Her mouth falls open. “Wh-what … you thought I would fail? You felt certain that what? I’d be bad at sex?”

“I find that people who spend so much time trying to impress are usually the most unimpressive. Don’t take it personally … you have potential.” I slip out the entrance and zip it closed.

“Bastard!”

I grin.

Nearly an hour later, the zipper sounds to my back. So much for hoping she fell asleep.

“You’re just sitting out here?”

“Yep. Just sitting out here.” I slip my bottled water into the drink holder of my camping chair.

“Why?”

I did some pushups, planks, dips, and crunches … among other things that I’m not going to share with her. It’s late. I’m tired of explaining everything.

“It’s quiet.”

“And I’m too loud?”

I grunt a laugh. “You’re ‘too’ a lot of things.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Not usually.”

“Oh, just with me?”

I glance over as she zips her pink hoodie over her short shorts, no shoes—shocking. She bends down and snags the expensive white tee off the ground, frowning at it as her hand smooths over it.

“Gah … I didn’t think I had that much spit. It’s still really wet.”

I rub my hand over my mouth and pinch my bottom lip between my fingers. “Yeah … you might want a squirt or two of hand sanitizer.”

She shrugs, folding the shirt like it’s fresh out of the dryer. “It’s my spit.”

“Yes. Some of it.”

Her nose wrinkles, forehead drawn tightly in confusion as she holds the folded shirt with one hand and rubs together the fingers of her other hand. “Sticky toothpaste.”

“It’s not toothpaste.” I scoot back in my chair, tipping my head back to admire the stars.

She stomps the ground, positioning herself right in front of my chair.

“Did you spill something and use my shirt?” She looks around. “You used it to clean your stupid windshield, didn’t you?”

“Nope.”

“Then what?” She brings the shirt to her nose.

I choke on my laugh. “No … don’t … that’s just … wrong.”

“Tell me!”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Come here.”

Avery eyes me with caution for a few seconds before taking two steps forward. She jumps when I touch the pad of my finger to the inside of her knee. What can I say? I like torturing myself.

Sliding it up her leg, I whisper, “Are your panties still wet?”

Her lips part, releasing a ragged breath.

I don’t wait for an answer before dipping my finger under the crotch of her shorts. Her breath catches as I rub my finger over her damp panties. “I’d say yes,” I whisper.

Her teeth lay claim to her bottom lip.

“Why are they wet?”

Her forehead wrinkles a fraction.

“Did you clean my windshield with them?”