Camp Canoa // Luke Hemmings

The One Where They Do It

Later that evening

By midnight, all the kids are secure and quiet in their tents, their excitable gossiping chatter giving way to sleep; Chuck has stumbled back from wherever he spent the evening, reeking of strange perfume and strong strawberry liqueur, and crashed somewhere; the only lights left under the thin canopy of the trees overhead are the smouldering embers from the campfire, and a dim glow from our tent.

Luke retreated there about half an hour ago, claiming that he was going to put his pyjamas on, but he never came back, leaving me similarly pyjama-clad and left to clean up the mess all by myself. How convenient. I bet that I'll go in there and find him innocently asleep, with no idea that he ditched me to do all the hard work... but if that's the case, then he is getting told off.

I stub out the last of the fire with a fallen log and throw the cold water over it afterwards, just to be sure. Then, after glancing around the campsite a couple times to check that everything was under control, I head back to the tent.

When I manage to fumble the zip door open, I find Luke not pretending to be asleep, luckily for him, but curled up against a pile of still stuffed sleeping bags, wearing my baggy hoodie and scrolling through his phone. Upon my entry, he looks up, eyes startled wide, but he only smirks when he realises that it's me, having cleaned up the whole campsite myself.

"Did you have fun?" he asks innocently.

I pull off my shoes. "You lazy bastard." I grumble, ducking into the tent and zipping it up behind me. "Tomorrow when we've gotta pack everything away, you can do it all yourself." I drop onto my knees and crawl towards Luke on my hands and knees, the top of my head bumping the material of the tent above me. I pluck his phone out of his hands. "Is this really enough entertainment?"

"Since I got here, the band hasn't been doing any promo or replying on social media. People think we're dead! You might have a load of 12 year old girls coming at you soon. I haven't updated our Instagram in three weeks, the time that I would usually dedicate to uploading is frequently filled with distractions." He gives me a pointed look, but he's smiling so he's clearly not too annoyed about it.

"God that's awful," I tease, my voice low in the quiet of the tent and woodland, and I crawl closer. "I feel terrible for you, really."

"You're going to try and distract me again, aren't you?" He says, clicking his phone off in reluctant defeat.

"Who, me?" I murmur, stretching over and kissing him once, chastely, but my mouth lingers lazily there. "I'd never dream of it."

I kiss him again, again, insistently and with incremental force so that, very slowly, I crawl into his personal space and push him backwards. He leans and then wobbles and falls to lie back against the crinkly curl of his sleeping bag.

"Grace, there are kids right outside." He chastises, wriggling, but he's only going through the motions.

"Sleeping," I remind him quietly between long, slow kisses. I catch his lower lip between my teeth, and he hums in the back of his throat in a noise that's one-part disapproval, two-parts pleasure, but determinedly makes a show of trying to push me off. I pull back to look him in the eye, smirking. "And hopefully they'll stay that way, unless you start moaning all over the place again."

He flushes upwards from the jaw, embarrassed, but he sighs, giving in. "Fine," he kisses me softly.

I press back in, all hands and knees and the light flick of tongue against his bottom lip to get him to open his mouth and let me in.

From there, we kiss deep and bruising, licking and sucking until our mouths are slick, swollen, shiny and I shift my weight to better push against him. Hands come up to twine around my neck and sweep slyly under my t-shirt collar; I squirm against his hoodie for five minutes or so before losing my patience and I sit back on my heels, one knee either side of his thighs, Luke's hands gripping my thighs firmly. "Take this off." I say, playing with the black hem of my hoodie.