23

They lay sprawled before the fireplace, exhausted after running the dogs and exercising the horses. It had been another long day out of weeks of long days filled with hard work, but it had been a good day. And with the promise of a sauna later. Darkness had crept up on them, however, so Slocum and Sigrid satisfied themselves with a quick wash and now delicious stew smells filled the air in the cottage.

Each of them was half-clad. He’d long since grown accustomed to seeing Sigrid walk around the place without a shirt, or with a shirt unbuttoned. It was her custom, and since she felt no self-consciousness about it, why should he? Slocum didn’t think he needed to do anything more than enjoy seeing the sight of a beautiful woman who was so comfortable being herself she didn’t mind if he admired her. And if he guessed right, she seemed to like it, too.

As if in response to his thoughts, she half lay atop him, her breasts squashed against his chest. “John?”

“Yes,” he said, opening his eyes.

“I would like to make love right now.”

He raised his head and looked at her. It was rare enough thing to hear from a woman that he thought she might be toying with him. But her face, her liquid eyes, and her grasping hands all told him otherwise.

Soon they were gripping each other in a tight embrace, their lips found each other’s, and they stayed that way for long minutes. She reached down and he felt her long, strong fingers unbuttoning his denims. The whole time she probed his mouth with her tongue. He gave as good as he got, and reveled in the notion that this woman, no matter how much hard work she underwent that day, would always have time for this . . .

She raised herself up a bit off his chest and he sought her perfect breasts as they hung before his face, luscious, low-hanging fruit ready and ripe for the plucking. He reached for them with his mouth while his hands slid along her hips, slipping off the loosened skirt down beyond the curves of her fulsome backside.

She squirmed, helping him, and he pushed the skirt as far down as far as he could reach, then trailed a hand back up between her thighs, tickling her. He felt the heat from her push against him. He kissed and gently teased her pert nipples, then worked his way up between her breasts, trailing a line with his tongue tip up to her throat, her head thrown back as she ground herself against him.

Soon it became too much for either of them, and in mutual agreement she reached for his long, thick member and teased herself with it for just a moment. Then she raised herself up slightly, and slid down on it, all the way to the bottom.

Sigrid’s breath came out in a quiet stutter that ended in a gasp as Slocum teased her breasts, one with a finger and thumb, the other in his mouth. She smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. In the dim light from the fire in the grate behind them, her face took on a rainbow of earthy hues. It was as if the sun were setting all over her face, her long wild hair that hung about him, as if he were walking through a dense, hot jungle.

Soon she sped up her motion, at times raising only her hips, at other times working her entire body, each person matching the other’s movements with an equal counterrhythm that drove the other to greater heights of pleasure.

A tingle deep within each of them grew more demanding, crowding out all other sensations, tightening until they gripped each other. Their mutual bucking locked them together in a taut, unmoving embrace. They spasmed once, twice, three times, and slowly relaxed into each other.

With Sigrid there was no screaming, no howling as he’d known with other women. Just an intense, quiet whole-body tingle and tremor that seemed to linger nicely for long minutes after they had collapsed in a sweating, heavy-breathed tangle of arms, legs, hair, and lazy kisses. She lay to the side, so that they faced each other, but were still connected in the most intimate way, and each stared at the other, not speaking, but watching the light from the fireplace dance in each other’s eyes.

“Shhh, do you hear that?”

Slocum reflexively reached for his pistol, but Sigrid stopped him, and shook her head. “It’s no cause for alarm.”

“What is it then?” he said, easing back against the rug.

“It is the sound of spring.”

He listened and heard it, too, the quiet but steady drip-drip-drip of snow melting from the eaves. He smiled, looked at her, but her smile had faded. “What’s wrong?”

“That means you will leave soon.”

“Well . . .”

“No, John. It is the way it must be. You said so yourself once we got back from . . . that unfortunate occurrence in the mountains above the village.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry we’ve been socked in with those blizzards. I can’t think of a nicer place to be than here with you.”

“You are good to say that, but now you must return to the States. You must ease that girl’s mind about the man who murdered her brother.”

“Yes. And I have a pretty blue stone I have to give back to a certain old mountain man. I think he’ll be tickled to see it again.”

She smiled. “You are a good man, John Slocum.”

“No, Sigrid. You are the good one.”