Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [62]
Clare watched, aware that beneath the covers she wore only a lacy scrap of turquoise bra and panties.
Without looking at her, Deering shimmied out of his flight suit and folded it efficiently at the head of his bag. He lay down wearing plaid boxers. The glow of a Coleman lantern outside was just bright enough to give an impression of his body, slender and high-strung with a sprinkling of dark chest hair.
The camp sounds diminished, the day workers going to sleep while the night shift labored out on the lines.
Placing his hands behind his head, Deering lay quietly, but there was taut tension in his stillness. The smooth wall of the tent angled down six inches from Clare’s face and she became conscious of her breathing. After a minute, the effort of inhaling and exhaling made her feel as though she were suffocating. With Deering lying virtually naked next to her, she rolled toward him to get her face into clearer air. She kept her eyes closed.
“Clare?”
“Hmm?”
This was really too much, the two of them stripped to their underwear and pretending they didn’t know the game. Not since she was nineteen had she lain next to a new man and felt the way she’d thought was for the young.
But she did remember.
Deering rolled to face her and propped his head on his elbow. The orange light made his hair look as though it had red highlights.
She shifted restlessly.
“Your back hurt?”
“I get muscle spasms.”
“I give a mean backrub.”
There it was. It was quiet in the tent.
Then, faintly, “I’ll bet you do.”
In the dimness, Deering’s eyes were hard to read, but she saw an unmistakable spark that said it wouldn’t stop at a backrub. Her heart pounded like a hammer.
He waited, watching her.
It had been too long since she’d met someone she would even consider, too many years without the feel of another body against hers. That was the worst part of being alone, losing the unspoken communication of touch.
From outside came music and laughter, underlain by the constant voice of the Mink Creek.
Damn Jay Chance, for making her draw back from men. She’d told herself she stayed free because the men weren’t up to standard, and because Devon needed her. Well, Jay certainly wasn’t taking notes, Devon wasn’t here, and the look in Deering’s eyes asked her to roll the dice.
If she turned away, would she be able to sleep, lying close and thinking what if? When she went back to her solitary bed would she long for the hot dark grappling that seized her imagination even now?
Deering’s hand lay on his stomach. She couldn’t see the skin cancer scar that made him vulnerable, but he and she were no more and no less at risk at any given time. She’d been thinking of fire as a particular threat because of Frank, but couldn’t Deering’s chopper crash? Hadn’t it already?
Clare lifted her hand and touched the faint remnant of the bruise on his cheek. Deering’s fingers covered hers, pressing her against his sandpapery beard. Their eyes met and the nearest Coleman lantern sputtered out.
Rolling onto her stomach in the sleeping bag, she rested her head on her arms. Bare shoulders, striped with turquoise straps, were offered.
Deering reached for the zipper of her bag, drawing it down so slowly that she knew she could stop him anytime. The wall of the tent made a shushing sound as he brushed his head against it. He straddled her.
His touch started out impersonal, like a professional masseur, but his fingers were knowing. He massaged lower, moving to the small of her back where the tightness was most acute. She jumped as his fingers found a knot and kneaded.
Minutes passed and his hands familiarized themselves while a creeping, bone-deep weakness spread through her. It wasn’t the raging heat from the early years with Jay, but she wasn’t nineteen anymore. Deering shifted his weight and pulled the sleeping bag down farther, placing himself astride her bare thighs.
Footsteps passed by outside. Deering stilled his hands.
Clare held her breath.
His lips beside her ear, he whispered, “We should have pitched the tent a bit farther from civilization.