The kiss deepened. Every thread of tension that supported Phoebe’s legs snapped. She sagged against Remington, and whatever space existed between them vanished. Her armswere caught at her sides. She wriggled, slid her palms up his chest, over his shoulders, and then folded her hands behind his neck. She kept his mouth to hers. Why had she never known hunger for this until she was starving?
The shortest route was indeed down. With Phoebe’s arms locked around him, Remington only had to lower himself to the mattress. The blanket unfolded as he stretched out and Phoebe stretched out over him. It was not the position he had imagined when calculating his path, but it was a very good one. He was grinning when she lifted her head, and he surrendered that smile when she lowered it again.
She kissed the corner of his mouth, brushed her lips against his jaw. She teased him with tiny tasting kisses along the cord in his neck. He brought her back to his mouth and kept her there with the heat and the hunger.
Without quite knowing how it happened, Phoebe found herself under Remington, not completely, not so his weight was pressing down on her, but covered by enough of him to feel all of his warmth. That was important right now because he was tugging at the knot that kept her blanket closed. This knot did not require the use of his knife. He raised himself on an elbow, watching her, not what he was doing.
The blanket did not fall open at once, but that was because Phoebe was not in charge of this curtain. Remington was. And he damn well was going to take his time. He studied the narrow part in the blanket; or rather he studied the slim line of milky flesh that it revealed. He rested his hand on the flat of her abdomen and then walked his fingers up the part, through the Valley of Elah, and on to the hollow of her throat. He could feel her faint pulse against his fingertips.
Remington bent, kissed her lightly, and then retraced his trail to where the knot had been. He nudged one side of the blanket. Under his fingers, the edge of it climbed up her breast, caught on the stiff bud of her nipple, and then made a rapid descent when he flicked it aside.
He cupped the underside of her breast and passed his thumb across the pink aureole. The little rosebud stood at attention so he gave it his, covering it with the gentle suck of his mouth.Phoebe’s spine arched as if he had pulled hard on a thread. She found support by driving the heels of her hands between lumps in the mattress. She pressed her head back and felt the line of her neck stretch taut. It drew him there. He left her breast and set his lips against her throat, her neck, and when he came to the hollow just behind her collarbone, he used his teeth to make his mark and his tongue to lave it.
She wanted to weep with the pleasure of it. She whimpered instead.
He followed the same path he had walked with his fingers but used his mouth this time. The blanket no longer covered her—the lift of her arching spine had taken care of that—and Remington now gave attention to the breast he had ignored. She did not react as if she were going to come out of her skin, but she did clutch his shoulders and make small crescents in his skin with her nails. Remington took that as a sign of her approval and stayed where he was until she reversed the pressure and pushed him away.
Raising his head, he searched her face. Her eyelids were heavy, but her eyes were alert. She had pressed her lips together and was breathing shallowly through her nose. “Too much?” he asked. His voice was rough, like gravel, but the whisper softened it.
“Mm. A little.” She whispered as well and was barely able to hear herself above the sound of the rain hitting the roof. “And not quite enough.”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a shadow of a smile that was equal parts regret and empathy. “I understand. Perhaps I should return the reins.”
She didn’t know what he meant until he was once again on his back and she was stretched along his length. He slipped a hand under her upper leg and lifted it across both of his. It was natural for her to rise up on one elbow and set her gaze on him. She ran the back of her hand along his jaw. The brush of his stubble was a pleasant sensation against her knuckles. She tapped his chin once with her forefinger before she slid it up to his mouth and rested it against his lips.
“I’m not shushing you,” she said. “I’m letting you keep your secrets.”
Because she did not raise her finger, he said, “Mm.”
“You have the kind of mouth they hide behind, the kind that rests easy on your face, seems open, friendly, but then it twists slightly, reveals the wryness and says there’s something you know that I don’t, that maybe no one does. I like it.” She raised her finger but not so he could comment. She kissed him on that beautiful mouth and whispered, “Perfect,” against it.
She moved her hand to his chest, rested her palm over his heartbeat, and felt its thrum. Much as he had done, and because he had shown her how to do it, Phoebe walked her fingers to the flat of his belly and then spread them across it. His skin retracted under her touch, and she felt a sense of, if not quite power, then control. Somehow he had known she needed that before she recognized the same, and he gave it to her without hesitation, never risking the possibility that she would not ask for it. Where she was concerned, his instincts were flawless.
It was the same with the horses.
She was able to swallow her chuckle but was unsuccessful biting back her smile. It was not the thought that tickled her, not exactly. It was because she had thought of itnow.
“What is it?” he asked.
She sighed. “Of course you would notice.”
“Phoebe. You are lying beside me in what anyone would say is a provocative state of undress, and you—”
“Half-naked,” she said. “That’s what anyone except you would say, although it was nice of you to add ‘provocative.’”
“And you,” he went on as if she had not interrupted, “are smiling as widely as the Cheshire cat. It’s disturbing.”
She did laugh, then, and showered him with the sound of joy.
Remington let her fumble with the buttons on his fly until she asked for help between gulps of air. She surprised him by not trying to work his trousers over his hips. Instead, she attended to the fly on her trousers. She began to wriggleout of them, which made her breasts bounce in a most appealing way. She stopped, though not, it seemed, because he was ogling her.
It was a matter of her boots. She took back the leg he had pulled over his and sat up. “I forgot about these,” she said. “There’s an order, isn’t there, when you want to get out of your trousers?” She bent one knee, pulled up her calf crossways, and wrestled the boot off.
Remington watched her toss aside the boot and then begin to contemplate her sock. It would have been amusing if his cock were not as hard as an iron bar and pressing with some urgency against his drawers. He almost groaned with relief when she decided to keep the sock on and turned her attention to the other boot.
The boot thumped to the floor. This sock also stayed on, although for a long, painful moment it appeared she was reconsidering her decision. Remington was tempted to thump his head against the mattress. He could make at least as much noise as the boot had and probably feel better for it.
“Are you all right?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.
