After disposing of the condom, Fletch returned and climbed into bed. He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring any leftover mud. “This needs to come off.” Unfastening her bra, he tugged it free and tossed it over his shoulder onto the floor.
“Mm.” He cupped her br**sts and lazily brushed his thumbs over her n**ples. “I hope we get to do this again sometime, because I have plans for these.”
Tired as she was, she still responded to his touch with a tightening deep in her belly. His hands were calloused by hours of hard labor, which made his touch unlike any she’d known, and more exciting because of that. “We can probably do it again . . . when you’re up to it.”
“Better not say that.” He looked into her eyes and smiled. “I might be up to it sooner than you think. And you need rest.”
“You do, too.” She should probably be considering the long-term ramifications of hav**g s*x with him instead of agreeing to more of it, but she didn’t want to think about the future now. Living in the moment had far more appeal.
Clichéd though her response might be, his heroism and his take-charge attitude made her feel feminine and cherished, and she wasn’t willing to give that up yet. Denying both of them this incredible pleasure would be straying into martyr territory, and she’d never been a fan of martyrdom. Plus the guy had an amazing package. There was that.
She ran her finger down the side of his jaw. “You’ve been awake as long as I have. And you had to drag me through the water while I just hung there doing nothing.”
“You were breathing. That was all I cared about.”
She cupped his face. “But you must be exhausted.”
“I should be, but when I look at you, I get a second wind.”
“You’re high on adrenaline.” She brushed her thumb over his cheek. His prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes hinted at Native American ancestry. Just looking at him was a pleasure. But she noticed weary lines around those eyes. “We should sleep.”
“Probably. Anyway I’m not making love to you again until I’ve shaved off the stubble.” He continued to caress her. “Your skin is like silk. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Maybe I’d like the manly scrape of your beard on my br**sts.” She was certainly enjoying having his hands there.
“But it wouldn’t be just your br**sts.” He held her gaze. “Eventually I’d move on, and you’d feel the manly scrape of my beard between your thighs.”
Tension coiled within her. “I see.”
“And once I get into that program, I like to make it last. So I’ll shave first, so I can settle in and do the job right.”
That reminded her of his agile tongue, and lust grabbed her in predictable places. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing by talking to me this way.”
He smiled. “What am I doing?”
“Making me hot.”
“Is that so?” He slid one hand over her belly, tunneled his fingers through her curls, and began to explore while still massaging her breast. “You are pretty hot, at that.”
She drew in a breath. “I thought we were going to rest.”
“We will.” He slipped his fingers in deeper with devastating effect. “In a minute.”
She began to tremble. “This is crazy. I just—”
“That’s what’s so fun about ladies. They can come a lot. Guys, not so much.”
She was in no position to argue about whether she could come again so soon, because she was about to. He understood exactly how to stroke her, how to make her whimper and shiver as her cli**x approached.
“Let go, sweet Astrid.” He began pinching her nipple in the same rhythm. “Come for me.”
She obeyed his command, arching her back with a wild cry of release. Afterward she lay with her eyes closed and a smile of pure joy curved her mouth. “Awesome,” she whispered.
“Yes, you are.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “It’s you, Fletch. You’re the awesomeness.”
“It’s us.” He combed her hair back from her face and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “It’s us.”
Five
The last thing Astrid remembered was hearing the rain as Fletch traced the curve of her cheek with the tip of his finger and urged her to sleep. She must have done that instantly. When she woke up, she was on her side in the same position, so she hadn’t moved at all. She’d been just that tired and just that relaxed.
But there were two changes to her situation. Fletch wasn’t in bed with her anymore, and he’d obviously covered her with a blanket at some point. The light had shifted, and if she were to guess, she’d say it was afternoon, although it was hard to tell, because the rain continued to fall.
Fletch had made coffee. She could smell it. Climbing out of bed, she noticed that none of her clothes remained in the room, either. She glanced around, taking in the room’s decor for the first time. She’d seen the rest of the house briefly during visits to tend his horses, but never his bedroom, obviously.
The bedroom mirrored the other rooms in that it looked like a decidedly heterosexual man had chosen everything without advice from a woman. The dark wood furniture—the bed, a dresser, and a rocking chair—were straightforward pieces without embellishments. The colors of the fabrics in the bed linens and the curtains were earth tones of green and brown.
The walls provided the most interesting element of the room—colorful vintage posters, all professionally framed. She wasn’t an expert, but she recognized Elvis, which suggested the rest were of that era, too. Fletch had mentioned that his mother had loved classic rock, and Astrid wondered if the posters had belonged to her.
The aroma of coffee was joined by the tang of onions sautéing in butter. Mouth watering, she wrapped herself in the light cream-colored blanket and walked out of the bedroom. It didn’t matter what Fletch was cooking. She was starving and would eat anything.
The one-story house had a basic design. The master bedroom with attached bath was at one end, with the great room and kitchen in the middle. A second bedroom and attached bath, which now functioned as Fletch’s office, was at the far end of the house.
She’d always liked the simplicity of the house. Although it wasn’t particularly large or luxurious, it had some nice touches, like granite countertops, hardwood floors, and good-sized windows. Most charming of all, Fletch had paid extra for a wood-burning fireplace made of native stone. Her first visit here had been during winter, and he’d had a fire going.
She hadn’t stayed to enjoy it with him, because that wouldn’t have been the professional thing to do. But she’d wanted to. She even thought that he’d wanted her to.
The image of sharing a cozy fire with him was lovely, but winter was several months away, and projecting that far into the future wasn’t a good idea. She was here now, and Fletch stood in the kitchen dressed in a clean white T-shirt and jeans. His back was to her as he stirred onions in the frying pan. The browning onions crackled enough that he obviously hadn’t heard her bare feet on the wooden floor.
She took a moment to watch him cook before announcing her presence. In her world of privilege, guys didn’t cook. They ate in restaurants or hired someone to cook for them. Normally, Edna would be here to cook for Fletch, but he’d obviously learned the skill at some point. She wondered if there was anything the guy couldn’t do.
His dark hair was damp from a recent shower. If he’d showered and shaved in the master bath, she really must have been zonked. She suspected he’d gone to the other end of the house to clean up so he wouldn’t disturb her. That would be a Fletch move.
A center island with stools on the living room side separated the kitchen from the rest of the large space. She slid onto one of the stools and cleared her throat. “You’re being observed, Mr. Chef.”
He turned, spatula in hand, and grinned at her. “I’d tell you what you look like wrapped in that blanket, but my Native American friends tell me that word is politically incorrect.”
“It was all I had. Someone stole my clothes.”
He laughed and went back to stirring his onions. “Yeah, well, someone kept yammering about turning on the washer earlier this morning, so I decided to take care of that so I wouldn’t hear about it when she woke up.”
“What time is it?”
“A little past two. Not very late.”
“You would have eventually come in to get me, right? You wouldn’t have let me sleep for twelve hours or anything, would you?”
“No.” He reached for a bowl with a whisk leaning in it, whipped the contents a few times, and dumped what looked like scrambled eggs in the pan. “I would selfishly have made you wake up so we could have sex again.”
That made her giggle. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to forget, I hope.”
“That, too.” She leaned her chin on her hand. She could sit here watching him for a very long time and not get bored. His broad shoulders, slim hips, and excellent buns were worth the price of admission.
“Want coffee?”
“Love some.”
“Want sex?”
“Eventually, but I want food first.”