Look Before You Bake (8 page)

I groan. I can't hold back any longer. Reaching over my head, I yank my shirt off without bothering with the buttons. The hair is already snarling over my chest, growing thicker by the second. I unbutton my jeans. Kick off my boots, and shuck my pants and boxers. Stand naked before the fire, muscles growing thick as my bear emerges.

My cock is rigid, hard as granite. I clench it in my hand, but I won't burn off my passion that way. I fall forward onto all fours, my hands turning into massive paws. My talons dig into the rock as my body swells, my pelt grows, my shoulders become massive, my jaws heavy. A moment longer, and my bear and I am one. There's nothing larger, more dangerous, or more powerful out there in these woods than me.

Restless, savagely glad to be back in my bear form after days of being trapped at Honeycomb Falls, I head into the dark. I'll hunt. I'll kill. And come morning, I'll be myself once more. Controlled. Calm. My fever broken.

Chapter 8

I wake up feeling so sore I can only lie there and groan. My ass. My hamstrings. My calves. Deep in my thighs. Oh lord. I feel like a band of gnomes spent all night whacking my legs with rolling pins. I sit up and wince as I rub at my eyes. OK. So maybe I was a little ambitious yesterday, thinking I could just dive right back into the hiking life without any consequences. I take a deep breath and sit up. Is that coffee?

I crawl out of my tent like the girl from
The Ring
, then groan and moan like an old lady as I climb to my feet. Arthur is sitting by the fire, wearing his usual combo of jeans and plaid shirt. He turns to me and smiles. "Good morning."

"Maybe when I've had some coffee it'll be good." I limp over.

"Sore?" He pours me a mug. I don't even care how he's made it. I just take it in both hands and then hiss as I lower myself onto a rock.

"Coffee," I say. And take a sip. Dark and thick and rich. Perfect. Medicine for the soul.

Arthur sets his mug aside and moves over to me. "I should have reminded you to stretch last night."

I grumble and say nothing. Sip my coffee, and allow its heat to wake me. How did I get into my tent? The last thing I remember is falling asleep by the fire. For that matter, I'm still in my hiking outfit from the day before. My eyes open wide as the coffee starts cranking my brain into action. I must look awful!

"Here," says Arthur, taking up my left leg and setting it over his thigh. "Let's see what we can do."

Then, holy jumping flapjacks, he starts to massage my thigh, his powerful hand digging into the muscle, working it slowly and inexorably, breaking down the stiffness, and in the process making me sit upright in pain.

"OH." I try to sound ladylike. I fail. "Oh. Right there. Ow. Owwwww. Ow ow ow."

Arthur grins, looking all hunky as he does so. Where did he sleep? I don't see another tent. Another sleeping bag. Did he sleep? His hands move down to my calf and begin to knead the muscle. My eyes almost roll up in my head as he works the knots, his fingers like magic, finding the soreness and dispelling it.

"How's that?" His voice is vaguely amused. I don't blame him. I look a hot mess, and now he's got me writhing under his hands. "Want me to stop?"

"No." I almost growl. Grab the coffee, drink half of it down. I feel like I'm in a movie, like I've been wounded, and Arthur's the medic who's going to do something horribly painful but necessary to fix me up. "I'm ready."

"I'm not about to saw your leg off," he says, laughing.

"Do you have a belt I can bite?" He laughs again, louder, and works on my other leg. "Ow! Oh! Owwww. Oh, god. What did I do yesterday? Are we doing the same today?"

"Yeah, we sure are." His fingers probe and massage my other leg, and I shift and wriggle as the intensity of his touch shoots through the roof. A part of my mind suddenly wonders what it would be like to have those powerful fingers work my body in another way, and I immediately blush. He cups my calf and pushes in deep, and I almost yell, jumping an inch up from the rock.

"There," he says, setting my leg down. "See if that's better."

"I'll never walk again," I say, closing my eyes.

"I have faith in you," he says, moving back to his rock.

"Go on without me." I don't know why I feel so comfortable with him, showing this silly side of me that nobody else ever sees. "You have a whole life ahead of you. Don't waste it by staying here with me."

"And never taste your cooking again? Unlikely."

I open my eyes, mock-serious. "I'll mail you cookies. We can work this out."

