“But we might be able to use some pictures of the mine and the cabin—I mean, the mine is part of your history, right?”
“Ma has piles of old pictures of the Red Robin. We’ll go through them before we leave on Friday. You can take your pick.”
Well, now, what could she say to that? After all, it would be a lot more romantic with just the two of them.
She could see Buck now, naked in the firelight….
Yes. Oh, definitely.
They packed a duffel bag with the clothes they’d need and Chastity let them raid her pantry for supplies. Buck’s mom also provided muffins, fruit and two thermoses: one with coffee for Buck and the other filled with the hot, spicy herb tea that B.J. had recently taken a liking to.
By eight, they were on the road. They sped east on the highway, the big, fluffy flakes of snow coming down thick and steady, slanting at the windshield, gathering in the corners as the wipers shoved them out of the way.
About five miles from town, they turned off onto another road and began climbing in a series of switch-backs, snow coming down thick and steady, and also dropping in globs from the trees that hung over the road, making wet, plopping sounds as it hit the windshield.
After a half hour or so, Buck turned onto yet another road—still paved, but only wide enough for a single vehicle to travel at a time. Not that the lack of room to pass mattered. They saw no other cars. The trees grew closer, inching in nearer the road. They drove in shadow, the lacing of thick pine branches overhead providing a certain amount of cover from the thickly falling snow.
The pavement gave out. For a while, the dirt road was reasonably smooth. But eventually, the going got pretty rough.
Buck said, sounding pleased, “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
They bounced along. He steered the SUV clear of the gullies and potholes as best he could, but there were too many to miss them all.
And it got worse as the road got steeper.
“Almost there,” he told her, as the engine revved high, carrying them up a last, nearly perpendicular stretch of chuckholes and boulders.
The engine labored scarily the final twenty yards or so from the crest, but ultimately, with a final lugging surge, the wheels hit the top and the vehicle leveled out onto a flat space, an area still pocked with potholes, but wide enough that Buck could turn around. He backed, and rolled forward, passing the steep road they’d just climbed and driving along what amounted to a wide ledge, with the face of the mountain on one side and a steep drop-off on the other.
The ledge got wider—and then she saw it, through the driving snow: a shadow in the shape of a building, with a high-pitched roof and a chimney pipe. A simple structure of weather-silvered wood.
Rustic. Oh, yes. That would be the word.
He stopped the SUV, turned off the engine and leaned his battered face across the console toward her.
She kissed the uninjured side of his mouth, smiling against his lips. “I take it we’re here.”
“Yes, we are. Let’s get everything inside and get the fire going.”
An hour later, they sat at the pine table in the cabin on a pair of roughhewn ladderback chairs. A cheery fire burned in the stove. They were warm and dry and filling their empty stomachs with the muffins Chastity had packed for them.
Buck watched B.J. as she nibbled a pumpkin muffin and sipped that spicy tea she liked. She looked happy. And completely relaxed.
He drank the coffee he’d brought. “See?” He gestured with his thermos cup. “Didn’t I tell you? Paradise, plain and simple.”
She set down her cup and gave him one of those looks.
He asked, innocently, “What?”
“You really should have mentioned the outhouse when you were telling me about how great this place is.”
Buck poured himself a second cup of coffee before explaining, “It’s not an outhouse, not technically.”
“Oh, no? Looks like an outhouse to me.”
“And see, that’s where you’re wrong. By definition, an outhouse is out—meaning away from the main building. If it were an outhouse, you’d have to slog through the snow to get to it. The facilities here are much more convenient than that.”
“Because the toilet’s in a lean-to beside the back door?”
“That’s right. A cinch to get in and get out.”
She let out a distinctly indelicate snort. “Buck. It’s still an outhouse. A hole in the ground. A slivery slab of cold wood to sit on…”
He leaned across the table toward her and teased, “Whine, whine, whine…”
She pointed at the tub full of melting snow in the corner and then at the big pot of water on the stove. “And there was that other little detail you failed to mention. You know, the one about how there’s no running water…”
He sipped his coffee. “There’s running water. Cold running water, anyway. In the summer.” He indicated the sink and the faucet arching over it. “But Brand shuts it down in early October so the pipes won’t freeze.”
“And it’s too cold out to try to turn it on again, just for overnight, right?”
“You got it.” He toasted her with his thermos cup.
“No running water,” she groused. “And an outhouse…”
“I thought I just explained—”
“I don’t care what you like to call it, it’s an outhouse as far as I’m concerned.”
She pointed at the Coleman lantern on the table between them. “Oh, and did I mention, no electricity?”
“Everything looks better by lantern-light.”
“You think so, huh?” She glanced around them, at the unfinished plank walls and floor, at the old stove and the iron-framed bed and the single battered bureau in the corner. “Believe me, I’ve been here before.” His puzzlement must have shown on his face, because she amended, “Well, not here, specifically, but other places so much like here, it’s definitely déjà vu all over again.”
