hands aggressively under the heavy hem of his sweater.

“I wasn’t going to,” he groaned, dragging her thermal shirt up to her ribcage, his mouth finding the sensitive skin right below her jawline.

“You’re talking too much,” she panted, her fingers fumbling blindly with the metal button of his jeans, the denim rasping loudly in the tight quarters as she shoved the fabric aside.

“Am I?” he asked, his voice catching in his throat as her hand slid directly past his waistband, neither of them pausing to remove the heavy clothes trapping them.

“Don’t take anything off,” she ordered, the words slurring into a harsh intake of breath when he reached under the twisted fabric of her pants, hooking the edge of her underwear to pull it sideways.

“I’m not,” he rasped, his knuckles dragging against her bare thigh as she hitched her leg over his hip, the cramped canvas walls forcing them to remain heavily tangled in their half-displaced layers.

“Tell me you aren’t going to stop,” she demanded, the sentence dissolving into a fractured moan against his neck as his fingers found wet heat.

He pushed his cock into her in one steady drive, the underwear still hooked sideways and biting tight against the join, her leg locked over his hip narrowing him into her, her cunt gripping him while one hand stayed between her legs and the other slid under the bunched thermal to her breast.

“Rina,” he said, the name low and close to her ear.

His thumb pressed circles over her clit and his fingers worked her nipple in the same rhythm, the two points of pressure meeting every time his hips rolled forward.

Her thighs trembled around him on each thrust, short sounds that weren’t quite words spilling out of her.

“Too much,” she managed, voice thin, “I can’t—”

He held still inside her, both hands continuing their motion without pause.

“Say it,” he said.

She swallowed, the sound audible, and her forehead dropped against his shoulder.

“Make me come,” she said, the request scraping out raw and small.

He moved again, deeper, the hand between her legs never slowing, and the one at her breast matched it until her hips jerked once and she came with a choked sound against his neck.

Afterward he eased back enough to tug the rucked-up hem of his sweater down where it had bunched at his ribs.

He had the fabric smoothed in one hand and his jeans half-zipped when he stopped, his fingers going still against the wool.

He turned and lowered himself beside her on the narrow pad, his palm resting open on her hip.

“Two sugars,” he murmured, like he was learning it.

She shifted to make room, her fingers finding the back of his wrist and staying there.