Find Me Page 5

  Glancing back at the man on the floor, she saw that the puddle of water beneath him was getting larger. Before she went outside, she'd get him in front of the fire.

  Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the collar of his survival jacket and began to pull him toward the fireplace. The muscles in her shoulders and neck burned. She was still shivering with cold, but sweat ran down her sides and back and trickled down her temples. Her shoulders felt the blow when she bumped him into a bookcase, and her legs screamed in protest when she stooped to readjust him.

  Finally she got him close enough to the fire to feel its heat. Her fingers fumbled with the Velcro of his jacket, and she needed two hands to pull down the zipper.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, she slumped into him, exhausted and a little faint. It was damn hard to undress a man without his cooperation. The survival suit lay in a pile behind her, dripping water onto the floor, but that was just the beginning.

  His clothes were wet. The jeans clung to his legs like a second skin, and they were cold enough to make her fingers stiff and clumsy. Each time she tugged the pants a little further down his legs, the dark hairs dusting his skin tickled the backs of her hands. When she caught herself assessing his long, well-muscled thighs, she rolled her eyes.

  "Jesus, Lizzy. Focus. He almost died. He does not care if you like the way he looks." She studied his face again, wishing he would open his eyes. And not so she could see what color they are.

  "Hey, mystery man." She cupped his cold cheek with her hand. "Could you wake up and help a little?"

  To her shock, he stirred a little on the floor. "Hey," she said, a little more softly. "You're okay. You're inside. You're safe, but I need to undress you. Could you help me get your pants off?"

  "Pants off," he mumbled. "Want her pants off."

  "Not my pants." Her mouth curved. Typical guy. She tugged again, her knuckles slipping on his cold, slippery skin. "Your pants. Come on. Isn't this what every man dreams of? A woman tearing his clothes off?"

  "Dreams. Cold."

  "Yeah, I bet." She tugged once more, and he moved his legs a little. "That's the way. Do it again."

  Inch by inch, she got the wet denim down his legs. When they joined the survival suit, she studied him again.

  Narrow hips. Sleek legs. Not an inch of fat on him, as far as she could tell. She took a deep breath and moved closer to his head. The bleeding was down to a slow trickle. Good. She could worry about a head wound later. "We're gonna work on your sweater now."

  "'Kay."

  He still hadn't opened his eyes.

  His fisherman's sweater filled the room with the scent of wet wool. She'd taken her own survival jacket off for a little more flexibility, but it took longer than she liked to get his limp arms out of the sleeves. When she lifted his head to remove it, her fingers carded through his soft hair that had begun to dry.

  Flames filled the fireplace, and she knelt beside him to push him closer. When the heat was almost too intense, she collapsed on the floor next to him.

  He wore a light blue dress shirt beneath the sweater – odd clothes to wear boating. But at least it was easy to unbutton. It took a few more minutes to get his arms out of it.

  His cold clothes had numbed her hands, and she wriggled her fingers, trying to warm them up. Only his undershirt and boxers were left. She put her hand on his chest to see if it was wet, as well.

  Yeah. It had to come off.

  By the time she'd wrestled him out of the white tee, the muscles in her shoulders and arms throbbed with pain. Her hands were stiff with cold. He had apparently lost consciousness again. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath to steady herself. She could do this.

  She had to do this.

  His broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist. His chest was all sleek muscle with a dusting of dark hair that trailed down his belly to disappear beneath his boxers. She didn't want to go there.

  She rolled her shoulders to ease the cramping. No choice. They were wet, as well.

  She told herself to look at his legs instead of what was in the boxers, but she looked anyway. Even with the cold-induced shrinkage, he was impressive. For a long moment, she studied the thick length of his penis lying along his thigh. What would it look like in...other situations? Would it be as thick and long as she suspected?

  She wasn't going to find out. Her job was to make sure he survived his ordeal, and that wasn't going to happen if she sat there ogling him. She tossed the dark blue boxers into the pile of wet clothes, then draped a blanket around him. "Come on, stupid-out-in-the-storm-guy. Let's get you warmed up."

