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Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3)

Page 13

by Phoenix Sullivan


  “You know all that work we weren’t having to do?” She grimaced. “Well, we’ve got a buttload ahead of us now, whichever way we decide to use that petrol.”

  We waited an hour to see if the power would miraculously kick back on before firing up the generator. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t. We agreed on running the generator two days, then reassessing. If we miscalculated and waited too long in making our decision, the rain would make it for us. Washed-out roads would mean we were stuck here until things dried out, or until our gasoline or resolve ran out. We did have plenty of food and other staples—Kayla had seen to that. Another change of clothes would be welcome, I thought—the workers had only managed to bring me one shirt from town—but of course Kayla was one step ahead on that as well.

  In the locked wardrobe of the guest room—my room, though I doubted I’d sleep there again—Kayla had stored a few more of her father’s clothes beyond the shirt and shorts she’d already provided me with. I was a little taller and broader all around than her dad had been, but we found a roomy pair of elastic-wasted shorts and a couple of tribal tunics. Kayla had to show me how to fit one of them over one shoulder then drape it down. I think it should have gone to my knees, but it hit me mid-thigh. Once on and adjusted, the fit was remarkably comfortable and the design remarkably cool, although going commando under a tunic was a completely different experience from going commando under scrubs or shorts. At least one part of me highly approved of the extra freedom extended it. Freedom it was going to need often so long as Kayla and I were going to be bunked so close.

  Intentional or not, we were in that honeymoon phase, our hormone factories running overtime, churning out pheromones and, in my case, testosterone by the bushel load. That chemistry between two lovers so often discussed as being some sort of mysterious, indefinable force was exactly what it professed to be on the tin—a chemical response between two people that resulted in exactly what Nature’s ultimate goal for every species was—sexual attraction.

  Percocet aside, I was on a chemical high and in a near-constant state of arousal, seduced not just by Kayla’s exquisite outer beauty and those maternal behavior traits that I hadn’t even realized were such strong triggers for me, but by her very smell, the hormones exuded in the delicacy of her sweat that tickled the primal receptors in my nasal cavity and wakened my lizard brain to her charms.

  And once wakened, there was no putting the lizard-genie back in his bottle. Proximity kept refueling the hormone factories like gasoline refueling the generator. Kayla and I fed off one another. So much so that the moment we got out of bed, my primary urge was getting her back in it again, of getting me back into her again.

  The honeymoon loop.

  Recognizing what it was, however, gave me no control over it. I could no more banish it away than I could have willed myself well from the Subs virus. As a student doctor, I had studied chemical stimuli and its addictive properties. It was no great mystery to me why we resonated so well together.

  It was all chemistry. Cold and scientific. Quantifiable.

  Because if it wasn’t, if there were some other non-empirical driving force behind my craving for Kayla, my need for her body, my admiration of her soul, then I would have to admit I was falling in—

  No.

  It was lizard-brain sex triggered by chemical and hormonal rises in my body in turn triggered by similar rises in Kayla. That was simple, direct, uncomplicated.

  The other thing was complex, messy and made for illogical decisions. Bad decisions.

  And right now I needed to make a good decision about how to get out of Ushindi and back to my career—my life—in the States. What I didn’t need was that other thing complicating that.

  We had agreed to two days to figure out our plans.

  Doctors MD knew where I was. Even if they couldn’t get me a flight out, they wouldn’t abandon me here. They could surely get a medical helicopter in, or an army chopper if they needed firepower. America didn’t abandon their own.

  Did they?

  But was I prepared to abandon Kayla?

  CHAPTER 22

  KAYLA

  “Ready?”

  Mark leaned in close and watched with fascination as I circled my thumb and forefinger around the base of the swollen appendage.

  “Squeeze firmly.” A bubble of froth appeared at the tip. “Use your other fingers to stroke down. Be firm. Stay in command. Strip it dry.”

