The best course of action, now that she was all bandaged up, was to give her back her foot.
But he couldn’t.
Instead, he ran his thumb along the central curve, pressed forward beneath her toes, then down to her heel. The sounds she made were—he swallowed—obscene. A shocked gasp that urged him to look her way. He didn’t, though, because if their eyes met, he might have to stop.
And that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Another rub, deeper this time, bearing down on aching muscles. But it didn’t sound like pain when she moaned, low and guttural, and though he knew better, he let his eyes slide up her body to her face.
He froze. He’d never seen anything hotter—not on-screen or in the throes of sex or in his darkest fantasy.
Mouth open, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, everything about her screamed pleasure. Just to be sure, he stroked back and pressed again, wanting—no,needing—to know which notesthisspot would play on her ever-changing face.
And she didn’t disappoint. Every feature cringed, slowly, sensually, in a magnified expression of pleasure-pain. Sweeping up to caress her toes now was sheer torture, because he was hard—shocking in this cold—and her reactions, though subtle, were more intimately real than any peepshow.
He could’ve gone on forever, rubbing, rapt, eyes glued to her face as she showed him just how good he made her feel, picturing how amazing she’d look if he were kissing her, or—
Her eyes popped open, ensnaring his in their velvet trap.
Everything went quiet, stilling as if the storm had taken a breath. Or maybe it was him going a little deaf, like when his ears needed popping in a plane. Except he could hear the things happening in this tent. Could feel and smell with overwhelming precision every fine detail blown up under a microscope.
They shared a couple hard inhale-exhales, the tension between them as palpable as the frigid temperature.
The press of his fingers lessened, his caresses slowed, until he did nothing but grasp her foot while she just as steadily held his gaze.
“That feels amazing,” she said in a bedroom whisper that he could feel deep in his bones, though it couldn’t possibly be loud enough to hear.
Her mouth closed and his attention flicked down, watching her swallow with something awfully close to hunger before sliding back up to find her eyes boring into him.
And, just like that, the bubble popped.
Everything came rushing in—the unbearable noise, the killing chill, the too-intense, sizzling stimulus of this connection.
As if stung, he released her foot and backed up until he couldn’t move any farther. There was no escape, nowhere to go.
He had to get out. Blindly, he put on whatever clothes he found, then his boots and coat. He tore open the zipper and went out, not once glancing her way.
Outside, he went to work with the shovel, as if he’d dig clean through to the Arctic. It wasn’t until he almost broke a sweat that he slowed down long enough to admit what had happened.
He’d touched her, felt her skin, seen her pleasure, and it scared the living hell out of him. She’d burn him if she got too close. And he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
Chapter 24
She watched, completely flabbergasted, as he booted and suited up before heading out again.
After a few seconds, a sound came to her, through the two layers of tent fabric and a million coats of whiteout. She cocked her head and listened to the shovel. She looked around: water, food… They had what they needed.
What the hell?
When he didn’t return after a good chunk of time, she wrapped up and went out.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He stopped, back bent, breathing so hard she could see the cloud from five feet away.
“Back inside, Angel.” He didn’t even straighten up when he spoke to her, just stayed there, stiffly bent, frozen as if he needed her to leave before he’d move again. “Please.”
“Why are you doing that? We have water.”