  She rolled him onto his side, facing the fire. After a few minutes, the blanket had warmed. But his chest was still icy. And he wasn't shivering yet. That was bad.

  She knew what she had to do. Skin on skin. It was a way to treat a hypothermia victim if professional help wasn't available. She might be saving his life, but the thought of stripping down and curling into him made her shiver. It had been a very long time since she'd been skin to skin with a man. And to have to do it with this guy?

  She'd looked at his penis, for God's sake. And not just looked. She'd studied it. Wondered about things she had no business considering.

  You can't let him die.

  Okay. She had no choice. But first she needed more firewood.

  Chapter 5

  She pushed open the back door and stood on the stoop for a moment. The horizontal rain stabbed into her face and jean-covered legs like icicles. Maybe she should have put the survival pants back on. But exhaustion dragged at her. Her arms ached and it had been a struggle to lift the heavy survival jacket. Putting on the pants, as well, had been too much.

  The jacket would be enough. It would only take a moment to grab a couple armfuls of wood and dump them inside the house.

  The mud of the uneven ground sucked at her feet and pools of water soaked her boots as she walked through the gloom. The pile of wood was stacked between two trees fifty feet behind the house. It had never seemed this far.

  A sudden gust of wind made her stagger, and she slipped and fell onto her rear end. Struggling to her feet, she wiped her muddy hands on her thighs. Now both the front and back of her jeans were wet.

  By the time she reached the firewood, she was shivering. After two more trips to the wood and back to the house, she could barely feel her hands. Her legs ached from the cold and her face stung from the wind and sleet. When she set the armful of wood inside the door with the other two piles, she glanced through the darkness toward the woodpile and made up her mind.

  She wasn't going back out there.

  Slamming the door, she leaned against it in the tiny mudroom, shaking with the cold. It had been really stupid to go out there without the survival pants and gloves. Because she'd been too tired to drag on the heavy pants and find a pair of gloves, she'd told herself gathering the wood would only take a moment. Now she was shaking so hard she could barely stand, and her hands were numb with the cold.

  She needed the fireplace. After her boneheaded move, she needed the skin to skin contact as much as her mystery man.

  Her stiff, cold fingers fumbled with the laces on her boots until she finally got them off. Her hands shook so badly that it took several tries to get the jacket off, then strip down to her underwear. Her cold, wet panties joined the pile of clothes on the floor, and although her bra was dry, she took it off, as well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  She walked unsteadily toward the man on the floor in front of the fire and crouched next to him. The heat from the fire soaked into her skin and she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth.

  The guy's chest wasn't quite as cold, but he was still unconscious. Not shivering. Still too cold to shiver. That wasn't good.

  She hobbled over to the couch and grabbed two throw pillows, then staggered back to the fireplace. She slid one under his head, her fingers slipping through the silky strands. Checking to see if his hair had dried, she told herself. Finally, she
put the other pillow on the floor, slipped beneath the blanket and lay down at his back.

  Curling her body into his made her shiver violently. His chest might have warmed a little, but his back was still freezing cold. Deep to the bone cold. She forced herself to remain in contact with him, shivering convulsively. After what seemed like hours, her skin and his were a little warmer.

  Her nipples rubbed against his back every time she shifted on the floor, and the hum of faint arousal burning through the cold reminded her she'd been celibate for too long. She'd been here, alone, for the past three months. And even before that awful night in the parking garage, it had been a long time since she'd had a date, let alone a boyfriend.

  She'd been completely alone since she arrived on Skipjack. If she were truthful with herself, it had been a lot longer than that.

  She'd let Deputy Kyle Diggens, and what had happened when she was nineteen-years-old, control her life for too many years. One thing the last two months on Skipjack had taught her – alone was not always a good thing. She'd been craving company recently. Someone besides Franny to talk to. Someone besides a dog to sleep with.