  At my encouragement, a stream of white fluid arrowed out into the bucket beneath. “Release the pressure. Give it a couple of seconds to refill, then repeat. Meanwhile, your other hand is squeezing while this one's resting. An alternating rhythm. See?”

  Milk streamed in to the bucket from the second teat I was holding then from the first then the second again. The cow munched on a bit of dry hay, happy to have the pressure on her swollen udder relieved.

  With a look of fierce determination, Mark positioned himself beside a second cow. It took a couple of clumsy attempts to get the feel and rhythm down, but once he had it, his fingers moved with the same strength and confidence he manipulated me with.

  Lucky cow.

  We were just starting on our third and last cow each when the distinctive thwock-thwock of a low-flying helicopter sounded over the drum of the rain. We hurried to the edge of the pole barn, each of us hiding behind one of the massive timbers holding up the tin roof as we scanned the rain-filled sky.

  We didn't have to look far. The helicopter flew almost directly over the barn, no more than 30 meters as it circled the cluster of dome homes then flew a reconnaissance pass over the main house.

  “It's unmarked,” Mark cautioned.

  Not that I needed his warning to stay back and out of sight. There was something hostile and predatory in the pattern it flew. No search-and-rescue mission this—it was on the hunt. A glimpse of the camouflaged man in the co-pilot seat cradling a rifle as the helicopter dipped through another pass clinched it.

  “Definitely an unfriendly,” I called to Mark over the rotor noise. He nodded that he'd heard.

  Surely they wouldn't land—not in mud already deep enough to cake the rubber boots I'd found for us to trudge our way to the barn in. Although those ski runners might provide a defense against the mud. My heart beat wildly as I waited to see what it would do. I could picture Gus barking his head off in the house and a frightened Jengo running from room to room and window to window to see if he could find me. Even the normally sedate cows here in the barn were becoming agitated from the noise. I could only imagine how my rhino and okapi must be huddling together in fear as the copter swooped overhead.

  As frightened as I was for myself and Mark, I was just as frightened for my orphans. And here I was separated from them. If the helicopter or the men threatened them in any way...

  I balled my fists and prepared to run.

  The helicopter swooped down in another low and menacing pass before lifting back up just under the cloud base and heading east toward the next plantation.

  I didn't realize I was trembling until Mark crossed over and curled his arms around me.

  “You would have run, wouldn't you have?”

  I looked at him. Did he think I was trembling out of fear for myself?

  “To save those strays of yours. You would've gone. Men, rifles—you would've gone.”

  I relaxed. He didn't think I was a coward after all, although why that mattered so much, I didn't know. “Call me Mama Bear.”

  “I'd like to call you a lot of things. Foolish is at the top of that list. But I think”—he placed a relieved hand under my chin and tilted my face to his—“Mama Bear suits you best.”

  He lowered his lips to mine, searing them with benediction and branding them with tolerance of who and what I was. Maybe he wouldn’t jeopardize himself for my brood, but he could accept that I thought they were worth taking a risk for. That was a beginning, at least, wasn’t it?

  But a beginning to what?

  The gravity-flow petrol tank stood
on stilts just outside one of the equipment sheds. In rubber boots thick with mud, we made our way from the cow shed to the house to deliver the heavy pails of milk, then to the petrol tank. From the equipment shed, I retrieved a 5-gallon polyethylene container and snaked the fill hose from the spigot on the overhead tank into the smaller container, filling it just over halfway.

  Carrying back only three to four gallons at a time would mean double the trips through the streaming rain to keep the generator full, but lugging more down the kilometer-long mud drive, while not beyond my strength, was at the upper limit of it.

  Mark’s wound hampered him still. He hadn’t complained about carrying half the milk back, but I had caught him wincing as we slipped and slid our way across the slick mud.

  “Let me take that,” he offered, looking relieved I hadn’t filled the bulky container to the top. He stood there gallantly, but the Percocet was wearing off, and I saw the lines of strain on his face from the stress of our situation and the toll from slogging across the plantation through all this damn mud.

