Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 133975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
He dug out a ring in the loose dirt and went out to find as much dry firewood as possible. Fortunately, the vegetation was so thick in places that when he dug it out, using the edge of his makeshift umbrella like a shovel, he was able to find quite a lot of dead wood in small pieces that were dry enough. The rain hadn’t managed to penetrate all the way to the bottom layer in several places on the sides of steep slopes.
Lyric Johansen, with her vivid red hair and emerald-green eyes, most decidedly was not his woman, and if he didn’t stop thinking with his dick, they weren’t going to make it home. Except…he was pretty damned certain he wasn’t thinking with his dick, and that meant he was in way over his head. Why in the name of Bog did she get under his skin the way she did? Why did he want to bury his cock in her for endless hours and then do it again and again? Because he only did that once and then he walked. He didn’t think about owning the woman’s body. Her heart. Her fuckin’ soul. Yeah, that was how pathetic he had become. Because he was thinking just that.
He built the fire carefully, coaxing it to start with shavings of wood for kindling. He had stacked as much dried wood as he could find away from the fire ring and then the slightly damp wood closer so it would dry out. The water canteen was full, and he took a few drinks before he moved around the tiny flames to force himself to deal with her.
“Need your clothes and shoes to set them out to dry,” he said, gruffer than he intended. He was already pulling off his boots to set them close to the fire. He hadn’t noticed how cold he’d gotten. It would be good to lie down for a few minutes, get warm, and then he could figure out what to eat from their meager supplies.
There was no answer. No movement. She wasn’t lying down naked on the sleeping bag. She was slumped against the back wall of the little grotto-like cavern. She hadn’t even taken off her coat. Huddled as she was, knees drawn up, arms around her middle, head down, she looked tiny. So small he could barely tell she was there.
Swearing, he pushed past their gear and got to her, dragging her away from the cold dirt that made up the wall. He began to strip her fast, using minimal movement, meaning he nearly ripped her clothes in the process. He didn’t talk, didn’t instruct her, he just shoved the sleeves down and yanked the jacket and then shirt off. He had her on his lap and just as if she were a doll, he opened the jeans and peeled them over her hips and down her thighs. Even in the dim light of the cave, her legs appeared a ghostly white and those strange scars stood out, marring her satin skin.
For a woman who appeared not to have curves, she had them. Her hips were just wide enough to form a perfect miniature hourglass thanks to that little tucked-in waist and narrow rib cage. It just made it more difficult to get the wet material over her hips and down her legs. She wasn’t responding. Not cooperating. Not anything.
“Talk to me, Wildfire,” he demanded, stripping off his shirt while she lay in his arms completely naked. He didn’t have the time to admire the fiery red at the junction between her legs, and that just plain scared the shit out of him.
He set her on the sleeping bag and divested himself of the rest of his clothes. He could lay them out much more neatly and efficiently after he brought her body temperature up. The little space that would be home until the storm passed warmed fast. That was the good news. The bad news was she was entirely unresponsive.
His fault. His fuckin’ fault because he was so busy thinking about himself, trying to understand what he planned to do with her once they were off the mountain and within the safety of his club.
Then he was lying on the open sleeping bag, no clothes, Lyric’s naked body over his, with the one thin blanket he’d found in the truck over the top of them. It smelled like motor oil, but he tucked it around them both and wrapped her in his arms. He just held her at first, eyes closed, praying to whatever higher power was in the universe to let him have her. To keep her alive. He made bargains. Stupid ones he’d never keep. Even stupider ones he would.
He began to massage her arms. She was ice-cold, but the longer she stayed lying over him, skin-to-skin, as if they’d been created that way, made exclusively for each other, she began to warm. He moved on to her neck and then her back. His hands were big, rough, but when he touched her, it was with the way he felt. He massaged her with the uncertainty, the need and that unnamed emotion that overwhelmed and confused him, the one he’d never known and refused to put a name to. He took all of that and pushed it deep into her body right along with heat.