Christmas Secrets Collection. Laura Iding

the fulfillment that his skilled mouth was promising, careful only of the bandage on his forehead. “Please. Oh, Dax. Please …”

      But he wouldn’t give in and give her what she begged for, not until stars danced behind her eyes and her body hummed and quivered and she felt the glow of her own arousal all through her, in each deep, hungry beat of her heart, across every inch of her heated, sweat-dewed flesh.

      Finally, he let it happen. She spun toward the waterfall, her whole body alive, shimmering, supersensitized. She spun toward it—and miracle of miracles—she went over.

      In a glorious free fall, she cried out his name as the pleasure rose up and consumed her, in a shimmer of falling jeweled brightness, of pure physical joy.

      Of wondrous completion.

      He slid up her body as she came. His mouth, wet with her excitement, hot from those endless kisses, pressed a burning, slick trail over her quivering belly, across the white fabric of her T-shirt, along the sweat-damp column of her exposed throat. He took her mouth with a groan.

      And he entered her.

      Just like that. She let out a sound of surprised fulfillment. She had no clue when he’d freed himself of his pants, of his boxer briefs.

      But he was free. She reached down and took his hard, naked hips between her hands.

      It was perfect, just what she needed, his mouth on hers in a never-ending kiss, the feel of him filling her, gliding in so hot and hard and slick as the last sweet pulses of her climax beat around him, easing his way.

      “So good. Zoe …” He breathed her name into her mouth.

      She took it, took all of him, all the way. And she sucked his tongue into her mouth as she lifted her hips to him, eager and ready for each hard, hungry thrust.

      They rolled, moaning, kissing, and she was on top. It felt so good, so right. She reared up above him and rode him, rocking her hips on him, claiming each hot, perfect sensation as it rolled into her and through her, and onward, like a rushing, brilliant burst of light, out her toes, her fingertips, the top of her head.

      And then, somehow, the bright light of her pleasure whirled in the close air around them and came back into her, expanding, sliding along each and every nerve ending.

      Until another climax approached. She shuddered, crying out, and her body collapsed on top of him.

      She came yet again, a swift, searing explosion of sensation, as he claimed the top position once more, braced up on his powerful arms and let his own climax have him.

      He gazed down at her, his dark eyes so soft and low and gleaming, the bandage white as snow against his forehead, as he pulsed within her, and her body welcomed him, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

      At the very end, he tossed his head back. A low, deep growl rose in his chest. His big arms gave way and he came down to her again, locking his mouth to hers, kissing her so deeply, still expanding and contracting within her.

      And for the third time, her body answered, going over the waterfall yet again and then slowly, deliciously drifting down into the pool of contentment below.

      Some time passed. She stroked his lean hips, eased her fingers under the shirt he still wore to learn the powerful, slick musculature of his beautiful back.

      He kissed her cheeks, her chin, her throat, little wet, nipping kisses, that made her shiver in the most lovely, delicious way.

      But then, ripping through the lazy aftermath of pleasure like the slashing arc of a sharp, sharp knife, the realization hit her. She grabbed his shoulders, pushed him away, made him look at her.

      He blinked those bedroom eyes. “What?”

      “The condom. We didn’t….”

      He chuckled.

      She stared up at him, appalled. “You’re laughing. We forgot the condom and you are laughing about it.”

      “Zoe …” He kissed he nose.

      She punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t you dare kiss my nose. Do you realize—?”

      “Zoe, it’s okay. I didn’t forget.”

      She was midway into punching him again. That second punch, she pulled. “You didn’t forget.” She blew out a breath of pure relief. “Whew.”

      “See?” He lifted up enough that she could look between their bodies.

      She saw, marveled, “How did you do that? I had no idea …”

      He settled on top of her again and kissed the curve where her shoulder met her neck, whispered against her damp skin, “I’m not going to say years of practice. It wouldn’t sound the least romantic.”

      She was able to laugh, too, then. She wrapped her arms around him and planted a big, loud smacker of a kiss on his beard-scratchy cheek. “Oh, I cannot tell you how relieved I am.”

      He rolled a little, so they were facing each other, but wrapped a muscular, hairy leg across her and somehow managed to stay inside. “That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about with me, one thing I never forget.”

      She stroked the side of his face. “Well, that’s good. That’s very good.”

      He tucked her closer, tighter in his arms. She shut her eyes and drifted, satisfied. Content for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime.

      Some minutes later, he gently rolled away. “Don’t go anywhere.” He kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair.

      Half-asleep, she yawned. “Not a problem. I’ll be right here.”

      He left the tent. She sank back into slumber until he returned, zipping the tent flaps after him. She heard him rustling around next to her, pulling off the rest of his clothes.

      And then he came back down to her and gathered her close, spoon-fashion. It was a wonderful sensation, to have him curved around the back of her, touching her everywhere.

      She felt his lips against her neck and his hand gliding up under shirt.

      He whispered, “This shirt, this bra … they’re in my way.”

      She could feel him, unfurling, against her back. “You are insatiable.”

      “I try.” He had the shirt by the hem and he was pulling it upward. She stretched out her arms and let him take it away. The bra went next and finally, they were both completely naked.

      He guided her over onto her back. She opened her eyes lazily and, in the hazy glow from the banked fire outside, they regarded each other.

      “Good,” he said.

      She nodded. “Very good.”

      And then he lowered his dark head to her breast.

      They made love again, slowly, less urgently than the first time—but no less passionately.

      After that, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and they slept.

      In the morning before dawn, they added wood to the smoke pit, applied insect repellent and went to the river while the fish were biting. Dax caught two again in no time. She cleaned them and they returned to camp.

      They ate breakfast. He shaved and changed the wrap on his forehead, which was healed enough now to take two big bandages rather than the more complicated dressing of gauze and tape.

      They were discussing the various possible activities of the day—bathing in the river, making love endlessly, foraging for edible plant life to supplement their diet of fish and dried snake—when Dax put up a hand for silence.

      “Shh. Hear that?”

      She listened, shook her head—and then froze. Her mouth dropped open. Could it really be? At last? “Oh, Dax. I do hear it. It’s a plane!”