Mean Streak(60)

With a touch as light as a breath, she traced the groove as far as she could reach.

Grunting with a mix of discomfort and arousal, he rolled to his back and kicked off his jeans.

The human body held few mysteries for her. She’d seen hundreds, thousands, of bodies. Every shape and size. But she was awestruck by his. And actually a bit shy of its uncompromising maleness—his overall size, the fan of hair that spread over his chest, the lightning bolt tattoo just above the crease where his thigh met an abdomen corded with well-defined muscles, his sex, tight and full again with want of her.

Impatiently he rid her of the shirt, then placed his hand on the back of her head and pulled her toward him. He kissed her long and deep, his tongue repeatedly plumbing her mouth. When he finally broke the kiss, he set her just far enough away from him so that he could study her, which he did with a boldness that thrilled and excited her.

He placed his hand around her breast and gently squeezed the nipple between his fingers. His voice a sexy rasp, he said, “You’re not gonna go run screaming from me?”

In a sublime state of arousal, she smiled and shook her head no.

“Then make memories for me, Doc.”

“Memories?”

Leaving her breasts tingling, he skimmed his hand down over her belly. He contemplated the architecture of her hipbone as though it was a marvel. Then he brushed the backs of his fingers over the soft hair. “Make memories for me to take out and play with when you’re gone.”

“What kind of memories?”

Her question ended on a surprised inhale when he deftly relocated and moved her thighs far enough apart to accommodate his wide shoulders. She could almost feel the probe of his hot gaze as he slid his hands under her and pulled her closer. She definitely felt the first sweep of his tongue, then his lips moving against her as he whispered. “Dirty ones.”





Chapter 20



Something woke her, and she came awake knowing that she was alone in the cabin.

She lay cocooned beneath the covers, but the bed had begun to cool without his body heat.

Maybe he’d stepped out to get firewood.

But she knew she was deceiving herself. It was more than the empty place beside her that let her know he was gone. Just as he seemed to fill the room with his sheer presence, his absence created a vacuum.

She dreaded learning what her solitude indicated.

But she must.

She sat up, hugging herself for warmth. Her nipples contracted in the cold. They were sore. A thousand other effects of their lovemaking combined to create a general achiness all over her body.

To feel this way was shocking and wonderful and she couldn’t conjure up a shred of remorse for it. Indeed, she hoped the twinges and stings, these sweet reminders of their ardency, would stay with her for a long while.

He’d left the space heater on in the bathroom, but with the flame turned low. She didn’t switch on the light, not wishing to have a clear reflection of herself in the mirror. She didn’t care about her dishevelment. What she didn’t want to see was the forlornness of her expression. It was one thing to feel sorrow; seeing evidence of it in her eyes would make it worse.

She showered quickly. When she came out of the bathroom, she got a fresh shirt from his drawer, then went to one of the front windows and raised the shade. It was still very early. Wispy clouds hovered above the distant peaks like a sheer stole. Otherwise, for the first time in days, the sky was clear and promised to become blue as the day progressed.

The yard was empty. His pickup wasn’t in its parking spot.

Listlessly, her hand dropped to her side. The muslin curtain fell back into place.

She turned. That’s when she noticed that on the dining table, where she couldn’t fail to see it, was her fanny pack. The two twenty-dollar bills, her driver’s license, credit card, and her marked map were inside. Beside it were her sunglasses.

Her running clothes, including her gloves and headband, had been folded neatly. Her shoes had been placed beneath the table, side by side, heels and toes aligned, socks stuffed into them.

The array signified that it was time for her to go.

Her limbs felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds apiece as she removed his shirt and draped it over the ladder-back chair. She dressed mechanically and collected her belongings. When she was ready, she sat down on the sofa to wait.

Last night he’d said, “When you’re ready.” Clearly she hadn’t been ready to go, nor had he been ready to return her. During the night, they’d whispered and sighed the urgent language of lovers, but they hadn’t spoken once of the life to which she must return, or of the something, which even Lisa had intuited, that made his anonymity necessary. Each had known that last night represented a King’s X. They had taken a time-out.

But with morning—

Her eyes strayed to the end table. Conspicuously missing from it was the pistol.

She jumped to her feet. “Oh God. Oh no!”

In three strides, she made it to the door and yanked it open. The cold air took her breath, but she practically hurdled the porch steps. She slipped on a patch of ice on the flat rock embedded in the ground, but the skid only served as impetus. She pounded across the yard, climbed over the gate, and started running full out in the direction of the Floyds’ house.

It was uphill all the way, but she ran it as though it were level ground, fearing that, if she slowed down even a little, she would be too late. Her best effort might not be enough. She might not make it in time to prevent—