And there was this really, really nice BMW he’d been eying for years.
“Move over,” Helen said waspishly.
He hadn’t realized she’d entered the tent and removed her boots and gown, leaving only her slacks and T-shirt. That damn T-shirt was going to be the death of him yet.
“And stop muttering about BMWs.”
His mouth curved upward in the dark as he made room for her under the blanket. As hot as California was during the day, it got cool at night here in the mountains.
She slid in, as far from him as possible, facing away.
He chuckled.
“And don’t you dare touch me, you louse,” she warned.
How had she known he was about to reach for her? He must be losing his smoothness.
“I’m not going to forget about the grasshoppers.”
“Did you write it on your list?”
She proceeded to tell him then exactly how many of his transgressions had made it to her list. On and on she went shrewishly until his sleepy brain could take no more. She’d been teasing him constantly since she’d turned the sexual tables on him in Sacramento. She probably didn’t really want to make love with him. It was a bluff. A defensive ploy.
If so, it was working, damn it.
Pulling her back against him with a jerk, Rafe ignored her squeal of protest and whispered in her ear, “How do you feel about oral sex, Helen?”
“Wh-what?” she gasped and slapped at one of his hands, which was about to fondle her breast. Then she quickly grabbed for his other hand, which already rubbed her flat tummy.
“Hey, it’s the natural solution. No babies that way.” He grinned to himself at her suddenly stiff body. Not that he seriously considered oral sex a solution. Sex play of that nature was mere foreplay to whet his appetite for the real thing.
“I’d rather wait until we’re really alone and can go all the way,” she lied.
She was as transparent as Saran Wrap. Why hadn’t he seen through her charade earlier? “Are you sure? About the oral sex, I mean?” he inquired sweetly. “I’ve noticed that you seem tense, even with all that guru-schmuru inner-sanctum yodeling, and I’ll bet — I’ll just bet — I could find your real center and — ”
“Oh, go to sleep,” she snapped. And she held fast to both his wrists at waist level to keep them from moving to forbidden territory.
Rafe adjusted his hips against her rear, though. If nothing else, he planned to have some super dreams tonight.
It was already dark by the time they reached Marysville the next day. Henry told them that the little town at the junction of the Feather and Yuba rivers was named for Mary Murphy, a survivor of the ill-fated Conner expedition four years before. Of course, the town flourished now with the Gold Rush.
Every muscle in Rafe’s body ached. He smelled his own sweat. The mother of all headaches was doing a jig behind his eyes. And he had a hard-on with a mind of its own.
Helen, on the other hand, looked cool, calm, and invigorated by their grueling eighty-mile trek from Sacramento City. She and Henry had been whistling and ooohming for four straight hours. And she and the bumbling kid had something else in common. They both liked to brush their teeth and gargle three times a day. Henry had practically salivated over the Franklin Planner Helen described for him.
Rafe felt like puking.
Thank God, Henry went off to find a cousin who owned a house in Marysville, promising to connect with them the following day.
Rafe and Helen dismounted near a livery stable. He started to say something, then forgot what he was about to say. Helen was stretching languidly, making a purring sound of pleasure.
Does she purr after she climaxes?
She’d refused to put her gown back on this morning when the sun came up like a fireball. He hadn’t been able to argue with her logic about the blistering heat, but Henry had gaped at her T-shirt the entire day like a teenager at his first porno flick. Rafe noted dryly to himself that it surely took coordination on Henry’s part to gape and whistle and ooohm all at the same time.