Running Wild

She did so and looked around as she unhooked her bra and removed it through the sleeve of her top. This wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t nearly as cramped as she’d expected.

Which made her wonder what kind of conditions her folks had to contend with on Munoz’s coca farm. They were accustomed to living rough, but what if the cartel goons had just tossed them in a closet or set them to working the fields for twelve hours a day? They were in their sixties, for pity’s sake, and likely weren’t as strong as they once were.

The zzzip of the zipper unfastening on the other side of the tent interrupted her thoughts and she turned to watch Finn climb inside. He was around the six-foot mark and his shoulders were wide. And suddenly what she’d thought was a generous hunk of space shrank.

She eased off her sandals and set them aside, then flopped down atop the sleeping bag. “Good night,” she murmured and turned away from him onto her side. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep but she had an awful feeling the much-needed slumber might be elusive. Things rustled as he did whatever he did to get ready for bed and a hint of his scent wafted in her direction.

As she breathed in the bouquet of some no-nonsense guy-type soap, laundry detergent and the faint underlying aroma of man, she was surprised to find it curiously comforting. And perhaps that was why, between one breath and the next, she did exactly what she feared she’d not be able to do.

She tumbled headfirst into the deep, dark abyss of oblivion.

* * *

FINN AWOKE FROM a great dream of having a woman sprawled over him to discover that a woman was, in fact, half-sprawled over him.

For a second, he didn’t know where the hell he was. Cracking an eye open, he tipped his chin to look. Magdalene was in his arms and memories of yesterday started filtering back into his brain. Unless those were part of an elaborate dream as well.

She slept on her side, partially plastered against him. Her head rested on his chest as if he were her personal pillow, her breasts nestled against a section of his rib cage and one shapely arm draped across him diagonally. Her right leg was slung across his thighs and bent at the knee, her kneecap dangerously close to brushing his morning wood.

But if she’d been drawn to him in her sleep, clearly he’d been equally magnetized. Hard to say otherwise, considering his own arm wrapped around her in return. More damning, that hand cupped the lower curve of her breast. He gazed at it blurrily through slitted eyes.

Okay, this didn’t appear to be a dream. A soft guffaw escaped him. No shit, Sherlock. If he were dreaming she’d be buck-naked and crawling all over him, performing epic pornographic acts.

He shifted the hand cupping her breast and stroked his thumb down the warm curve to her nipple. The weight in his palm jiggled slightly and her nipple hardened beneath the barely there layer of the thin T-shirt separating their bare skin.

Nope. Definitely not a dream.

Yet still he floated in a half world, caught between sleep and full consciousness as he lazily gave the nipple caught between his thumb and the side of his index finger a gentle tug. And oh, yeah. She liked that. Watching with sleepy satisfaction, he repeated the process, loving the drowsy, appreciative sounds she made in her sleep and the way she rocked her hips with restive sexuality against the side of his.

Then she suddenly went still—and he was abruptly wide-awake with the knowledge that she likely was as well.

Not to mention the realization that he’d been caught feeling her up with all the finesse of a fourteen-year-old achieving second base for the very first time. His hand on her breast went slack and he slid it surreptitiously to her lower rib cage. Then had to swallow a snort.

Because, really? Like if you’restealthyenough she won’t notice you’ve been getting all handsy with her tit?

Without raising her head from his chest, she slowly tilted it back to look up at him. Her sleepy blue eyes were still heavy lidded. “Well, this is awkward,” she murmured. But, yawning, she didn’t look the least bit discomfited as she pushed back to sit on the rumpled sleeping bag next to his mat. “Sorry about that. Nancy always said I was a bed hog.” She yawned again, long and luxuriously, stretching with feline voluptuousness.

He had to drag his gaze away and clear his throat. “Yeah, and I apologize for copping a feel. My only defense is I was mostly asleep.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, that and I’m a man.”