  I compromised on his manhood and his pain. “Okay, but only as far as that tall tree there.” I pointed to the tree I meant that was about halfway to the house. “Then we trade off. Deal?” I waited till he nodded, then handed him the container sloshing with petrol while I shut off and secured the overhead tank.

  He hefted the container. “I don’t remember four gallons being this heavy before. Or am I that weak?”

  “Imperial gallons,” I reminded him. There’s about 20% more than in a U.S. gallon if I remember my conversion tables right.”

  Dark clouds over the mountain threatened to turn the stream of rain into another storm squall soon. I scowled at them. “I really wish radar was up so we could time our outdoor chores to lulls in the rain. How did anybody function before technology?”

  “Poorly, I’m going to bet.” Mark and I struck off down the muddied drive heading for our trail-marking tree. “They just didn’t realize it. The same way we don’t realize now how our children and grandchildren will look back at us and wonder how we struggled through without computer implants and hover cars.”

  I shared the obligatory chuckle with him, but my mind was more on the four little words he’d thrown out so carelessly—our children and grandchildren. Had that word choice simply been a figure of speech, or was Mark sending a subtle message? Maybe even expressing some hidden desire? Or was I reading some sort of buried desire of my own into it?

  What irony. If I didn’t have an inkling about psychology, I wouldn’t know just enough to ask the questions, and I would have happily and ignorantly gone on about my business instead of nearly missing our arrival at the marker tree. And sometimes, I reminded myself as I took the container from Mark with an insistent hand, an expression is just an expression. My fingers brushed his on the handle as he settled the weight of his burden into my hands.

  He caught my smirk. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking about the future.”

  “Me too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Ours.”

  I nearly dropped the petrol.

  He slid his hand around my waist. “Wondering how we might occupy ourselves once the sun goes down.”

  I relaxed, although a part of me wondered why another part seemed vaguely disappointed, because a third part was already starting to cream at the idea of another night with Mark.

  Although maybe the disappointment and the eagerness weren’t mutually exclusive after all.

  It was, indeed, a complex world in which we lived.

  Before we could snuggle in for a dry night, Mark and I made a hurried trip to feed Tamu and Nyota and to comfort them after the helicopter fly-by. They seemed nervous, but that could easily have been due to the rain and staying cooped up. Whatever the reason, they were happy to see Mark and me, their bottles, and another dry flake of hay to keep their tummies full.

  Much could be endured on a full stomach.

  We left them with fat kisses on their noses and promises of love whispered in their ears. Well, that’s what I whispered. I couldn’t be sure what Mark promised them.

  As we hurried across the paddock, the storm squall rolled over us, blasting down sheets of rain in unexpected fury. By the time we flung ourselves through the kitchen door, we were drenched to the bone. Funny how more water could possibly sound good, but all I craved right then was a hot shower.

  “There’s enough water?” Mark asked as we headed for the bathroom to strip off our wet things.

  “The two 5000-litre collection tanks you’ve seen outside on the west side of the house are feeding in rainwater for showering, washing and general cleaning. We could boil that water for cooking and drinking, but there’s also a well for that. The collection tanks work on gravity to move the water, but for any real water pressure they and the well run off electric pumps and feed through separate electric water heaters. So they need electricity for us to be comfortable. But since it’s all private water, it can’t be cut off like the power. All this rain will keep the collection tanks full. And I’m willing to spend a gallon of petrol so we can have a hot shower or two over the next couple of days. But we’ll have to make them short. So no extracurricular fun while the water’s running.”

  “Like camping. Think ahead. Conserve.”

  I gave Mark the side-eye. “Just how often have you camped?”

  “In theory,” he amended. “Although I did go to the Catskills once in an RV with a friend.”

  “Friend?” Why should the thought of him on vacation with a woman upset me?

  He must have noted my discomfort because he gave me a long, slow look before confessing, “It was just a guy I knew. Our first time.”

