An uncontrollable sound broke from his mouth—a growl. Dammit. He would come if he kept picturing her lathered in soap, pleasuring herself and—
“You okay in there?” There was humor in her voice. Which was understandable, but it also made him a little bitter. How could she stand out there and listen to him suffer, with absolutely no idea of what he was going through? How could she just sit there and giggle, controlling his feelings, working his insides like a master puppeteer, while he stood here in anguish?
“How…” The sound of her voice made him still, breath solid in his lungs. “How should I set up these beds? Should I…”Do it. Do what you’re thinking. Don’t ask, don’t make me acknowledge this thing. Any more than I have.“Put them together?” Another long silence. “For warmth, I mean.”
The dam broke and his hand slid tightly down his cock, then back up. Could she hear the slick sound through the generator’s hum? “Prob’ly should.” The words came out as a grunt, punctuated at the end by a hard-fisted turn at the crown.
“Yeah.” Was she as breathless as she sounded or was he imagining that? “Definitely…safer.”
The camp bed scraped on the rough metal floor and he gritted his teeth against a wave of pleasure-pain, shooting up from his dick to the rest of him. Christ, this would hurt if he came. He couldn’t though. He couldn’t come with just a curtain between them. It would be—
“I might as well zip the bags together, too. I mean, I can see my breath in here, so…” A hiccup of sound. “For the best.”
His next “yeah” was more of a grunt than a word, and Jesus Christ, shehadto know what he was doing.
* * *
Angel had dried off from her bath, but she was soaking. Not just wet, but heavy and warm and downright horny. Like back-seat-of-a-car horny. Like do-it-against-a-wall, just-put-it-in-me-before-I-die turned on.
And he’d clearly enjoyed bathing as much as she had.
He was out now, flushed and fresh and young-looking. A glance at her hand showed that she was visibly shaking. Nerves. Excitement. Anticipation.
Shoving it all down, she slid into the bag, turned on her side, and shut her eyes. Sleep would fix this. Or whatever else might happen.
It didn’t take long for him to join her, at once familiar and a stranger. The smell of his skin enveloped her, as comforting as fresh bedsheets, hot like sunshine on sand. She’d never forget this smell. Never.
He lay behind her, utterly still. No arm around her. Just breathing, a little lighter than his usual deep, steady rhythm—faster, too, maybe.
Was he nervous? Or was she imagining it? Projecting, probably.
Her neck grew warm from his exhalations. Was he drawing closer? Was that…
Angel shuddered at the feel of his lips on her nape, and though she wanted to press back into him, she forced herself to wait instead. Let him give without pushing too hard in return. He liked giving, her lone wolf, needed to take the first step in his own good time.
He moved in, set his chin on her shoulder, and whispered, “I can’t…”
When he didn’t go on, she turned slightly to the right, enough to put the tips of their noses together. “Can’t what?”
“Can’t stop wanting you.”
“Why would you want to?” She swallowed, for the first time worried about what kind of terrible answer he might come up with.
Instead of something dire, he puffed out a laugh and rubbed his nose gently against her temple. “You mess with my self-control.” A pause and a shift and then his hand was on her hip, just resting there. Slowly, he stroked under her shirt, then up her waist, to where she was braless and more than ready. She gasped, he inhaled, the sounds harsh. “Afraid I’ll lose it.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“No?” Lightly, he held her breast, just held it, and it felt like the opposite of losing it. The Ice Man, weighing her, sussing her, assessing her. That sent a tingling rush down her spine, to the hot, heavy place between her legs. “You feel a loss of control?”
“Never…” She lost track of her words when his hand twisted to run the back of his knuckles along her achingly hard nipple. “Never had control to begin with.”
He paused, her nipple caught between two fingers, just trapped there, but even that arrested position was torment—no movement, no pull, nothing.
She couldn’t help the low sound that escaped her open mouth, which she had no memory of opening.
Painfully slow, he twisted his hand, just enough to tweak her there and everything inside her tightened, already gearing up for orgasm.
More rushed now, he let her go, reached down for the bottom of her shirt and pulled it to just over her breasts, exposing them to the cold air. His face turned, his mouth found the bare, tender skin just under her ear, and he licked her. “Shit happens when I lose control.” His busy right hand went from one breast to the other, squeezing, weighing, stroking. Every move still measured—cold, almost—and very, very focused.
