She turned from the percolating coffee to look at him now, sleeping, and had to swallow back a hot, mixed-up wave of feelings.
Crap. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it, obviously, wassupposedto happen, butthisleast of all.
Because this was going to hurt.
She poured a cup and went to one of the plastic chairs by the metal table, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped herself in it. It was a rough plaid, a little dusty, left by some previous traveler. A researcher like Ford, maybe.
Except not. Because nobody was like him.
Oh geez. Shut up!
For a few self-pitying seconds, she couldn’t decide which was worse: the idea of the two of them dying in this place together or the certainty that they’d make it out—somehow—and this thing they had would fizzle to nothing. She’d head back to Pittsburgh to start over. And he’d stay.
“Drama queen,” she whispered, sitting up straight.
How crazy was it to realize, in the middle of nowhere, at the ass end of the world, that happiness couldn’t be measured in financial success or critics’ reviews or stars. It was something else entirely.
It wasn’t until Ford had said the words that she’d truly understood: Happiness, for her, was making meals for people. For people who appreciated her food, not just tooohandahhover absurdly hard-to-get ingredients—although, she thought with humor, that was certainly the case here—but for people who needed the sustenance.Feedingpeople. Their souls, their bodies. Their hearts. And helping them to feed their people.
Sounds emerged from the cot, where Ford stirred in the sleeping bag.
She counted silently to three, preparing for the impact before giving in to her urge to look his way.
Didn’t work. At all. His sleepy smile hit her like a fist to the belly.
His eyes, a little puffy from a full night’s sleep, were adorable. In fact, he’d never looked so soft and sweet. But even as she thought that, her gaze traveled over those thick, hard-looking shoulders, the muscles flexing with a raw-boned, lupine grace as he stretched. Even through the base layer he’d eventually put on, she could make out the deep divots and thick curves of his strong body.
They were so constrained in here, stuck in the cots, since the floor was frigid. She wanted to taste him everywhere, from that big slab of a chest, over each individual stomach muscle, then down that dark trail of hair to his…erection.
Her eyes flew up to meet his. They were focused and intense now, not exactly his usual remote expression, but neither was he the soft, just-woken-up Ford she’d been lucky enough to catch seconds earlier.
“When you look at me like that…” Only half his words were vocalized, the rest carried out on a dark growl.
“What? What happens?”What do you feel? Tell me.
“Come here. I’ll show you.” Of course she couldn’t deny him. Orthis. The pull between them, so unbelievably shocking after the coolness from before.
She stood and walked the few steps, dropping the plaid and stripping off her pants as she went.
The chill enveloped her like an old friend, delivering shivers of cold mixed with pleasure. Would she feel this need, this ache in her soul, every winter for the rest of her life?
And maybe this pull wasn’t shocking, actually. Maybehehad known, on some level, that this would happen if they got together. This explosive nuclear attraction that even two weeks on the ice couldn’t kill. It was stronger than anything she’d felt—ever. And maybe he’d been afraid of it. Afraid like she was, now that she’d experienced it.
She pulled the sleeping bag from him, straddled his thighs, and tugged at his pants just enough to release his erection, which was—
Uh-oh. She had it bad when she thought a man’s penis was beautiful, right? Penises weren’t beautiful. They were floppy and ridiculous or weirdly slanted or too thick, too thin, too aggressive. But this one… She sighed and, rather than take him into her body as she’d planned, scooted lower to put her mouth on him.
He was half-hard now, not as big and stiff as he’d been pretty much all night, and she liked that, too. Liked every state of him. Each kiss and lick, each gentle suck sent blood to fill him, turned him to steel against her cheek, her lips. It made her feel softer, more delicate.
He tasted so human here, like sex, like her, the way he’d smelled in the tent—a scent specially blended for her.
She took him deep, enjoying the helpless, low, raspy sounds he let out. With a groan of her own, she took him in down, then back, until she wasn’t thinking, just giving and taking pleasure. Though she wasn’t sure at any specific moment who took and who received. She reached down and wasn’t surprised to find herself soaking wet.
Even sucking him satisfied something inside her. His hand pushed her hair out of her face and held it there, gently.Tighter, she begged internally,harder.
Maybe she pulled away from him, because he complied by gripping her hair. That forced more sounds from her mouth, made her rub herself faster, and made her twist her head in his grip.
When his other hand urged her up, she let him go with a frown and he laughed. Or at least, he would have if he could make any noise.
