Instead he only said “You’re shivering.”
“I’m cold.”
“Here.” He lifted her jacket from her shoulders and helped her guide her arms into the sleeves.
“Thank you,” she said politely and started to turn away.
“Wait.” He pulled her back in front of him, bent his knees to put him on a more even level with her and reached for the two sides of her jacket. In the dark, it was difficult, but he managed to link the components together. As he slowly straightened his legs, he dragged the zipper up the front of her body. It was an intensely sexual motion.
Somehow he managed to draw close without actually moving. He just inclined toward her until there was barely room to navigate the zipper between their bodies without touching her. His hands passed her waist and hovered above her stomach. When it inched over her breasts, it left behind a heat that spilled over her skin like an ink stain. She wondered what she would do if he dropped the zipper and slipped his hands inside her jacket to cover her breasts.
She knew what she would do. She would lean into his hands, for her breasts were aching with the need to be caressed.
His breath was hot on her face as he pulled the zipper all the way up to her chin and whispered, “There. That should feel better.”
She didn’t know if it did or not. Every nerve in her body felt like it had been singed. She had never felt so disoriented and confused in her life. She yearned for the feel of his body against hers. She wanted to see him naked, to run her hands over him.
“I’d better get you inside.”
His quiet words were all that saved her from swaying against him and begging him to hold her. How fool-hardy that would have been. Because if the workings of her mind were erotic, she could imagine what his were. She had barely confessed to enjoying his company, while he had made no bones about coming here specifically to see her and spend time alone with her. From the rigid set of his facial muscles, it was clear he was struggling to restrain his arousal.
Was she ready for intimacy with a man other than Thomas?
Tonight, tomorrow night, soon, in the distant future, ever? God, she didn’t know. One minute she was burning, the next she was quaking with apprehension and fear of making another commitment. And sex for her would always be a commitment.
What if he tried to kiss her good night?
But she needn’t have fretted about that tonight. At her door, Hunter outlined the shape of her chin with his thumb. “That was one of the most enjoyable dinners I’ve ever had. Thank you and sleep well.”
Then he began walking back the way they’d come, toward the sleeping town.
The first thing she did the following morning was the first thing she’d been doing every morning during her stay. She rolled out of bed, went to the window with the eastern exposure, and reached for the drape cord.
She had slept later than usual. Sunlight struck her full in the face. She yawned and stretched and shook out her hair. It was only when her eyes came fully open that she saw Hunter leaning against the fire hydrant at the curb. He was watching her with evident delight.
A squealing sound escaped her as she reached for a robe and held it against her. It was a ridiculous attempt at modesty since he’d already seen her in her sleeping attire, a Denver Broncos T-shirt. It was the most comfortable thing she had to sleep in, being soft and faded from innumerable washings. It only reached the top of her thighs, a fact she was embarrassingly reminded of as Hunter waved jauntily and started jogging toward her door.
“Oh, my God,” she groaned as she raced through the bedroom and caught a haphazard glimpse of herself in the mirror. She pulled on the robe just as his knock sounded.
“Good morning,” he said as she opened the door.
“Good morning.” She rested one bare foot on top of the other as the cool mountain air hit her toes. “How long have you been out there?”
“Long enough for the coffee to get cold and to give the neighbors something to talk about.”
“There are no neighbors this time of year.”
He smiled. “Good. Then you won’t have any reservations about inviting me in.”
She gave him an exasperated look and stepped aside. “Is that how you finagle a jury?” It was asked without malice.
“Practice makes perfect.” He had carried a paper sack in with him and began unloading it on the dining table. “I have tepid coffee and moderately fresh donuts.”
“Sounds wonderful,” she said in a dubious tone. But she picked up one of the gooey donuts and bit into it. “Hey, these are good. I love this chocolate icing,” she said, licking her fingers.
“I thought you would.” He wadded up the now-empty sack and with a perfect arc, lobbed it into the trash can. When he turned around, he was mesmerized by the nimbleness of Kari’s tongue as it flicked over the tips of her fingers. What he wished that tongue were doing to him was still illegal in some states.