He understood then. “Roughing it with L.T.?” She nodded and he reassured her. “This will be much better.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I plan to make it up to you for the lack of plumbing, the absence of electricity and the slivers on the toilet seat.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
“How?”
“Guess.”
A smile broke across that kissable mouth of hers and their gazes caught and held. He knew she felt what he felt—that warmth and anticipation low in the belly. She fiddled with the fuel valve on the lantern between them. “You may be right about looking better by lantern-light. You certainly do. It lends a certain…glow to all those cuts and bruises.”
For that, he gave her the best grin he could manage—crooked, maybe. Puffy and black-and-blue on one side. But clearly enthusiastic. And then he reached across the rough surface of the table and rested his hand on her arm. Beneath her heavy sweater, he felt her warmth. He brushed his hand downward, then eased his fingers up under the cuff of the sweater, so he could rub her silky bare skin.
Her breath caught. She leaned closer, mouth soft, eyes shining. “What are you thinking?”
“That I can’t wait to get you naked…”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
“Well, then.” She slid her arm free of his grasp, grabbed the hem of her sweater and whipped it off over her head. “How’s this?”
Heat flooded his groin. “I’d say it’s a damn good start.”
“That bed?”
“What about it?”
“Single-spring?”
“That’s right.”
“Those are squeaky.”
“’Fraid so. And you should take off your bra now. Please.”
She reached behind her and the bit of blue lace and black satin went loose. “Oops.” She caught it before it slipped off.
“B.J.”
“What?”
“Let it go.”
And, very slowly, she did.
Twenty<
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The ancient bed did squeak. But neither of them really noticed.
And the old stove kept the cabin toasty-warm. Once they had their clothes off, they saw no reason to put them on again—except for the occasional trip out to the lean-to.
Outside, the snow continued to fall. They made love, and they got up and stoked the fire. And then they made love some more.
Around four in the afternoon, as they lay in bed, Buck asked lazily, “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
He hid his smile. Lately, she could always eat. But since she’d gotten past the frantic dashes to the bathroom every morning, she no longer seemed driven to gobble everything in sight later on in the day.
She threw back the covers and swung those long, satiny legs over the edge of the squeaky old bed. Her back was to him, slender and shapely. Very fine. She sent him a teasing smile over the gorgeous curve of her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get ourselves a late lunch.”
So they got up and heated a can of soup. They split the soup between them and set out apple sections, cheese and some wheat crackers. They even dressed for the occasion—B.J. in one of Buck’s sweaters and Buck in an old pair of sweatpants.
After they sat down and dug in, she asked, “Did your father ever come up here?”
He paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Not that I know of. But it’s possible, I suppose. Pretty much anything’s possible where Blake Bravo’s concerned.”
She spooned up more soup. “I hear that.”
Buck ate a cracker and an apple section, cut himself a slice of cheese—and admired the view.
He liked looking at B.J. Liked the shine to her hair and the strong shape of her nose, the luster to her skin. B.J. wasn’t beautiful, not in the classic sense. But she radiated such a fine self-confidence, a sure sense of command. She made a man wonder which way it would go with her—maybe he’d get to be on top.
And maybe she’d do the dominating.
Either way, it would be one hell of a ride.
And, as Buck was fortunate to have discovered, it always was.
In spite of his impatience with what she still hadn’t told him, he found himself grinning, thinking, I’m a lucky man. And then he frowned.
She swallowed a spoonful of soup. “Okay. You’re frowning. What?”
“It just occurred to me. I still don’t know what your initials stand for.”
“That’s right.” She reached for a cracker. “And you don’t need to know.”
“Would you tell me if I guessed it?”
“What part of ‘You don’t need to know’ requires clarifying?”
“Let’s see. Bianca Justine?”
She crunched her cracker. “Don’t even go there.”
“Bessie Jo.”
“You are so asking for it.”
“Blythe Juliette?”
“Cut it the hell out.”
He tried to look pouty—in a very masculine way, of course. It was a challenge, with one eye swollen shut and half of his lip twice its usual size. “Come on. I’ve waited years to know what B.J. stands for. You always used to promise that someday you’d tell me.”
“That was only to get you off my back about it.”
He went for devastated. It was kind of a stretch. “Now I am truly crushed.” He looked at her sideways. “You never meant to tell me? Not ever?”
She fiddled with her paper napkin. “Buck. Come on. Cut the wounded act. I’ve never told anyone. Even L.T., who should have done something about preventing the problem in the first place, has the sense never to mention it.”
“Your name is that bad?”
“This is so stupid. We don’t need to talk about it.”
“For some reason, you’re ashamed of your name?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Consider this. I have my sources. I could have found out anytime, if I’d wanted to. But I never have.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“If you tell me, I’ll never tell anyone. Plus, I’ll let you tie me to the bed and have your way with me.” He leaned closer to her, in order to better gauge her expression, then modified his offer. “Or I’ll tie you up. Whichever. Your choice. Hell. Both. I could go for both.”
