Better than a simple wheelie, he squeezed hard to stop the left tire, felt the sizzle through his glove but let the right one roll until he’d spun a perfect donut. “Whooo-hoooo!”
Grace reached him as he howled at the sky. “I don’t think you’re treating this expedition with proper reverence.”
“Ice, ice, baby.” He swooped her into his lap, took off again with her holding onto his neck and chest. She was a bundle of laughing woman, his laughing woman, but ten layers of padded gear would inhibit even a stainless-steel fish boner’s rod. Getting the shelter raised became a highly motivating factor.
The shelter’s instructions claimed one person could set it up, so a former Special Forces soldier and a Ph.D. should be able to accomplish the task, even if they totaled only one and three-quarters standard bodies. He stabilized the sides while she popped the middle pole.
“That sucks.” Grace climbed out to stand next to his chair and look at the portal’s bottom edge, approximately eighteen inches off the ground. “I bought one with no floor covering on purpose for your wheels, but I didn’t check for a raised door. I’m sorry.”
“No prob-prob-problem.” When his chair’s front wheels touched the shelter’s nylon sides, he unzipped the enclosure and locked his brakes. Wouldn’t do if the chair ran away without him. He braced on the arm rests and self-propelled over the lip of the tent, rolling on his shoulder across the ice until the far wall stopped him.
“Rey!” Grace’s head poked through the open flap, her eyes as wide as her mouth. “Are you okay?”
“Last time I-I-I jumped—” he struggled to stop laughing, “—water not…hard.”
“The last time…” Her inflection rose as she climbed in. “Was that when…?”
“Yeah.” Felt odd to realize he hadn’t had the dream in four days, not since the first night on the road. He’d attended enough head-sessions not to think it was permanently gone, but he hadn’t slept so much in months. Grace, better than drugs.
“Step one is drilling the hole. This is a manly activity—note the large, sharp tool—so of course I will defer to you. Here.” She handed him an auger the size of a rifle. “Drill.”
An hour of sitting around the hole later, they had nothing. The patience required for this sport rivaled the amount needed for stalking a gaggle of bad dudes in the mountains. Today he was interested in a quicker reward. “Done yet?”
She rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you ever ice fished?”
“Hell no.” He shrugged out of his unzipped jacket and pulled off his stocking cap. Either the portable heater was effective, or his temperature was rising.
“This is an endurance sport.” Without breaking eye contact, she shed her parka too. “It requires contemplation.”
“Beer.” With his preferred beverage, he’d happily contemplate how her bib overall straps framed her breasts and pushed them together.
“That too. Luckily, the gas station happened…” she rummaged in the sled, “…to have some.” Her hand emerged, holding two bottles of Hopping Dakota Brown Ale.
“Best woman. Ever.” He made a gesture of prying off a cap. “Open?”
Horror as absurd as a rubber mask crossed her face. “Oh, nooo. I forgot.”
“New plan.” Screwing didn’t require beer, and his body fit the sled perfectly, like a bunk. His coat and the tent carry bag would insulate him from the ice. She could ride on top.
“I can predict where you’re going, and it won’t catch our dinner.” Despite the prim tone, she eased the portable heater closer.
“Catch me.” He ran both thumbs from the outer edge of his waistband to meet in the middle and watched her eyes track his motion. “Buy dinner.”
“That’s an…idea.” The rapid rise and fall of her chest intrigued him.
The snaps and fasteners at his fly didn’t make enough noise to be heard over the whoosh of the heater, but her pupils expanded when he spread his pants. She could probably tell what was happening under his long johns. “Come here.”
She clunked on to the sled, boots and all, and he guided her legs to either side of his hips. With their coats to pad her knees, he slipped the straps off her shoulders to hunt for the hem of her thermal shirt. He wanted to see her bare breasts in the filtered light of the tent and watch her skin flush pink.
Her shirt lifted out of the high waist of her snow gear, but the bib straps tangled on her arms. He pulled and lifted more layers, finally revealing the black stretch of…a fucking sports bra. He couldn’t insert a finger under the band. The contraption was tighter than a jammed double feed in an M16. Probably twice as hard to remove. Why did chicks wear this stuff? “This armor?”
“Support, you know, for hauling gear and landing a record trout.” At least she took the hint and wiggled out of her bindings, which involved rotating her hips smack on top of him, so maybe that was another acceptable reason.
He pulled her down until he could kiss her while he rubbed circles on his prizes. Her mouth was holy; he was a sinner who needed to worship. Her lips, her tongue, the kitten sounds from her throat invited him to enter and entwine until he couldn’t be sure where he stopped and where her thrusts took over. Every twist was a move he wanted to repeat with their bodies, but until he had more of her clothes off, he could only kiss and touch.
Her hands burrowed under his shirt to push the slippery fabric high enough to expose his skin, match it to hers, chest to chestwhile they kissed. He dug his hand deeper into her hair, and the other pulled her hip tighter. Skin to skin, she dragged her nipples across his chest and moaned, or maybe he dragged her and moaned, because they were so close to being one. If only they didn’t have clothes in the way.
“Harder,” she groaned, because the friction wasn’t enough for either of them. He lifted her, brought those breasts from his chest to his mouth and suckled like a man denied, not like a man who’d fucked himself sore the night before.
