“I’m hoping for a little more neanderthal ravishing.”
The twitch turns into a full-blown smile. “So sorry to disappoint. I’m not actually a yeti. You do know that?”
“I’m coming to terms with it.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.” He pauses, watching me. I can still feel his lips on mine; I wonder if he is thinking the same. But instead of leaning back in, he pulls further away, laying his head on the makeshift pillow. “Good night, London.”
“Good night, Angus.”
A gust of wind hits the tent, buffering the canvas into my back. I snuggle down in my half of the sleeping back and close my eyes. Somewhere, between one breath and the next, I fall into sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
Angus
Warm. Deliciously, achingly warm. I curl closer around the radiator that is burning up and down my front. I’m hard as anything, my erection pressing into the ass buried in my crotch, and even as I stir, I can feel myself growing stiffer, wanting more. I move my face to avoid the tangle of hair and bury my nose in the soft skin there, drinking up her smell.
Her?
My arm twitches and I realise that it’s curled around Rowan’s waist, my hand resting heavily on her breast.
Last night comes back to me like a shock of cold water. Rowan and I were sharing a tent. I let her in when hers turned into its own loch. We kissed, and it was aching, and needy, and good.
And somehow in the night, I’ve sought her out, draped myself around her and pulled her close. She fits me perfectly. A jigsaw with a missing piece. I need to stop, now, while I still have a chance. This is quickly becoming everything I promised myself it wouldn’t. But my body doesn’t want to let go. My body wants to stay.
I can’t. Yes, we kissed, and yes, Rowan sounded disappointed when I made us stop. But I have no idea if she’ll feel the same way in the cold, morning light.
At the very least, I need to get my hand off her breast. I try to pull my arm back, removing it as gently as I can, and freeze when Rowan stirs and makes a sound of protest, her face lax with sleep. She frowns, her full lips shaping a pout, and grabs my forearm, pulling it back around her with surprising force.
Well, shit. Now I’m trapped. And, despite the fear that she is going to wake at any moment and scream at me to get off, still very, very hard.
Rowan is beautiful even in sleep. I follow her freckles with my eyes, a few around her nose like constellations, a few up around her eyebrows, as if they have been scattered to the winds. The lines on her forehead, normally creased against the sun, have gone; I have the urge to trace down her straight, button nose with a finger, cup her cheek with a hand.
“Rowan?” I say gently. “Do you mind letting go of my arm?”
Yes, that’s it. Make her think she’s the one who dragged me over. Excellent plan.
“Mhr?” She half-stirs, eyelids fluttering. “Is it morning?”
“Aye. It’s” – I check my watch on the arm she’s still grasping with determined hands – “after six. Time to get moving.”
“Five more minutes.”
I let her have them. For her, of course. Not for me. Not because I’m enjoying her closeness, the warmth of her, the feeling of my body wrapped around hers. And when the five minutes are up, I try removing my arm again, but her hands are still locked.
“If you let me go, I can make us coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Your own mug.”
“Yes, please.” She snuggles deeper into the sleeping bag. “That sounds nice.”
“Rowan.”
“What?” Rowan finally flicks an eye open, and jerks back, seemingly startled by how close we are.
“My arm.”