He stands, steps over to me, and then to my completely surprise lifts me to my feet as if I weigh nothing. "Never. Mail order cookies can't replace the real thing."

I go to say something, a witty response, but my tongue trips all over itself. His hands are wrapped around my upper arms. His face is looking down into mine. His eyes are wide, and there's something in their depths that stills my voice. I gulp. Did I fall asleep against him last night? Will we have another night together tonight? I can't breathe. I look at his lips, and almost succumb to begging.
Please kiss me
, I think, and then remember how awful I must look. I blink and step back, wincing with each step, but he's right, it feels much better.

"Maybe I can hobble," I say, turning away to cover my arousal.

"I'll go slow."

"Only at first," I say. "Then we can go faster." Where did that come from?

"As fast as you like," he says, and I hear him step up behind me.

I can't seem to control myself. I turn and look up into his face. "But not too fast. It's good when it lasts."

His eyebrow goes up, and then a smoldering light catches fire in his amazing eyes. "Oh, we'll make it last. Don't worry about that."

I'm horrified at myself. Scandalized by own words. Did I just say that? Out loud?
It's good when it lasts?
I always think those lines when I'm reading my romance novels, when I'm watching movies, but did I just – wait – and did he –

It's too much. I snatch up my coffee, drink it in one gulp, scalding my tongue, then rush past him. "Time to pack! Early morning start! Fresh air! Trees!" I dive into my tent, zip the flap shut, and then bury my head under my pillow.
Trees?
Did I just say 'trees'? Oh god. Kill me now. How am I ever going to emerge from this tent? I can't. I'll have to live in here for the rest of my life.

OK, play it cool. Just act like nothing happened. Pack up, all professional like, and then pretend to have some dignity.

Ten minutes later we set out from camp. I keep a straight face and absolutely don't look at Arthur, who is clearly fighting back the urge to grin. I lead the way, ignoring the pain in my muscles, and thank god the trail heads down the mountain for the first hour. By the end of which my soreness has faded, I'm warmed up, and I'm actually enjoying the hike.

The wilderness is beautiful, and during fall especially so. We hike for a good four hours, and eventually stop for lunch at a small lake that could be right out of a fairy tale. Surrounded by rushes, ringed in by mountains, on a grass-covered bank by the water's edge, we sit and picnic and I somehow manage not to put my foot in my mouth the whole time. Arthur asks me more about my past, and I dance around Gerry, Harold, and my father's obligations, while he in turn proves remarkably shy about giving any information about the werebear we're en route to find. After only half an hour we pack and head on to the final campsite.

We arrive just as the sun's going down, and I'm quietly proud of how well I've managed to keep up. I feel like I'm rediscovering my old hiking muscles. Arthur leads us to an enchanted spot where a small stream waterfalls into a magical pool, then drains out into a taller waterfall that dissipates into mist before hitting the ground far below. I get close to the edge and peer over, and again marvel at the view, but the sheer height makes me pull back till Arthur takes my hand and leads me to the very edge. Holding his hand gives me confidence, and together we gaze out over the woods, an actual eagle wheeling in the air below us.

Stepping back, I wipe my sleeve across my forehead. Though I can't smell anything, I know I have to stink like two days' worth of hiking. Arthur spends about five minutes building up the fire, then stands, reaches over his head and pulls his shirt off. I nearly slip and fall over the cliff. Watching the muscles of his chest, arms, and core ripple as he slides his shirt off is almost more than I can handle. Would it be weird to ask him to do that again while I record it? And then dive into my tent to play it over and over again in slow motion?

He drops his shirt on his pack and stretches. I fight back a groan, eyes riveted by his sculpted body. How can such a massive man be so perfectly proportioned? There's a gorgeous symmetry to him that mesmerizes me, and though he's massive, his chest covered in a delicious furze of hair, he's not fat, not even around the waist.

He interlaces his fingers and reaches for the sky, and then with a grunt relaxes. "I'm going into the water," he says. "It's a little ritual I have here."

"Oh," I say, nodding and trying to look casual. "Little rituals are great. I'm all in favor. I'll just, um, sit here and –"
And watch
, I almost say, but I manage to cough and change tracks at the last moment. "And start cooking."