  “A guy?” My voice squeaked in surprise, for which I was immediately ashamed. I always fancied myself open-minded and unbigoted. It had just been unexpected. At least that’s what I excused myself with.

  Mark nodded, lost for a moment in memory. “Frank Muldoon. Blond, great at sports, came from a monied family. The things he taught me…” Mark lifted a brow my way. “We did more than drive and camp that trip, let me tell you.”

  “Oh?” I tried to keep my tone noncommittal.

  “Oh, yeah. Spelunking, slingshots…”

  Apparently I wasn’t as up on my gay slang as I needed to be. I could make some good guesses what those terms might be euphemisms for, though.

  “I had only dreamed about taking something 9 or 10 inches before that trip, but Frank and I did it a dozen times that week.”

  I definitely didn’t need to be listening to these kinds of exploits from the man I was about to shower with. I didn’t care if it was Frank or Francesca. I squirmed.

  “Fish.” Mark grinned.

  “Huh?”

  “Nine- or 10-inch fish. Frank and I were eleven. I went camping with his family.”

  I was slow on the uptake. “So you never…?”

  “Not with Frank.”

  Damn that sly look. Was he still messing with me, or…

  He laughed. “Not with any guy. Never tempted. Although I’ve had a few good friends put the offer on the table if I ever were. That’s flattering, and it’s nice to know the option’s always there, if other things don’t work out. But I like women. One woman right now in particular.” He stroked my wet hair.

  “Suck up,” I muttered. A thought struck. One I suddenly needed clarity on even more than I needed my hot shower. “I didn’t ask before and should have. Do you have a girlfriend back home? Someone you’re going back to?”

  The mischief, still flirting around his eyes, disappeared in a blink. “No! You’re amazing and beautiful and you tempt the hell out of me. But if there was someone else, I could never…would never…”

  “Not even if she would never know?”

  “I would know.”

  It could have been a well-practiced line, but the utter sincerity behind it wasn’t so easily faked.

  I believed him. And that was dangerous. Too many qu
alities were already stacking up in his favor. And now I’d have to add principled to that column too. Maybe if that column weren’t so heavily offset by the fact he’d be leaving as soon as there was a way out I could have allowed myself to feel differently—feel more—about him. Until then…

  I sighed, accepting this fling for what it was. And determined to enjoy every last minute of now, knowing everything could change tomorrow. Taking his hand, I led him to the shower.

  We stripped quickly, no teasing beforehand since we couldn’t afford more than just a couple of minutes under the hot water. No hanky-panky, even if my hanky and his panky were aroused the moment both were visible to the other. Ignoring that, I fingered his damp bandage and, at his nod, unwound it from his ribs. The skin around the entry and exit wounds was red and puckered but the wound as a whole looked clean and to be healing well.

  “Let’s leave it open a while,” Mark suggested. “You did a great job. Thank you.”

  High praise from a doctor, but really how far wrong could I go with a few strips of cloth and some penicillin? Not that I concentrated long on his praise, deserved or not. Without the bandaging, Mark was even more naked now, and my clenched hanky was begging for some of that panky rising steadily under my fixed gaze.

  “Shower. Now.” The strain in Mark’s voice couldn’t have been any sexier. Then we were in the tight cubicle, his skin glistening as first hot water then slick soap streamed over it. My hanky thrummed in anticipation.

  Two minutes wasn’t nearly long enough, but I managed to soap up, shampoo and rinse off in the allotted time despite the distractions. When I cut the shower off, I allowed myself to be mesmerized by the water droplets caught by Mark’s hairs up and down his body.

  He stepped out, finding his towel and handing me mine. We patted each other dry, quickly and imperfectly before dropping the towels to the floor and scurrying to the wide bed where hanky met panky without further delay.

  I clutched at his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his, drawing him as close to me, into me, as possible, until my whole world dissolved into an ocean of ecstasy, wave upon wave of it crashing over me.

 

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