Phoebe set the ham and bread on her knee and tightened the knot at her breasts. Remington’s dark eyes had been following its slow descent. He actually sighed when she secured it. “Uh-huh,” she said. “I know when you have ideas.”
“I don’t mind sharing this one.”
She waved him off and picked up her food. “We are done with that.”
“You sound definite.”
“Oh, I am.” He probably didn’t believe her, she thought, because she had already shown him that she had the spine of a slug where he was concerned. She needed to keep that rather unpleasant image in her mind when she felt herself being drawn to him. And she was drawn. There was no accusation she could lay at his feet, not when the attraction was so clearly mutual that no seduction was required.
After they had lain together, they had slept deeply but not for long. They were still drowsy as they roused, he first, and then she after a few nudges. It was the act of settling themselves on the narrow mattress that roused them again, this time in a different way.
“My leg won’t go there,” she had said.
“Yes, it will. Here, give me the blanket.”
“No. I want to keep it.”
“It’s tangled. That’s why you don’t fit.”
Phoebe felt her cheeks growing warm as she remembered how he had yanked the blanket from her fist and pulled her bottom hard into the cradle of his groin. She was still wearing her knickers. He, his drawers. Except to call attentionto a barrier that was flimsy at best, their clothing was of no significance.
“That’s better,” he had said.
She pushed deeper into the cradle he’d made for her. “You think so?”
“I do.” His voice was strangled.
She reached behind her, found his arm, and pulled it across her body.
“Comfortable now?” he asked.
“Hardly. But I’m warm.” He, on the other hand, was like a furnace. “I still want the blanket.”
He’d spread it over them. His fingers brushed her breast and they didn’t move on. She had turned slightly, then, just enough for his hand to cover her. The rough pad of his thumb moved over her nipple. She felt a sweet ache between her thighs and the sensation that he was there, inside her, moving slowly, deliberately, and she was contracting, holding him, holding on, because this was what she wanted.
It was perhaps inevitable that it became the reality.
Phoebe was aware that Remington was watching her. His mouth was tipped in a manner that told her he was amused, but set in that way that meant he would not tell her why. She ignored him.
That hadn’t been possible earlier. He’d held her still, slipped into her from behind. She had moaned, and he had rubbed his chin against the crown of her head. “Phoebe,” he’d whispered. Just that. “Phoebe.” He’d said it as if it were important, as if she were important.
And right then she felt as if she were.
“There,” one of them had said. “I want you to touch me there.”
“Hold me.” Had that been her? “Yes. Like that.”
His hand went between her thighs. She was tender there and the sensation of pleasure was so sharp it was almost painful. Her mouth, too, was swollen, and she had run her tongue along her upper lip to trace the new line. A sound escaped, a whimper as he moved in her, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel.
“You can shout if you like,” he’d said. His mouth was close to her ear again. “No one will hear you.”
“You will.”
“Hmm. I know.”
She reached behind her, palmed his buttock. It clenched under her hand. He held himself still. “That’s good,” she’d said. “A moment. I need...” And her voice had trailed off because what she needed was more. His thumb flicked her nipple. She drew in a sharp breath. He rocked her with his next thrust. Her head went back and knocked him on the chin.
There was a hasty, husky apology. Low, wicked laughter. And then he was pushing into her again and she was taking all of him.
