Page 39 of Love Bound

He doesn’t seem to be.

But what does that mean? Am I profiling?

Travis would be on me in a minute.

The next "Claire," comes thick and sloppy with a soft flick of the blanket. I can tell he’s about to go under. It’s now or never. My pulse flutters, though. To be that near him. . .

I kick off my moccasins, leaving my socks on, and climb in next to him before turning on my side to face the window.

He sighs again, deeply, this time without a catch. "That's better," he says with such familiarity, almost as if to someone else, and I feel him relax. There's another shift from him and I feel weight from more blankets, but within minutes his breath is even and strong.

My face, though, is freezing. I try pulling the covers up over my head, but the little spot where I breathe feels like I'm breathing through a funnel of ice. It’s the single pane window—it’s just letting heat escape and the cold rush in. I wait another five minutes to be sure he's hopelessly lost in sleep and then I start scooting, turning, trying hard to close any space between us. I turn around so my back is to the window.

But it's impossible.

I accidentally roll close and waves of heat roll off his body. He's just inches from me. And now I see why the second hit with the blankets.

He's doubled them on me. The only thing covering him is the thin sheet. Completely out, slightly elevated from the pillows, his gorgeous chest rising and falling, his right arm is flung above his head, pulls that pec flat. His nipple looks so dark and soft in the firelight, ringed with soft black hair. When he stirs slightly and swallows, his throat working, he shudders slightly with pain finding him somewhere, and hot, wet, cream seeps into my mound.

Fuck, what's wrong with me?

Am I that much of a control freak I can only be turned on by an unconscious man?

But it's true. I can’t take my eyes off him. When he moans slightly and his lips open, I’m desperate to kiss him. To take that pain away, suck that pain away. To make him shudder from me on him, my mouth on him, have him weak from what I will do to him. To have him collapse on this bed because of me.

Sitting up, I take the blankets and pull the two back across him, being careful not to jostle his bandages. Gently, very gently, I lift his arm, momentarily surprised at how heavy it is, and I lay it next to him on the pillow. As I pull the covers all the way up over his shoulders, I listen for a moment, but he doesn't stir.

I roll back to face the window, cover my head and try to recreate that funnel of icy air. My heart thuds so hard it skips a beat or two and ricochets around in my chest for a moment, trying to find its rhythm. When I punch the pillow under my head, I realize I’m lying closer to him than before, and he slips the arm I so carefully positioned, around me. I hold my breath.

He wasn't kidding, he does burn hot. His heat rolls over me in a steady stream, reaching up into my cheeks, and my back. My poor thighs—which have been trembling since the moment I found him on the floor upstairs—slowly relax. I soak him up and the tension in my neck allows me to echo his sigh.

He's alive.

We'll sort out the rest tomorrow.

The weight of his arm around me and the feel of the warm length of his body against my back makes me feel like I've arrived someplace familiar. Gently, he rubs my stomach, and instead of being tense, I relax.

And somewhere, as sleep descends, I fuzzily realize I am home.

***

The little battery-powered digital clock beeps. Flinging a hand out to hit the off button, I see the red digits flashing eighty-eight, eighty-eight. I move under the covers, bringing my arm up and peering at my own watch. It's exactly one hour before one of those eights, though it's still dark out. Cloud cover must be really thick.

Warm and flushed from head to toe and almost too hot, I try to ease myself out from under his arm, scoot to the edge of the bed, and climb out. He's still asleep, and although his face is terribly pale, his breathing is even. I check the bandages. The skin around them is not hot or pink, which means so far there's no infection. Moving to the window, I take a peek at the sea, the coastline, and try to decipher the weather.

Icicles hang one story up from the roof, like clear, six-inch teeth. Chloe used to call them dragon's teeth when we were little. She'd make up stories of gods and goddesses who could talk to dragons—or were part dragon—and when I lost my first tooth, it was during an ice storm just like this one. She went out and collected a dozen or so icicles after knocking them down with a broom from her window. She carried them into the kitchen to show me that even dragons lost their teeth. Humans lost one or maybe two at a time, she explained to each of us, but dragons lost them in batches. She got so good at telling the story, it became family lore. When Travis lost five teeth at once, he thought for a whole month he was part dragon. Even at fourteen, so did I, and for a few moments, I thought my baby brother had dragon DNA.

The ground outside is coated in ice, and the icy rain has turned to snow. Big heavy flakes are fluttering down and have already layered every surface with a good three inches of snow. Underneath, I’m sure the roads are slick with black ice, making it impossible to travel now. I need to get to my emergency weather alert radio or at least the coast guard scanner to figure out when I can call for help.

We must have slept twelve hours and the room is chilly, the fire reduced to embers. There's little wood left. Turning my attention to the fireplace, I poke at it and throw in the last two remaining sticks. I try to make some air pockets underneath, so they catch quickly.

As flames flicker to life I know they're not going to last longer than half an hour, and we're going to have to move to the clinic. The generator will have kicked in last night when the power went out and my place will be warm. He can have Devon and Laurel's old room. The Inn will take forever to heat up.

I glance at him. In the silver light of a muted morning, he lies in a deep sleep. I hate to wake him, but he'll need to get dressed. With a layer of snow over ice, it'll be a slippery walk back to my place and we need to get moving.

Hunting down his clothes proves difficult. I start with the dresser—makes sense. When I pull out the bottom drawer, there's nothing except some manila folder with the name "Steven Miller" printed in black ink. I move to the next set of drawers, but there's nothing but socks and underwear. I grab several sets of both and set them in the rocker.

It's the top drawer that makes me pause. No clothes again, but there's a frame, turned upside down. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help myself. I turn it over and take a step back.