Someone is controlling the vibrator inside of her.. but who? XXX Images

Chrissie enjoys a weekend a the lake.

"Why don't we not and say we did?" She mustered up, and asked him again to leave her tent.

"Now that's not a nice way to start things off..." He paused, glancing down at the nametag taped to her trunk. "...Jen," He finished coyly, looking over at her. Jeff knew the effect he was having on her. He could see the doubt flashing in that sapphire gaze of hers, could see the flush that was dotting her pale cheeks. Part of him was doing this because he knew he could smooth her ruffled feathers a bit, and another part of him was doing this because he was growing incredibly attracted to her. It was like being hypnotized by some great wild cat.

On the outside she was incredibly appealing, with her flaxen tresses and her big blue eyes and her milky skin. She smelled like a combination of sweat, leather, and soap, and the mix was intoxicating. On the other side, she had a razor-sharp rage, and he didn't know whether this would lead to him tasting her passion or getting a mouthful of her temper. If she fucked as well as she fought, then he could be in for the most incredible ride he'd ever had.

His eyes traveled down the length of her body, making it apparent that he was taking in the sight of the white shirt sticking to the mounds of her considerable breasts, over the way the breeches molded to her flat abdomen and down her muscled legs right down to the slender toes of her feet. More than once he saw her disobedient gaze wander over his handsome face, at the cotton tunic he wore, down to the button-front breeches and boots. He walked over to where she sat on the cot and took the washing rag from her limp hand.

"May I?" He asked, and without waiting for a response he grabbed the hem of his tunic, pulling the oversized shirt up and over his head. Jen watched him as he tossed the cloth to the dirt floor of her tent and strode over to the washing bowl. He wet the cloth and ran it over his face and neck, his profile turned towards her. Oh good lord, she thought. It was impossible not to appreciate the way the water ran in tiny streams over his muscular back and chest. In the times between medieval fairs, he must have trained in lower bodybuilding. He was cut and defined, from his arms to the ripple of muscle that disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.

She wondered briefly what he did in modern society, after they put the entire renaissance play-acting behind them for another year, and then decided she didn't want to know. All she knew and wanted to know was that this was Jeff, the man who had defeated her in the most crucial match of her day. Not more than fifteen minutes ago, I hated this man, she mused. And now she felt only a fraction of that hatred, but a new dawning excitement growing in the pit of her stomach.

He dropped the rag in the bowl and turned to face her, and she openly admired his half-naked body, the muscles and sparse chest hair dotted every now and again with a single crystalline drop of water from his makeshift bath. Her mouth felt dry as she watched one tiny river of liquid run from the nape of his neck down across his left breast, and hang for a split moment over the pink nub of his nipple. Jen felt her mouth go dry, dug her fingers into the blankets of the cot to keep them from straying. She wanted nothing more than to taste that tiny droplet suspended there, to lick it from his tiny bud and feel it on her tongue.

She must have been gaping; he was smiling at her when she looked up and met his face again. Jeff walked over to stand in front of her, and with one thick finger lifted her chin up to stare into his face.

"Jen," he began, but she brought her hand up to silence them.

Her voice came out thicker and huskier than she imagined it would. "This doesn't change anything between us."

He took her hand and placed it on his stomach, his breath coming harder when her fingers brushed the wall of muscle there. "It changes everything between us," he groaned.

"I still hate you," she murmured, running her fingers up to the upper half of his chest, kneading the flesh there.