He had moved from her embrace, and Esme felt a loneliness that was completely tangible.
"Please!" she pleaded.
Slipping one arm beneath her shoulders and the other behind her knees, Cleav scooped her into his arms. Holding her tightly against his naked chest, he raced through the night and pouring rain to the shelter of the hatching house.
He unlatched the door, and the wind slammed it open. Stepping inside, he stood holding her securely in his arms as water dripped from their bodies to the rough wooden floor beneath his bare feet. The storm beat a staccato rhythm upon the tin roof.
The tiny room was crowded with tanks and tools and machinery, and there was no place to lay her down. The hatching house, when not in use, was the logical place to store nets and cranks and lumber curing with tar. Jars and buckets, gloves and fish-gutters covered every square inch of the tables.
Cleav set Esme on her feet and tenderly wiped the long strands of rain-soaked hair away from her forehead. Her knees still trembled in passion.
"Touch me, Cleav," she whispered. "I need you to touch me."
"I need you, too," he told her longingly. "When this rain lets up a little, we'll make a run for the house. You'll not get a wink of sleep tonight, ma'am, I promise."
Esme smiled, shivering, as she wrapped her arms around his naked form and rubbed the tips of her breasts against the thick dark fur of his chest.
The feel of her body, her hardened nipples, made his loins tighten again.
"No, Hillbaby," he said with a sharp intake of breath. "Don't tease me now. It's torture to taunt me with what I can't have."
"I'm tortured, too," Esme murmured. "I'll be tortured to death before we make it back to our proper marriage bed."
Leaning forward, she grasped the sleek muscles of his arms as she searched his chest with her tongue. Finding a small, brown nipple with a point as hard as a two-penny nail, Esme nipped him gently.
Moaning, Cleav grabbed her shoulders firmly and turned her away from him. If he continued to look at her breasts, her lips, he would have to touch her. And he was aching for her already.
Holding her away from him so that his jutting arousal could not find soft haven in the curve of her buttocks, he spoke gently.
"You've got to stop, Hillbaby," he insisted.
"No!"
"Yes! I can't take much more."
"Make love to me," she begged.
Taking a deep and controlled breath, he tried to explain. "This is clearly a moment that calls for"—his voice cracked slightly—"civilized behavior."
A quiver went through Esme's flesh at his words.
"You're chilled," he whispered tenderly. "And we haven't even a blanket in here."
"Keep me warm, Cleav," she beseeched him desperately. "Your body can keep me warm."
Cleav swallowed with difficulty. "There's no place in here," he explained painfully through teeth clenched against his own desire. "Not enough room to lie on the floor, not even enough wall to lean up against."
The frustration in his own voice mirrored her own.
Esme looked back over her shoulder at him with despair.
"There must be some way." Her tone was frustratingly forlorn.
"Maybe there's no room to lay down on or lean against, but there's plenty of room to bend over."
Against his will, Cleav reached out and ran a trembling hand along the soft, perky backside so prominently displayed before him. "Esme, put your hands against your knees," he whispered.
Cleav had seen French postcards with pictures of men and women doing this exact thing. He, however, had never imagined he would be participating. It was strictly night-dream fantasy.
