He pulled her arms apart and over her head, holding them by the wrists with one hand. With the other hand, he cupped one breast, testing its weight. “Champagne breasts. Round and full. Puffy aureoles. Pebbly, pink nipples,” he explained thickly. “Vargas was an artist who painted nude pinups like that for Esquire years ago.”
“Pinups? Pinups?” she sputtered, her face burning with mortification as she squirmed to get free from his grip. But not too hard, he noted.
“I love your freckles,” he added. “I love that they’re all over, even in your secret places.”
She moaned.
“And I love it when you moan for me.”
She moaned again.
He moved his hand lower, pausing over her flat stomach. “So smooth. You’re skin is so smooth.”
“Except for my scar.”
“What scar?”
“Just above my belly button. You can’t miss it. I had a port wine birthmark removed when I was ten years old.” She glanced down, and then jerking her hands out of his grasp, sat up. “My God, the scar is missing. That’s incredible.”
He shrugged and reached for her again.
She ignored his open arms and stood, moving closer to the lantern, examining her stomach for the missing scar, then studying her right knee. She was momentarily unaware of her nudity, which he was enjoying immensely. “My knee surgery scar is missing, too. I tore up the cartilage in a skydiving jump five years ago and decided to have the shredded cartilage removed by laser surgery.”
“Hmmm. That’s odd,” Rafe said, but his smoldering eyes said he had something else on his mind. “I mean, it’s odd that we would retain our tattoos, but not other body scars.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her. “C’mere and let me check out your other bodily anomalies.”
She laughed. “I’ll give you anamolies.” Then she thought of something. “Maybe it has something to do with scientific anachronisms.”
“Say that again.”
“You know, it was possible to have tattoos in the nineteenth century, but cosmetic operations didn’t come into vogue until World War I. And a swollen knee joint wouldn’t have been cause for surgery. So, we only carried back with us those medical marvels that were possible in this time.”
She moved back toward the bed. “Don’t you have any scars, Rafe? Didn’t you ever have any surgery?”
“Well, actually…” he said, folding his arms behind his head. He was really, really enjoying the play of light and shadow on Helen’s sexy buns and magnificent breasts. “The only surgery I’ve ever had, if you could call it that, was the vasecto — ”
The blood drained from his head as he bolted to his feet, rushing over to the lantern. Even before he looked, he knew what he would find. No vasectomy scar.
“No!” he exclaimed, then turned to her hopefully. “Please tell me you have an IUD or birth-control implant.”
She shook her head slowly, apparently not understanding his dilemma.
Damn! He felt all his hopes for this night, in fact the remainder of this time-travel adventure, go up in smoke.
“What?” she asked, looking pointedly away from his genitals.
“My vasectomy scar is gone.”
Helen stared at Rafe, trying to understand the horror in his voice.
“And I only have three damn condoms in my wallet.”
“Well, why is that such a big deal?”
“Why is that such a big deal? Why is that such a big deal?” He mimicked, moving away from her, pressing his palms against the wall. “Because that means we can’t make love, that’s why. And believe me, babe, to me that is a very… big… deal.”
“But if you have three condoms…” she said hesitantly. “I mean, three condoms is surely enough.”
He cast her a frown of utter disbelief. “Babe, three times wouldn’t be nearly enough for me. Once I have you, I won’t be able to stop at three times.”
“In one night?” Her mouth dropped open, and she hastily clamped it shut.
He laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, Prissy! You are so naive.” With a groan, he turned and pounded his forehead against the wall in frustration.
“Oh, Rafe,” she said behind him.
“Hush up, Helen. What I don’t need now is your sympathy. What I need is your hot sex.”