CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Heather was a limp weight on top of him. He ran his hands up and down her body savoring the supple muscles under her satiny skin. Tremors from her orgasm pulsed through his body in wave after wave. He wasn’t used to feeling such a strong emotional connection with a partner. But Heather’s responses delighted him. Her aftershocks felt like a gift. Her eagerness did something to his heart.
Slowly her moans faded. She relaxed even more. A little burble issued from her parted lips. She was asleep with his damned cock like an iron bar beneath her. Yet restraining his passions was effortless. He liked holding her like this. She was sleeping for three or four, he reminded himself.
His Heather was not very experienced. Enthusiastic, but not expert. He had always preferred to seek his bedmates amongst sexual sophisticates who knew the score. Women who were looking for an evening of pleasure rather than paradise. Heather didn’t know any scores. And it was worrisome that he did not know if she had found paradise with him. That it mattered so much if she had not.
She had probably not intended to fall asleep. Yet he felt as if this armful of soft and fragrant woman who was so sweetly and deeply asleep belonged to him. Trusted him. He arranged the top sheet over her shoulders and settled down to see if she would rouse on her own. Her rounded belly pressed into him, her luscious flesh conforming to his harder muscles. She sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer.
He stroked her lightly, tracing her spine. And tried to relax his stiff and aroused body. He didn’t understand his disinclination to move her to her own side of the bed. He was as hard as a rock and it wasn’t as if Mrs. Hand and her five daughters had left town. But he preferred the mild discomfort of his throbbing hard-on to the prospect of losing Heather’s satiated warmth. What exactly did that mean?
Popcorn suddenly started firing beneath him. Tiny kernels bounced in his wife’s belly and reverberated through his own frame. For an instant he panicked. She was hurt. He had hurt her. Then he realized his babies were awake and saying hello. On that thought his hard-on died. But those kids suddenly felt tangible. He was going to be a daddy. The soft body lying in his arms was infinitely precious. And that popcorn was his to protect. Heather too.
First on his list was dealing with whatever asswipe had taught her to fear an angry man’s fists. He had his money on Bobby Dupré who had only recently decided to act like a father to Heather. Some father! Trying to force her to marry his brother. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling her special fragrance. Was Zeke correct? Had fate sent him his destined bride? Did he have the courage to make this forced match real? To seize happiness?
* * *
Her cheek was pressed against something hot. All of her was pressed against something hot. She stretched. Her back and shoulders were cold. There was a thin layer of sweat between her and Patrick. But the sheet was not keeping the cool night air off her back. She groped around for the missing blanket and rolled off her human furnace.
Somehow she didn’t think that when he had told her she should be on top that he had meant she should use him as a mattress. But she had enjoyed a good night’s sleep. A glance at the gray light filtering in through the cabin windows told her sunrise was not far off. She had slept as well on him as she had slept alone.
She felt curiously energized. Although she didn’t have any idea why. Maybe it was best not to brood. What she needed now was to go potty, have a big glass of water, and go have a wash in the river.
Patrick was still asleep when she came out of the lean-to. He had thrown off the sheet she had so carefully placed over his shoulders. Already the light in the cabin was less dim. She could see that the curls on his chest were thick and maybe getting thicker. He certainly had some strange ideas about being too hairy. Was that even possible for a bear?
She thrust her feet back into her shoes, picked up yesterday’s clothes, and gathered her clean ones. The air was cool and fresh. Dawn was a thin pink line against the pale gray sky. There were a few streaky clouds out that would probably turn into rain later. All around her songbirds were greeting the dawn and shrieking their love songs to their rivals and their mates. Preserving their territories and securing the next generation. Business as usual.
Twigs broke on the path behind her. She twirled, sending her blanket flying outward in a big circle.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Patrick blazed. He was naked and he had a morning woody that looked like a cruise missile. He was in a towering fury.
She took a step backward to stay out of range of those long arms and big clenched fists. “I’m just going to the river.” She waved her clothes at him placatingly.
“What the hell do you intend to do if you’re ambushed?”
“By what? A raccoon?”
“Black bear, cougar, wolves.” He spoke through his teeth. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw.
She shook her head at him. Her braid was coming undone. Just another reason she needed a wash. “Not at this time of day.”
“You can’t know that. Not for sure.” He advanced on her and she held her ground only by force of will.
“It’s deeply unlikely.” She hated how her voice shook. She would run if she didn’t think he would catch her in a second.
“Unlikely. But not impossible. What the hell would you do if you were ambushed? Predatory animals pay attention. I bet you did this same thing yesterday morning.” He loomed over her, his voice more and more wrathful.
“Two days is hardly a pattern. Besides I didn’t get up until noon yesterday.” She held her clothes tightly against her body as she defended herself. “I could always take bear,” she said lightly. “Any cougar or wolf would back off.”
He went white. His black beard stood out against his pallor. “But you’re pregnant.”
“You noticed.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Just what the fuck is going to happen to your babies if you go around taking bear?” he bellowed.
“Nothing that need concern you.”
“Jesus H,” he ground out, “You’d try the patience of the saints.” But he didn’t touch her. Color slowly seeped back into his face.
“I’m pregnant,” she said, “Not suffering from terminal cancer.”
“What are you going to the river for?”
She blushed. She couldn’t help it. “To clean up.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Not if you’re going to fight with me.”
He put his hand out slowly, hesitantly. “I would never hit you,” he said. “Clearly I might shout at you. But I would never hit you.”
For some reason – probably because she had lost hers – she believed him. She turned on her heel and kept going towards the river.
He was barefoot. He had come dashing out of the cabin without even stopping for those foolish loafers of his. His fright was real.
She turned her head slightly. “Why are you so worried?”
“You’re pregnant. You’ve been sick. And who the hell knows what’s going on in these woods.”
