Page 49 of Whiteout

He craned his neck to check on the fire. Dammit. It would need improving soon.

In a few minutes he would shift her body from his, sneak from beneath the blanket, and deal with the condom as best he could. In a few minutes he would walk on his knees to the stove, tug open the door, and, as quietly as possible, introduce four more logs into the waning blaze. He’d watch them catch and then crawl back to the couch-bed and the amazing woman it held.

But not yet.

Grant’s fingers waded through her hair as it streamed across his chest. For now he lay there enjoying the wonder of her body as it softly, sweetly weighed down his own.

What on earth had happened? Who the hell was she? Had she really just tied him up and had her way with him? And what about the couch?

“Shit. The couch,” he breathed aloud. It was looking like he owed Paul a new couch.

Grant hadn’t met anyone quite like Melinda before. Someone secluded enough to be alluring but warm enough to meet him with joy when he broke through her walls.

Is that what they call kidnapping these days?

It might have been the best thing that ever happened to me, he answered himself.

Until she had him arrested.

His mind was a stick-in-the-mud, but it did have a point. What did tonight’s encounter mean for his future as an accidental kidnapper? Did it count as sexual assault? Shit. The law was a tricky place. Terrible people freely committed terrible acts every day and innocent people were locked away for decades at a time. Not that he was innocent, but he wasn’t a complete psychopath. He hoped she knew that.

He hoped it was true.

Grant tilted his head more acutely to look at Melinda’s sleeping face. Did she know that? Was she simply under duress? Would their lovemaking this evening be considered a crime?

Too much thinking. Time to fix the damn fire.

Grant shifted his hips away from hers, eased her body onto their makeshift bed, and slid his legs off the couch. Righted, he made his journey to the stove to fight the storm for two hours more, and worried all the while. What did she want from him? Would she regret this seduction in the morning? Resent him? Hate him?

Could his mind not shut up? Grant crawled back to their couch and then stopped, uncertain. Did she want him in bed with her? Should he take the floor?

He’d bank on sentimentality, he decided, and went to the other side of the couch to keep her closer to the fire. He slid beneath the blankets and lay next to her, figuring that if she woke and he was gone, it might be marginally worse than if he were there, in all his kidnapping glory.

Here’s hoping.

He closed his eyes.

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