Page 70 of Hunter

In the shaft of light, she could see a room about twelve by nine feet cut into the side of the mountain. Various supplies were ranged on metal shelves around the wall.

Too worn out to stand under her own power, she leaned against the wall, breathing hard and making damp little pools on the plastic floor where the water dripped off her clothing.

“Are we safe here?”

“Yes. I discovered this place when I was on a survival mission. I come here sometimes, when I am supposed to be hiding in enemy territory. Nobody has ever found me here. I brought some lights—and emergency rations.” He switched on another large flashlight, then swung the door shut, dropping a stout metal bar in place to seal the entrance.

“Is the air all right with the door closed?” she asked.

“There are ventilators,” he said.

After turning a crank in the wall, he eyed her critically in the dim light. “You are cold. You must get warm and dry.” Briskly, he crossed to the wooden boxes on the shelves and rummaged through them until he found blankets. Then he turned back to her and began to unbutton her shirt, his fingers a bit clumsy as they struggled with the wet buttonholes. Where he touched her chilled flesh, he left a trail of heat.

He finally got the buttons open, then slipped the shirt off her shoulders and down her arms.

A moment ago, she had been wilting with fatigue and aching with the knowledge that he didn’t want to hear her explanations. Now she felt a new burst of energy—and hope. Although he hadn’t listened when she’d tried to tell him how she felt, perhaps a more basic approach would get through to him.

“Maybe we’d better make a comfortable place to sit down,” she suggested.

“Yes.” He spread blankets on the floor before turning back to her and tackling the snap at the waistband of her slacks. Then he worked the zipper open so that he could kneel and skim the wet pants down her legs. When she stepped out of them, she was wearing only panties and a bra and feeling a good deal warmer than she had when she’d come into the shelter.

He stayed on his knees for a moment, his warm breath fanning her belly. She lifted her hands as she gazed down at his dark head, wanted to tunnel her fingers though his hair and press his face against her. But she bided her time, letting him stand and drape her soggy clothing over the edge of a box.

“You’re as wet as I am,” she said, trying to sound objective.

He looked down at his clinging knit shirt and chino pants, then tugged the shirt over his head. Unselfconsciously, he unzipped the pants and stepped out of them.

He was still wearing his damp briefs, but the knit fabric left little to the imagination. As she regarded him through half-closed lids, she wondered when it would dawn on him that there was more than one way to get warm.

“We should dry my hair,” she said in a thick voice.

He searched the storage boxes again and found a thin towel, which she took from him. Briskly she began to rub the long strands of her hair between her towel-covered hands, observing him through heavy-lidded eyes. He was watching her intently.

“My arms are tired from swimming,” she said, in a languorous voice. “Could you help me?”

He took the towel from her and began to work on her hair, rubbing the way she’d demonstrated. With a deep sigh, she let her head drop to his naked shoulder.

Her eyes were downcast, not with modesty, but with interest. He might be a whirlwind of activity, but the clinging briefs gave him away. Through the damp fabric, there was no way to conceal his very positive response to their state of undress.

His hands became a bit shaky, but he kept at the drying until she made a small sound in her throat.

“Am I hurting your hair?” he asked anxiously.

“No,” she answered, silently admitting she enjoyed shredding his composure. “But I’d like to get out of this wet bra.” Reaching around, she opened the catch and pulled the garment away from her body. Straightening, she tossed it in the general direction of the boxes.

She could hear the uneven breath rushing in and out of his lungs as he stared at her breasts.

Her nipples were already hard. They tightened further under the heat of his scorching gaze. Silently, she lifted the towel from his hands, dropped it onto the floor, and took a step closer, so that her naked breasts touched the hard wall of his chest.

His strangled exclamation was as gratifying as the feel of his flesh against hers. For long seconds, he seemed too stunned to move.

“Touch me,” she whispered. “Please touch me.”

In slow motion, his hands came up to cradle her breasts. When his fingers began to knead and stroke, she made a high sound of pleasure as she arched into his caress.

Silently she raised her hands to his chest, combing through the crisp mat of hair and finding his nipples, drawing a sharp gasp from him as she showed him ways to touch—ways that he might imitate.

He did just that, to her delight.

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