“What?” It seemed urgent, somehow, that she tell him what she needed.
“You probably can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
She sniffled from deep within her bag and turned onto her side, away from him.
“Can’t leave your bag. Without freezing.” Another sniff and then a low, very hesitant, “Right?”
He could, if he put more clothes on. With the sun beating on their tent all night, it wasn’t terribly cold in here. He sat up and reached for his coat.
“It’s just that I’m…” She shuddered, her shape curling in on itself. Cold, he was sure she’d say. “Afraid.”
He didn’t ask what she was afraid of.
“Come here,” he said, unzipping his bag as fast as he could and reaching immediately for hers. He’d noted that these two could be mated. The sound was harsh, like tearing tent canvas. Worse than the noise was the cold, instantly, completely wrapping itself around him.
Quickly, with surprising efficiency considering how hard it was to move, he scooted his pad, bag, and body toward hers, found the place where their zippers intersected, and shoved one into the other, pulled, got stuck, and shook for a good five seconds before he managed to yank it up again. All the while she waited, trembling. Another zip and they were in a single larger bag. He reached for one of the extras he’d grabbed and spread it out over them. Finally, a yank brought the tops up and over their heads and an awkward drawstring pull gave them a dark, welcome shelter.
Together, face-to-face.
Bad idea. How could he not regret it when it brought everything into pure sensorial focus?
Her shaking continued, punctuated by little gasps.
I should touch her.
Uh. No.
Except they were touching already, pressed together by proximity, from where her sock-clad toes dug into his calves to where her face nestled in the hollow under his chin.
He drew a deep, cinnamon-laced inhale and lifted his arm, which skated audibly against the nylon.
Outside their dark, tight, intimate shelter, the tent shook, battered by winds. But in here, everything was slippery, slow movements, hesitation.
She sighed, the sound as full of pleasure as a slide into hot water, and rather than fight it, he let himself wrap around her. Just his arm, but it felt like so much more. Particularly when she stopped shaking, stopped making those noises, and melted into him.
Each of her exhales puffed hot and intimate against his neck.
It felt good to hold her. As good as it had yesterday in the ancillary building, when he’d taken off his shirt to give her his body heat. Two bright spots in an otherwise hellish twenty-four hours.
Angel let out another deep, satisfied-sounding breath and twisted so that instead of being face-to-face, he spooned her, the position so natural, so warm, that he couldn’t help but tighten his hold.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he gave himself a break.
Why shouldn’t he share a bit of warmth? Why shouldn’t he get some comfort in the process? There was no harm, was there, in closing his eyes and soaking in this connection for just a few seconds?
Who would it hurt if he let himself like it?
No onewas the answer.
Within the snug circle of his arm, her chest rose and fell with comforting regularity, until it stuttered for a second and he could have sworn she whispered something—probably not his name—before settling in deeper and finally falling asleep.
He breathed in, filled his lungs and brain with her, soaked in her warmth and steeped in her spicy scent, and it was so good after the harsh kiss of the wind, so perfectly right that, suddenly, he knew it for exactly what it was: a lie.
There was a reason he’d avoided Angel Smith. Already, she’d started seeping under his skin, making him feel things he preferred not to think about.
And it felt so good it scared him.