  She tightened her hold on the unconscious man pressed so intimately against her, and a spark of desire bloomed low in her belly. As she clung to the unknown man, arousal spreading heat through her body, she wondered again what color his eyes were. And if he'd be as attracted to her as she was to him.

  ***

  A drop of water trickled down Mac's face, then another. His mouth was parched and he stuck his tongue out to catch the drops. But he couldn't reach them. He tried to lift a hand to catch the drops, but couldn't move.

  He tried to move his legs, but they were tangled with something soft. Smooth. Warm. There was heat at his back, as well. He dragged his eyes open and saw red. Blurry, flickering, dark around the edges. Panic rose again, closing his throat. Why couldn't he see?

  Where was he? How had he gotten here?

  He turned his hand and felt something thick and slightly rough. A blanket. He was wrapped in a blanket. That's why he couldn't move.

  He wriggled his shoulders, felt the blanket there, too, and managed to loosen it. As he shifted, he felt a band across his chest. No. Not a band. An arm. Soft. Smooth.

  He shifted some more. A leg was tangled between his. Soft. Warm. Muscled. Breasts pushed against his back. A woman. Naked.

  He was naked, too. Blanket, naked woman. He tried to focus his brain, remember what had happened. But everything was a blur.

  Sex? Was that why he and a woman were naked beneath a blanket?

  He couldn't remember. He closed his eyes, struggling to find details. But there was nothing.

  Drunk? Was he drunk? He hadn't been drunk in a long time, not since that bad year after his father died. His brain was shadowy and vague, like everything was out of reach. He couldn't remember drinking. But he felt woozy. Hazy, as if everything in his brain, all his memories, were smeared and indistinct.

  He stilled the rising panic and tried to focus.

  There had been a boat. He remembered that. Everything besides the boat was misty. Unclear. And his head hurt. So maybe he had been drunk.

  He turned over, so he was facing the sleeping woman. "Hey," he whispered, inhaling the outdoorsy scent of her hair. "You awake?"

  She clutched him more tightly but didn't answer, and his cock stirred. Part of him remembered that scent. Liked it, too.

  He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her. Craving her warmth. Comfort. When he drew her closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He smelled smoke, heard the pop of logs burning, and felt heat caress his back. A fire. They were lying in front of a fire. Naked.

  He nibbled at the corner of her mouth, rubbed his lips over hers. She was soft and smooth there, too, and he searched for her taste. His mouth clung to hers, and her lips moved. She tasted salty. Fresh. Then she opened her mouth and tangled her tongue with his.

  Fire raced through him, and he flexed against her. Searching. Trying to get closer. If he wasn't inside her soon, he'd die.

  Her tongue stroked his, and his hips moved with every slide until he was frantic with need. As if sensing his desperation, sharing it, she struggled to get closer. Her hips moved with his as her tongue caressed the roof of his mouth.

  The tips of her breasts pebbled against his chest, and his already-hard cock became painfully engorged. He deepened the kiss, and she responded. Kissed him harder. Made a tiny mewling sound in the back of her throat.

  She clutched him more tightly and moaned when his cock slid over her intimate folds. She was hot and slick and ready, and he groaned. He needed her. Now. His cock would explode if he didn't have her, and he cupped her ass with one hand.

  He didn't know this woman's name, he realized with a burst of shame. But she arched into him, touching his chest, his side, his back.

  He cupped her breast, and she trembled in his arms, wrapping one leg around his. He touched one finger to her nipple, and she gasped and pressed closer. She liked that. He nuzzled her neck, sucked gently on the tendon, then slid down to take her nipple in his mouth. She gasped against him, fisting her hands in his hair, as if to hold him in place. He ran his tongue around the hard nubbin, and she arched into his mouth.

  Her hair was long and silky. Thick where it brushed against his neck. There was a hint of rosemary in the scent, and he took a deep breath, drinking it in. Drinking her in.

