“Hold the light,” says Heathcliff, and I do my best. He shucks off his swim trunks and rinses swiftly, running his hands over his body to clear the grainy sand. I realize I’m watching and I almost look away—but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t watch. I’m in no state for arousal, but I do like the sight of him. His body is broad, powerful, long-limbed, rippling with muscle. He cups his balls, holding them out of the way while he rinses every crevice.
I glance away then, and if my blood wasn’t desperately trying to keep my extremities warm, I’d probably be blushing.
“Come on.” He grabs the phone from me, hurries me back into the main room. I’m in a strange headspace now, where the pain of the cold isn’t so bad and part of my brain is telling me that’s not a good sign.
“Stay with me, okay?” Heathcliff sets the phone on the arm of the couch, rummages in the closet, and gathers up an armful of beach towels and blankets.
I stand where he left me, blinking, feeling oddly hollow inside.
“Hey!” He dumps the blankets on the couch, then wraps one around my shoulders before toweling himself off rapidly. “Don’t pass out, okay? Keep talking. Tell me something.”
“A god tried to kill me,” I murmur.
“Yeah. Yeah he did.” He’s leading me to the couch.
“Juventas isn’t the name of any Irish deity.”
“No. No, it isn’t.” He stretches out his big body, grabs my wrist, and pulls me down on top of him.
I make a small sound of protest.
“Earnshaw, this isn’t about sex. You need body heat.”
He’s right, so I let myself relax against him. He grabs the othertowels and blankets, draping them over us both in a big pile. His phone light winks off, burying us in darkness.
The damp hair on his chest tickles my cheek and brushes against my left eyelashes when I blink. He tugs one of the blankets up higher, tucking it around my shoulders and my face.
My left hip is settled against the V of his abdomen, my legs lying between his. I can feel his dick against my thigh, not totally erect but definitely not limp either.
His right arm encircles me, heavy and somehow soothing. Its comforting strength and the weight of the blankets settles me, while the pockets of air around our bodies slowly heat.
After a few minutes, Heathcliff mutters, “How do you feel? I can see if I’ve got service, try calling 911 if you think you’re going into shock.”
“No, I’m okay.” I rub my chilly nose with my fingers, which are much warmer now.
“Good.”
Another stretch of silence.
“You saved me.” Words I never thought I’d say in real life. They feel more awkward than I expected—and more necessary. “Thank you.”
“Well…” His big chest heaves with a sigh. “You saved me from doing something I’d regret.”
I kept him from killing Edgar. “Wonder what they said about us after we left,” I murmur.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“You really don’t, do you?” Dimly I’m aware that my right hand is moving, running along the heated skin over his ribs. “I don’t either, most of the time. But the way they look at me at church, like I’m the soiled, stained rag that needs to be washed in the blood of theLamb—it’s tough to handle sometimes. They know I only go to services because of Dad, and they’re always trying to ‘get through to me.’ Like whoever finally forces me to change will get a badge of honor or something.”
My hand moves higher, my fingertips gliding over the lower contour of his left pec. So solid. So warm. “They’ll probably head back without us. They’ll assume I’m riding back with you. Wonder what Edgar will do with my bag. Leave it behind or take it along?”
“My stuff’s in my truck,” Heathcliff says. His voice sounds thicker and deeper than usual, and as my palm glides higher, over his chest, there’s an answering twitch against my thigh. I smirk in the darkness.
“So how was she?” I say softly. “Isabella? How did she taste when you kissed her?”
He sighs again. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
