He did and joined her, snatching her hands away and inspecting her palms.The skin was pink and irritated.“I thought you could withstand heat.”
“I can, but I can still burn.I was distracted.I won’t be next time.”
Next time.Good.He smashed the green branch between his fingers, releasing a thick, clear liquid, and he rubbed it on her palms.
“What is that?”she asked.“It smells like a salve my mother makes.”
“Aloe.A plant with healing properties.Particularly effective against burns.It’s likely a key component of that salve.”
“That feels lovely,” she said.Then she bit her lip.“Are you warming your fingers on purpose?”
Good God hewas.
He grasped her other hand, pulled her closer, and applied the liquid to that palm.He traced the lines of her palm, the length of her fingers.
“Mm… Chester?I’m well now.”She tugged her hands.
He kept them.“Hm?”
“I’m well now.”She tugged them harder, and when he released her, she grabbed the candle and tinder again.“I’ve an idea.”
“Tell me.”But he was still thinking of her hands.Small yet capable, strong yet elegant.“Tell me about this idea.”
She turned to the candle.“Bring up your heat image, then hold your hand over the flame, the gold disk on your palm.Use your hand as a burner.Your imagination will bring forth your internal heat, but the candle flame will keep it steady, a makeshift forge.”
“You may be asking too much of me.”But he fumbled in his pocket for the gold disc, which he placed in his palm and held high above the flame, closing his eyes.
The image he sought appeared with no effort.It had been there just before she’d burned her palms—Sybil Grant in the sunlight, her hair bright strands of molten gold.
“Now lower your hand,” she whispered.
He did.Lower.And lower.And?—
He stopped.The smallest tickle danced against the back of his hand as the woman in his mind danced in the sun.Naked.The heat consumed his hand now.
“It’s working,” she said, excitement climbing her whisper louder.“Shape the gold.Any shape.Keep the heat.Work with it.”
Any shape….
Woman.Naked.Dancing.
He opened his eyes, found hers on him.Blue flames danced there, and blue flames danced between them.The candle was melting quickly beneath the conflagration bursting from its wick.
He was doing it.
The fire was everywhere now—up his arm and down his spine, pooling in his groin and tingling down his legs.He was hot and hard as metal, and the heart of the heat was four hands tangled around a lump of gold.
He leaned toward the flames, toward her.His lips, slightly parted, tasted smoke.He wanted to taste her lips, also slightly parted and berry pink.
A cry, a scream.
They jolted apart.
The fire between them died a quick death.
The one above them blazed, feeding on the drying plants, and smoke streamed around them, clouding up the air.
“Water!”screamed a woman from the doorway.
