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Bobby lay down a good ten feet away from her, no doubt keeping his distance on purpose, for which she was grateful.
Her body ached from the time spent bareback, and she tossed around. She could handle the lumps on the ground, if only she had a soft place to rest her weary head.
In the darkness, the scent of spicy male assailed her. Ten feet away, and she was still hyper aware of him.
“Come here, angel.” His voice traveled across the thickness of the humid air. “You can rest your head on my shoulder.”
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
Bobby’s chuckle rang out. “You’re not used to this, and I’m not gonna get any shuteye with you thrashin’ around like a bear in a beehive. Let me offer you a resting place. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
“I said no thank you, Mr. Morgan.” She turned away and burrowed her head into her upper arm. He kept his word and didn’t touch her. Soon his breathing turned shallow and regular, and she knew he’d fallen asleep.
She struggled to get comfortable and said her prayers, begging for forgiveness for her wantonness in allowing that kiss. But the prayers gave way to images of Bobby caressing her, undressing her, loving her with that beautiful and sinful mouth of his. Flutters coursed through her belly as she recalled the sensual scraping of his chestnut stubble against her cheeks. He badly needed a shave. He did have that razor, perhaps she could...
Her body jerked. Where had such a sinful thought come from? And about her kidnapper, no less? Shaving a man was more intimate than a stolen kiss. It was a wifely duty.
A strange, yet not unpleasant, sensation spasmed in her belly at the thought of brushing lather onto his chiseled face and drawing the straight blade up against the hair growth.
He’d smile at her, those amber eyes twinkling, and she’d murmur something coquettish and then back away, embarrassed by her boldness.
Fire consumed her body. Again.
Truth be told, she was sorry he’d kept his promise not to touch her.
She clasped her hands together and prayed to be free from lustful thoughts.
Chapter Five
Naomi woke to the sun rising against a pink sky. She stretched and discovered new twinges in her already aching body. Where was Bobby? She smiled when she discovered he’d rolled up his shirt and placed it under her head.
But if his shirt was here...
She warmed. He’d haunted her dreams through the night. She’d awoken several times, drenched in sweat, images of their bodies entwined plaguing her, to find him still sleeping soundly. He was older than she, and more experienced. To him, she was no doubt just another woman of many. Clearly he’d had no problem sleeping.
She sat up and brought his shirt to her nose, inhaling his now familiar aroma. Would she ever be able to get enough of it?
“Stop,” she said aloud, and tossed the shirt to the ground. She was behaving like a loose woman. She’d been raised better.
Naomi stood and brushed the now dried dirt from her dress.
And beheld a dazzling sight.
Bobby stood in the creek, his back to her, cleansing himself in the cool water. He was too far away for her to see much, and though she knew it a bad idea, her feet, seemingly disengaged from her brain, propelled her forward.
When she’d walked a few hundred feet, she plopped on her fanny and appraised his male beauty with wide eyes. His hair was wet and clung to his thick neck. His golden back rippled with muscles, from the breadth of his strong shoulders to the leanness of his narrow hips. The smooth slopes of his buttocks shone with wetness. Two perfect globes. Her heart quickened and she lowered her eyes, only to raise them again, unable to look away. His legs were long and powerful, covered with fine brown hair, and when he squatted to rinse his face, the sinewy lines in his calves bulged.
As she considered averting her eyes, he stood tall and turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of her.
Brown hair, the same color as his head, scattered across his golden chest. Two copper nipples poked through, and she had the strangest urge to touch them. She gazed downward, to his flat belly, his navel, and the line of hair that ended where the male part of him hung loosely within a nest of chestnut curls.
It drew her eyes like a magnet.
“‘Mornin’, angel,” he drawled, not seeming the least bit uncomfortable as he ambled out of the creek to his duckins which were draped across a rock. His legs still dripping, he scrambled into them, and she couldn’t help thinking what a shame it was to cover such a paragon of manliness.
“Would you like to wash up? I’ll give you some privacy.” He chuckled. “Though you haven’t afforded me the same courtesy.”
Heat flooded Naomi’s cheeks, and she glanced down at her soiled garments. She couldn’t launder them. They’d never dry in time. But oh, to clean her clammy skin sounded like heaven on earth.
