She's very thankful

Emily’s head tilted, her expression unreadable—cool but not unkind. Still topless, still flushed from the day, she let the silence hum between them a moment longer.

Then she moved.

Not fast.

But deliberate.

Her shoes pressed into the mulch, and in four slow, steady steps, she crossed the space between them.

His breath caught.

The boy didn’t move. Couldn’t. His cock was still jutting free above his waistband, swollen, flushed, twitching slightly with every heartbeat. His knuckles whitened around the balled-up shirt in his hand, but he didn’t raise it again. He couldn’t look away from her.

Emily stopped in front of him—chest to chest, her breasts barely brushing the sweat-slicked heat of his bare torso. She reached out slowly.

And took his hand.

Her fingers laced gently through his.

He blinked down, confused.

Then she turned, pulling him silently by the wrist, leading him off the main trail.

The mulch turned to dry leaves and firmer dirt underfoot. The brush thickened just enough to obscure them, trees leaning in, sun dappled through the canopy above.

She stopped by the base of a wide old oak.

Turned.

Placed her other palm flat on his chest.

And guided him back, step by step, until his spine met the bark. He stood there like a statue—towering over her, skin slick, mouth slightly open, chest heaving. His cock now fully freed, bobbing gently as he adjusted to the sudden shift, the crown already glistening.

She let go of his hand.

Dropped to her knees.

The forest swallowed the sound of her motion, but the tension vibrated in the air between them.

Her eyes rose, locking with his.

“You brought me a shirt,” she murmured, voice soft but steady, just loud enough to reach him.

His lips parted again, useless.

“I should thank you properly.”

Then her fingers reached for the waistband of his shorts.