Page 9 of Mountain Man's Muse
“Josh?”
Wolly pricked his ears, and Josh almost thought his did the same. It was the first time she had said his name aloud, and the single syllable—even partly muffled by the doorway between them—reverberated in his body like a hammer strike on an anvil.
Her voice continued, getting a little louder. “I was wondering…”
She stepped out from the master bedroom. Light from his bedroom poured through the doorway and turned the air around her damp skin into a misty halo.
And apparently sucked all the moisture from his mouth. He swallowed hard against his tight throat.
She hadn’t used the towel he left out for her. She had wrapped herself inhistowel, which had seemingly shrunk since his last use. It strained across her breasts and barely skimmed her lush thighs. Against the pale fluff of cotton, her dusky skin looked like some rich, sweet, decadent, caramel coffee drink that no cowboy should drink.
But he was so damn thirsty.
She held her hand out toward him. “I need you for a moment, Josh.”
Considering the way his cock was pounding a countdown on his zipper, a moment was about all she’d get from him. But he could not resist, not with the scent of her water-warmed body drifting toward him. He padded down the hall, his steps silent on the smooth old wood.
Her green gaze teased him beneath her dark lashes, but she did not lower her hand. “Here.” She backed into the bedroom. He followed as if a rein stretched between them.
She turned to the bed, drenched in snow-bounced sun from the window and big skylight. His entire body shook with disbelief. Was he dreaming?
She lifted something and faced him again. “Can you do this for me?”
He would do anything. With difficulty, he fastened his gaze on the satchel and the small pot she withdrew from the interior. “What…” He cleared his throat. “What is it?”
“For my wrists.”
He walked his gaze up her skin. Of course. The blood-streaked bandages. He should have done something about them before. Focus, damn it. He drew a steadying breath, but the fragrance of her made his head spin.
“Let me wash my hands.” His voice was still a little rough.
He walked past her, ignoring her surprised look, and headed for the bathroom. He shut the door behind him.
After turning on the water—cold—he leaned with his hands braced on the sink. He couldn’t see anything in the moisture-clouded mirror except a vague outline of his face. Almost like he hadn’t been able to see, hear, or think clearly since he’d found her. Was he that hard up?
He reached down to adjust himself through his jeans. Hell yeah, he was that hard.
He could probably scramble out through the bathroom window, but she needed his help and he’d never been the sort to run away. By the time he finished washing his hands and splashing cold water down the back of his neck, the mirror had cleared. He looked like a man with a mission.
When he returned to the bedroom, Adelyn was sitting in the middle of the bed. The only bed in the house. His bed. Against the red tartan flannel of the thick comforter, her skin glowed. With her legs curled under her, the towel hitched even higher on her thighs. A dark triangle of space between the bridged edge of the towel and her skin centered directly over what would be her other dark triangle.
So much for the cold water.
“Let’s see those wrists.” If he did this quickly, he might get out with dignity intact.
She held out both wrists at once, and the knot of the towel between her breasts slackened. Not enough to fall open, but enough.
He refused to watch the slow loosening. He grabbed the pot from the satchel and popped the cork top out. Instead of the oily reek of bag balm, the scent of flowers—not too sweet, but wild, like meadow flowers—filtered through the room.
He frowned. “You need something strong for these abrasions.”
She waited with her hands outthrust. “Trust me, this is strong.”
If he told her to scoot closer to him, the movement might undo her towel, so he crooked one knee onto the bed beside her.
But he kept one foot on the floor behind him.
He scooped the satiny-smooth salve onto two fingers. Gingerly, he took her hand in his and rubbed the salve around one wrist. God, her skin was so softer. Not a single rough spot of hard work on her hands, and her wrists were as delicate as a newborn foal’s fetlock, slender tendons sliding under his thumb.