“The odds are good that we’ll find nothing more dangerous than the trout we caught for breakfast.”
He grunted.
The trap held three Bull trout and a single six-inch steelhead. Damn. One fish between two bears was a pretty skimpy breakfast. But you couldn’t take Bulls – they were endangered.
She set her clothes on a clean rock and folded the blanket on top of them. Patrick drew in a hissing breath. She flicked her eyes sideways at him. He looked astounded. His expression made her feel powerful and feminine. Just as if his anger hadn’t been scaring her two minutes ago.
He didn’t take her in his arms. He scanned the area, turning in a circle as if he expected to detect snipers. “You see,” he pointed to the ground where large paws had made deep impressions in the mud.
She sniffed. “Mountain cat.” She sniffed again. “Pregnant female. Helped herself to our fish.” She waded into the stream and bent over the trap to release the bull trout. “What do you think? Is this one too small to eat?”
“Just a bit.” He still looked like he’d never seen a woman before. But he was still quartering the area around the stream as if he expected enemy emplacements. “What makes you think that cougar won’t come back after her snack?”
The truth was that he was right. A mountain cat could well be hiding up in the trees. Waiting for her to pass beneath. But it was improbable. The big cat that had stolen her fish had probably realized that whoever had placed the trap was not merely human, but a bear shifter.
She grinned at him. “It’s too beautiful a morning to fight.” She let all the fish go and reset the trap. “I’m going to bathe.”
“Okay.” He drew the two syllables out and advanced on her. His Johnson stuck out and dripped. “I’ll join you.”
She waded through the water with yesterday’s shirt and underpants. She stopped where the stream had long ago dug out a shallow pool. She dunked her clothes into the water and began to scrub. She rinsed them out and did it again. Patrick stood on the bank and watched her she wrung out the dripping clothes and hung them on the berry bushes. She brought him a handful of blackberries and held them out as a peace offering.
He let her dump them onto his outstretched palm. “Thank you.” His eyes were still watchful. “Are you going to bathe?” He fed her a blackberry.
“Sure,” she mumbled through her mouthful of juicy berry. She immersed herself in the little pool and sat on the graveled bottom. She pretended that she hadn’t noticed Patrick’s flag of truce. He sat beside her without another word. But he placed his hip directly against hers and bumped her ever so gently. His arm came around her shoulder and he kissed her ear. “Good morning, Mrs. Bascom,” he said huskily.
“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” She let herself relax against his big torso. She must be all kinds of a fool, but she didn’t feel scared. Not of him. Not of the cougar.
“Cold as a witch’s tit, is what that water is.” He shuddered elaborately.
She giggled. Patrick Bascom was turning her into a giggler. “It was colder earlier in the spring.”
He scooped up water and began to scour his chest and armpits. She followed suit. It was a bit cold for the sort of frolic his cock had been ready for. She sneaked a peek. It was already at half-mast.
She stretched out full length and pulled the twists out of her messy braid. Her scalp felt greasy. But she hadn’t brought soap for a reason – polluting this pristine river was strictly against the rules. The sky was blotted out when he flipped over her and pressed a hard kiss on her mouth.
And then he was gone as swiftly as he had come. He dunked his own head and scrubbed at his dark curls. His hair had been short and crisp. But either taking bear or the mountain air was making it grow and curl. She flipped water at him and he shook it off his face with a grin, and kept on washing.
“Do you want some help?” She meant to sound matter of fact, but her voice came out low and sultry. Since when was Heather Dupré sultry?
“Nope. But I could give you a hand.” He made his offer sound dirty. But not a muscle moved on his big face.
She stroked his cheek. “You’re going to have a beard in two days.”
He scratched where she had stroked. “It’s a curse. I’ve needed to shave twice a day since I was thirteen.”
“If you grew a beard, you wouldn’t need to.”
“If I grew a beard, I’d never be able to kiss you properly again.”
“You can’t know that. After a week it would probably be soft and curly.” Yup. Heather Dupré had turned into the sort of sultry minx who flirted with naked bears while skinny-dipping in the woods.
His voice was bitter. “After a week, it would be about as soft against your face as steel wool.”
“And you know this how?”
“Experience.” He bounced out of their little pool, river water streamed off his big limbs. He shook himself like the bear he was. Sparkling drops flew all around and landed in Heather’s face.
“How do we get dry?” he asked.
“First we check the trap again. See if we caught our breakfast.” She waded upstream to the trap. Two big steelhead waved their fins.
Patrick reached around her and pulled the whole trap out of the river. “I’ll take care of these. Get yourself dressed.”
“I’ll let the breeze dry me. While I pick berries. But I don’t think there are enough left to be worth picking.”
“We could share the blanket.”
“We could. Or we could run around naked in the woods.” She clambered out onto the riverbank and stood beside him laughing up into his face.
He set the trap down and picked her up by the waist. He brought her mouth to his for another quick kiss. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“I’m willing to risk it – if you are.”
It was as if her mild joke had woken something in him. He set her down on the ground immediately and began to survey the area again. He shook his head. “Not out here. I have a bad feeling out here.” He fetched her the blanket and rubbed her down as briskly as if she were a mare.
“You know this could be foreplay, if you did it right?” she taunted.
“No. Not. Out. Here.” She was still damp but he took the blanket and began to blot his body. Then he wound it around his waist. “Put your clothes on.” It was an order.
She obeyed. She had no idea why, these were her woods, not his. And she didn’t intend to be treated like a chattel – not by him. Not by any man. But it appeared his concern was real even if she didn’t understand. Why was she making excuses for him? That was a slippery slope. Her clean clothes didn’t want to go back on her damp body, but she wrestled them on any way. And then her barefoot warrior was beside her chasing her back along the path.