“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To wash.” She caught one corner of the sheet, which had been pushed to the foot of the bed, and loosely fastened it around her. Stepping over and around the clothes that littered the floor, Laurel reached the washstand and poured water into the basin from a large porcelain pitcher. She made a three-quarters turn away from Call when she saw he had rolled on his side to face her. She wondered about her modesty and why she should be overwhelmed by it all of a sudden when Call did not seem bothered in the least. He was still lying on the bed uncovered, completely at his ease, while she was wearing a sheet like a Roman senator and keeping her back to him.
Laurel soaked a washcloth, wrung it out, and wiped her belly. Bending her knees slightly, she washed between her legs. Had she been alone, she might have lingered there to relieve the quiver of pleasure that touching herself there had provoked. Instead, she threw the bunched-up washcloth in the basin as though it were a hot potato. Water sloshed over the rim of the basin and splashed her. Sheused one corner of the sheet to dry her face before she tucked it securely around her.
When she turned around, Call was still stretched out on the bed, though perhaps as a concession to her reserve, he had pulled the log cabin quilt to his waist. Laurel looked around at the clothing scattered on the floor. She picked up his shirt and tossed it to him. Rather than catching it, which he could have easily done, he batted it away so that it fell at the foot of the bedside table.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Why did you throw it to me?”
“I thought you might want to put it on.”
“Nope. I’m fine.”
“Yes. I’m sure you are right now, but you can’t go back to the bunkhouse wearing that quilt.”
“Who said I’m going back to the bunkhouse?”
“I think I just heard me say it.”
Call rubbed the underside of his chin with the back of his hand. “Must be you’ve taken another absurd assumption into your head.”
Laurel hitched the sheet fractionally higher. “No, really, you need to return to the bunkhouse.”
Both of Call’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, no. We’re not done here.”
“We’re not?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. The glimmer of the smile that curved his mouth reached his eyes. “No, we’re not.”
23
Come here,” he said.
She didn’t move. “So help me, Call, if you crook a finger at me, I’ll break it.”
“I believe you. It wasn’t my intention.”
Laurel eyed him as if she could divine precisely what his intentions were. When he merely continued to regard her patiently, she moved toward the bed. At the point where he could have reached her, he made no attempt. “What do you mean, we’re not done?”
“One of us isn’t satisfied, and I’m not satisfied with that.”
She blinked. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Liar. I wasn’t kind to you. Or fair. I want to make amends. I want to please you.”
“You did. It was, um, nice.”
“Nice,” he said. “Damned by faint praise.”
“Well, itwasnice,” she said defensively.
“I think I need to be blunt here. Did you come? This afternoon at the falls you came. You had an orgasm. I want to give you another.”
Laurel felt as though her knees would sag. She sat on the edge of the bed before that happened.
“In fact,” said Call, “you should demand it.”
