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‘Ouch. Dammit.’
Memories flashed back as he clocked the makeshift bandage on his arm. He’d cut himself during the frantic effort to get out of the storm… That much he remembered with clarity. Had Melody wrapped the wound for him?Why?
He levered himself into a sitting position.
Then took a moment to breathe through the dizziness while contemplating his surroundings. And attempting to decipher what was real and what wasn’t from the mush in his brain. He gave up after a few minutes because it was making his head hurt more. And it already felt as if someone had hit him with a sledgehammer.
The outside was still an impregnable swirl of white through the open shutters, the muffled howl a sign the storm hadn’t abated since last night.
A fire blazed in the hearth, and a pile of unfamiliar clothes had been folded neatly on the couch—which was helpful, because he couldn’t see his jeans or sweater anywhere. All he had on was his shorts, and they weren’t doing much to hide his reaction to the memories which he was fairly sure couldn’t be real now.
He needed to find Melody and ask her what the hell had occurred during the rest of the night, though, to be sure… Shame washed over him. How he was going to broach the subject of possibly, maybe, having jumped her in his sleep he had no idea—but he wanted to be fully clothed when he had that potentially excruciating conversation.
After getting to his feet, it took another moment for the fresh wave of light-headedness to pass, before he could stagger over to the couch.
He selected a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the pile. The T-shirt was too tight across his chest, and the pants too loose at the waist, hanging low on his hips, and were also way too short, finishing above his ankles. But at least the clothes were warm and dry and covered the essential bits.
Luckily, the thought of the conversation they now needed to have—which promised to be even more difficult than the one they’d had to postpone, thanks to their journey into hell—quelled any lingering erotic dreams. Doubly good because the borrowed pants did not have a lot of spare room in the crotch either.
Maybe Melody was the one who had run him over with the truck.
His lips curved, making the chapped skin crack, as he remembered her snarky attitude from last night. And the battles they’d fought, and he’d won, first in the East Wing and then the garage. Why did those seem like several eons ago now, too? One thing was for sure. After their near-death experience, he wasn’t angry with Melody Taylor any more. In fact, he felt weirdly okay about getting stuck here with her.
When it came to surviving a white-out in the Alpine wilderness in the middle of the night, he couldn’t think of a better person to do it with than a badass like Melody. He certainly couldn’t imagine any of the other women he’d dated over the years holding their own the way she had, without a single complaint, or ‘I told you so’.
He headed across the living area, finally steady enough to go in search of her…
Surely, he couldn’t have had sex with her again and not remembered it clearly? Because that would be a crime, in more ways than one.
He padded into a vast, brightly lit kitchen, drawn by the salty aroma of frying bacon. His empty stomach turned inside out, but he stood in the doorway, taking a moment to enjoy the view. And process the wave of affection which tightened his ribs.
Melody stood with her back to him, busy cooking at a stainless-steel kitchen range. She wore a baggy T-shirt which hung to mid-thigh, over a pair of yoga pants which clung to her generous curves. She’d piled her tawny blonde curls on top of her head in a careless knot, baring her neck. He could almost smell her there, just below her ear, the fresh scent another siren call to his senses.
The image of making love to her in the shadowy darkness as she begged him for release pulsed in his brain, and his groin.
Well, hell…
Surely thathadto be a false memory, he decided, because it reminded him of all the others he’d had in dreams since that night in a cramped bed in her student flat in London. Even so, the sensory overload was so powerful the fabric at his crotch tightened again.
Damn, he wanted her still. Was that where these phantom memories came from? The urge, not the actual deed? Because that would be pretty lowering, but at least it meant he hadn’t taken advantage of her again, like he had when she was a starry-eyed eighteen-year-old.
He cleared his throat.
She jumped, let out a cute squeak and then swung around, wielding a spatula.
‘Rene, you’re awake?’ she said, her eyes widening as her cheeks ignited with colour.
Okay, interesting reaction.
In his experience, Mel only ever blushed in the throes of passion. Also, she didn’t look as if she wanted to brain him with the spatula, which was her usual response these days to being confronted with his presence.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, her gaze slipping away, the blush going radioactive.
‘Good… Mostly.’ His voice rasped against his dry throat as his gaze zeroed in on the tell-tale burst of colour mottling her collarbone, revealed when the oversized T-shirt slid off one shoulder. Heat pounded into his crotch, but at the same time emotion wrapped around his torso. Guilt or tenderness, he couldn’t be sure which, but neither could be good, given their history… And their current circumstances.
‘I need to know,’ he said, deciding to rip off the Band-Aid. ‘Did we have sex again last night, or did I just imagine it?’
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