She was almost smiling. “You are impossible.”
“Beverly Jan?”
“Buck…”
“Bobbie June?”
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
“Brenda Jane?”
She set down her spoon, folded her arms across the front of his sweater and tipped her head to the side, studying him. He waited. He couldn’t believe it. After six long years, he was actually getting close to learning B. J. Carlyle’s given name.
Finally, she spoke. “I’d have to know I could trust you. You’d have to swear never, under any circumstances, to reveal the truth to anyone else.”
“Damn. Is it that bad?”
“My middle name? Not so much.”
“But your first name?”
She nodded, a slow, severe dip of her head.
He put up a hand, like a witness at a swearing-in. “I do solemnly swear that I will never, under any circumstances, for any reason, reveal your given name to another soul.”
“And about my tying you to the bed…”
He tried to look noble, though, under the table, beneath the sweats, his cock gave a hungry twitch. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice.”
“I want more.”
“Name your price.”
“I want you. Out in the SUV. First, before I tie you to the bed.”
He winced, though beneath the table there was now more than twitching going on. “Did you notice there’s a blizzard out there? It’ll be freezing.”
“We’ll turn on the heater.”
He pretended to have to consider, but not for long. It was just an act and they both knew it. “All right. In the SUV—and then you tie me to the bed. Hard to believe the sacrifices I have to make just to get you to tell me your name.”
She shifted in her chair. And he felt her foot between his legs. Her toes touched him—rubbing. He held back a groan and braced his elbows on the table.
He also spread his thighs wider apart.
She said, “Keep this in mind—are you listening?”
“Uh. You bet.”
“My name is B.J. What it stands for is not my fault.”
Her clever toes kept working their naughty magic down there. He sucked in a slow breath through his nose. “I’ll remember that.”
“My mother chose the name. It was her mother’s name. And my grandmother had died a couple of months before I was born…” Buck couldn’t help it. A low groan escaped him. He shifted in his chair. “Keep your hands on the table,” she commanded in husky whisper.
“Whatever you say…continue. Please.”
“L.T. swears he tried to talk my mother out of it. But she wouldn’t give in. And she named me…”
He couldn’t take it. Before she could order him not to again, he whipped his hand beneath the table and caught her ankle in a firm grip. Her chair scraped the old floorboards as he pulled her closer. He held her foot, tight and warm, against his raging erection. “Okay.” He sucked in another breath. She wiggled those toes of hers. “Stop that. And tell me.”
She sat up a little straighter and she captured her lower lip between her teeth.
He squeezed her ankle tighter. “Now.”
And she whispered, “It’s Bitsy. Bitsy Janine.”
“No,” B.J. said from behind the wheel. “Leave the rest on. That’s the thrill, you just undo enough to, er, get the job done…”
At her command, he let his hand fall from the top button of his shirt. They’d already peeled off their heavy jackets, their wool hats and their down gloves and thrown them in the back. She’d taken off her boots and pants. She was naked from the waist down—well, except for those heavy wool socks of hers.
The SUV’s heater blasted on high. He
felt the warmth flowing out, against the front of him, and up from the floor vent.
In a very short time, she’d be sitting on his lap. He couldn’t wait, though a part of the turn-on lay in trying not to look too eager.
She leaned across the console toward him. “Oh, for the days of bench seats.” She laid her hand on his fly.
He put serious effort into not moaning out loud, and reminded her, “We have to make the best of what we’ve got.”
“An excellent attitude.” She took his zipper down. It made a soft, snicking sound that sent a hot thrill of need bursting through him. He shut his eyes, threw back his head—and banged it on the seat rest.
“Careful,” she said. She slid those knowing fingers into the opening at the front of his boxers and her hand closed around him—cool. Firm. And tight.
He gasped. He couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes and looked down as she guided him out of the nest of his clothing. She bent her golden head. He felt the warmth of her sweet breath. And then she took him—slowly—into her soft, wet mouth.
He thought he would lose it.
But somehow, he didn’t. He dug his hands into her hair and surged up toward her.
She took him all the way in, mouth sliding down. He moaned as he bumped the back of her throat—and then she lifted, so slowly, her suction strong, her tongue working, around the crown, against the sensitive slit….
He hit his head against the headrest again. Not that it mattered: the headrest was padded—and he couldn’t feel anything but her mouth on him, anyway, working with such slow, sensual deliberation.
He bore the sweet agony as long as he could. Then he took her head in both his hands and made her look up at him. “You,” he said. “All of you. Now…”
She touched his face, a breath of a touch against the cut on his cheekbone. He turned his head and brushed his bruised lips against her fingers, at the same time lifting his right hip enough to slide the condom from his pocket, thinking how stupid it was to go on with the charade that they needed protection.
But he went on with it anyway. He fumbled with the wrapper. She took it from him, swiftly got it free and smoothly rolled it down on him.
Bravo Unwrapped Page 19