"You sure?" He moves his hands to his belt buckle, and my mouth goes dry as my throat squeezes shut. I can't respond, so I just nod frantically and gesture that he should continue. He shrugs and unbuckles his wide leather belt, then drops his jeans so that they puddle around his ankles. I'm alternating between raging hot flashes and bouts of panic. A smoother operator than I would be helping him get undressed or something, or putting on her own strip show. I try to think of my favorite romance heroines, the brave, bold, sassy women I always wish I could channel, but none come to mind. I just sit down hurriedly on a rock and grab my pack, yanking it open.

Don't look at Arthur's huge package, visible even under his boxers. Don't drink in his muscled thighs, his broad calves. Don't think about running your nails lightly over his body, scratching him and feeling his muscles, his hot skin beneath yours.

There's a splash, and I look over to see Arthur's broad back sinking into the pool, till only his head remains above water. He pushes away from the edge and into the center, where he turns with a happy sigh to look back at me. "It's freaking delicious."

"Oh, good!" I try to sound casual again, and fail abysmally.

"You know, the water would be good for your feet." He doesn't sound like he's trying to seduce me, but still my heart races even faster. "It would help prevent any swelling."

I've read literally hundreds of romance novels, and none of them feature pick-up lines that mention swelling feet. But something about his eyes, the knowing smile on his oh-so-kissable lips, and the fact that my feet are in fact throbbing helps finally push me over the edge. Why not? I can at least dip my toe in the water. I can get a little closer. What am I, a nun? What more invitation do I need to have a little fun than the hunkiest man on the planet – or at least Franklin County – inviting me to dip my feet in the pool he's enjoying?

So I pull off my boots and socks, and walk tentatively over to the pool's edge. "It's slippery," I say. Slippery is an understatement. It's mossy, the rocks emerald and soft. I tread carefully, and Arthur swims a little closer.

"Careful," he says. I almost slip once, freezing in place, arms extended out to my sides, and then smile and take another step and my foot slides right out from under me.

I scream and fall into the pool. Arthur dives forward to catch me, and I fall into his arms just as we both go underwater. My scream turns into a tornado of bubbles, and the cold is sudden and absolute. Arthur immediately lifts me up, and I claw at my hair, pulling it from my eyes, gasping, my whole body shocked.

"You OK?" He's laughing. His arms are around me. He's holding me against his chest.

"Oh god. Cold! So cold!" Through the fog of panic and shock comes the thought again: his arms are around me. I'm being held against his broad chest. My shivering gasps stop, and the cold suddenly feels very distant. I look up into his face. Everything slows. Everything stops. Then slowly, impossibly, he leans down and kisses me.

His lips brush against mine, soft and sending a completely different kind of shiver through me. Did I think it was cold? My whole body trembles, and I wrap my arms around him, kissing him hungrily as he opens his mouth and his tongue ghosts across mine. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I'm kissing this hunk of a mountain man, and what's more, he's kissing me just as hungrily.

His gentleness evaporates, and his need comes surging to the fore. His massive arms hold me close, press me to his muscled chest, and he kisses me with a passion I've never thought would be directed at me. I moan as his tongue dances over mine. Each moment that our lips are locked stokes the fires in my body up higher. My hands move over his broad shoulders, my nails raking his skin just like I've dreamed, and he presses me hard against him, his cock rigid against my hip, and the very thought of it drives me wild.

Arthur takes a step and rises out of the pool, lifting me bodily in his arms. Trailing streams of water he carries me to the fire's side and sets me down only long enough to throw a blanket next to it. I start to shiver, eyes wide, as Arthur dumps a mass of logs on the fire, and then turns to me. The sun is setting, the light golden and liquid, and I've never seen a more beautiful man. The perfect blend of masculine and gentle, gorgeous and strong.

He kneels by my side and begins helping me out of my soaked clothing. I'm shivering, my teeth chattering, and I stiffly try to help, turning this way and that, raising my arms, scooting up my hips. He strips me. Removes each article of clothing, and I love how he's barely managing to remain gentle, how his movements are becoming imperious, demanding. Each piece of clothing gets thrown aside, until I'm just sitting in my soaked panties and bra. The fire is leaping and roaring now, but still I'm cold, still I shiver.