“What exactly did you used to do here?”
Dax’s question makes me giggle, or maybe it’s the way his hair tickles the underside of my breast as he kisses his way up my naked torso.
“Definitely not this,” I say, then gasp as he shifts his hips to rock deeper inside me. His movements are slow and deliberate, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to tease, or trying to avoid jostling the collection of antique frying pans on the wall above the log bed.
“I helped them stage exhibits,” I tell him, conscious of the breathiness in my voice. It’s not easy carrying on a conversation while having illicit sex in a replica of a cot slept on by members of the Corps of Discovery at Fort Clatsop in 1805. “That, and I gave tours for schoolchildren.”
“As a volunteer?”
“Yes,” I say, though it comes out more like a hiss. Good Lord, Dax knows how to move. Does he know how freaking good he is at this?
The smug look on his face tells me he does, and also that he plans to torture me for a good long while. He eases in deeper, smiling down into my eyes as he takes his time gliding back.
“And you were also a board member?” he asks like it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss my career history mid-coitus.
I nod and try to recall what he asked me. “Definitely not—bored. What?”
He laughs, and I close my eyes, wanting to contain the sensation of Dax driving into me. Then I open them again, because I really need to see this to get the full effect.
I reach up and tug the tail on his coonskin cap. “I promise this isn’t a priceless artifact. I bought it at a thrift store in the Pearl District when I helped stage this exhibit.”
“You’re so fucking smart,” he murmurs. “Why is that such a turn-on?”
“Beats me. But I’m glad it is.”
Dax shifts again, taking his time. He’s fucking me slowly and just thinking that word makes me shiver. So does the way he keeps moving. It’s a delicious tease, though probably ill-advised since there are a hundred art connoisseurs milling around two floors below us. The only reason I’m not freaking out is that I know this floor is closed to the public tonight.
“Oh,” I gasp as he flicks his tongue over my nipple again. “That’s nice.”
“Careful,” he warns as I grip the log bedpost. “If you knock that bearskin rug off the wall, I’ll have nightmares for years about being attacked by a grizzly.”
“It’s a black bear,” I murmur, gripping his shoulder instead of the bedpost. “One of a hundred and twenty-two animals catalogued during the Lewis and Clark Expedition between eighteen-oh-four and eighteen-oh-sex.”
“Sex?” He grins down at me as he moves his hips to hit something deep and delicious. I arch up, forgetting about bears and muskets and history and pretty much everything else but the way Dax feels inside me.
But he’s there to remind me. “Tell me more about Lewis and Clark.”
I open my eyes and study him. “Is this your idea of dirty talk?”
“Kind of.” He grins down at me as he slides out and back in again, deliciously hard and slick. “Let’s just say I’m developing a fetish for hot brainy babes.”
“Plural?” I give him a teasing, haughty look, but he breaks my concentration as he moves again. His mouth dips into the hollow between my ear and shoulder, and the warmth of his breath sends an army of goose bumps marching down my arm.
Or maybe that’s the wall of mounted animal heads on the wall across from us. I glance away and focus on answering Dax’s question. “The leaders of the expedition were Captain Meriwether Lewis and Second Lieutenant William Clark.” My voice sounds breathy and tight.
“Meriwether? I’ll bet his wife had a helluva time screaming that in bed.”
I giggle and arch up against him, a moan escaping my lips. “He wasn’t married, but Toussaint Charbonneau was. He was one of their interpreters, and his wife was Sacagawea.”
“Ah, Sacagawea. I’ve heard of her.”
“She taught the explorers about which berries and roots they could eat so they didn’t all die of scurvy.”
“Scurvy,” Dax murmurs, kissing my throat as he eases deeper, distracting me once more with delicious sensation. “Pretty sure that’s the first time anyone’s said scurvy to me during sex.”
“How about blunderbuss?”
That stops him short, which is a pity. I liked the way he was moving. Reading my mind, he starts again, driving up with aching deliberateness. “Blunderbuss?”
