“Forget about that. You’ll sleep as much as you need.” She nestled against him. Her neck, her cheek, her throat, all were cool fire, and he recognized the scent she wore, juniper, like the high forests of New Mexico he’d roamed in his youth. “Forget everything, but here and now.”
He tried to summon a suave leer. Clark Gable style.
“If that’s supposed to be a leer,” she chuckled, “you really need to get some sleep. I’ve had squirrels ogle me more lustily than that.”
“S’just my nat’ral gentlemanliness. Your broken arm, y’know. I wouldn’t feel right . . .”
* * *
He fell asleep in mid-sentence. Caitlin didn’t get to sleep herself for two hours. The spartan cot put their bodies in very close proximity, and, even clothed—even with a splinted arm—she quickly found herself becoming very frustrated.
It was a nice feeling, in a way. Or, at least, it would be—if Ed was still alive in a few days, to deal with it.