  He moved to her other breast and she bucked against him. Moaned again, then reached between their bodies and slid her hand along his cock. God! Her touch was light and tentative, but he was more aroused than he'd ever been in his life.

  "Please," he groaned. He kissed her again, desperate, needy, craving her. Had they done this once already? He didn't remember. But he wanted to remember everything this time.

  She touched his tip with one finger, circled him until he thrust helplessly against her. Then she slid her fingers down his shaft and cupped his balls. As if she didn't remember, either, and wanted to imprint him in her memory.

  He eased to the side and slid one finger between her folds. She was swollen and wet. Hot and slick. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He pressed one finger against her clit, and she cried out.

  "Yes," she cried. "More."

  It was the first time she'd spoken.

  He ached for her, throbbing, harder than he'd been in his life. He circled her clit until she was panting, moaning, clutching him so tightly that her nails bit into his skin. When he spread her legs, she wrapped them around his ass and surged toward him. Took him in.

  They fit together perfectly. When he began to move, she moved with him. In only a few minutes she was trembling around him. She climaxed with a long cry, and it was the sexiest sound he'd ever heard. He cried out as his own climax crashed through him. He crushed his mouth to hers as he came and came and came.

  He nestled his head into her neck as he tried to catch his breath. Drowsy, sated, he wanted to feel her against him. Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he rolled her over so she was on top of him. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and regular. Asleep.

  He settled her against him, the pull of sleep tugging at him, as well. He drifted into sleep, the scent of sex and the woman enveloping him.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd slept when something wet touched his side and made him shiver. Opening his eyes, he found a dog staring at him. Black and white and tan. Brown eyes that almost looked...reproachful.

  He glanced at the woman asleep on his chest. Her dog, then. He angled his head to get a better look at her, and at first saw only the corona of curly blond hair that gleamed in the light from the fire.

  He brushed the hair away from her face and saw her clearly for the first time. He studied her features – wide mouth, straight nose, high cheekbones, a sprinkle of freckles. All that curly blond hair. His arms tightened around her, then fell away. He knew this woman.

  Astonishment, then dread, swept over him. Lizzy Monroe.
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br />   Panic roiled greasily in the pit of his stomach. He'd just fucked the woman who was involved in Kelly's death. More than once, apparently.

  How the hell had he let this happen? Where were they? How had he gotten here?

  His heart thundered in his chest, and his mouth was suddenly dry as sand. He might not remember the first time, but he remembered every detail of this round. And he was already hard. His body was begging him to do it again. More slowly this time. With both of them awake.

  His conscience reminded him that he'd screwed up. Big time. He'd been irresponsible. Reckless. Careless. Just like he'd been after his dad died.

  And he didn't care. Ever since he'd watched Lizzy Monroe walk into the office, he'd wanted her. He'd wanted her after she'd run away. He wanted her as he'd researched her, learned about her life.

  He'd almost died. Desire blossomed inside him and he scooped her into his arms. He kissed her like she was the last drop of water in the desert. Kissed her until he had to touch her. Had to remind himself that he was alive and Lizzy Monroe was in his arms.

  ***

  Someone was kissing her.

  His mouth moved on hers desperately, as if he would die if he couldn't kiss her. He nipped at her lower lip, soothed it with his tongue. Teased the seam of her mouth until she opened to him.

  He tasted...familiar. She remembered the softness of his lips, the salty tang of them. As he kissed her, he cupped her breast. While he ravaged her mouth, he teased her nipple lazily, as if he wanted to play all day.

  Arousal swept over her in a hot, frantic wave. She moved against him, needing more. Needing him to touch her. She opened her mouth to tell him, and he swept inside. His tongue caressed her, touching her tongue, the roof of her mouth, the inside of her cheek. Gently, as if he was savoring her. Getting to know her.

  Lizzy's eyes fluttered open. The man who was kissing her had his eyes closed, a look of intense concentration on his face. As if he was learning everything he could about her. Cataloging her responses, figuring out her taste. What she liked. What made her move against him.