Snowed In

The words kinda creeped me out. Stepping closer to him, I looked around. In the flickering shadows cast by the fire, everything seemed as it always was.

“Inside where?”

“Not sure,” he said. He shook his head a moment later. “Forget it. It was probably nothing.”

Still, I wasn’t going to take the chance. I cleared the opening once more, and poked my head out into the screaming wind.

Almost instantly my hair turned to ice.

“Get in here,” he said, pulling me inside. “I told you it wasn’t from outside.”

“But… But what if—”

“Morgan, trust me.”

I sighed and stretched, almost instantly cramping my legs. I was dehydrated again, I could feel it. My neck hurt too.

“We should crash,” Boone said, almost reading my mind. “It’s gotta be past midnight, and you’ve been working on the radio for five or six hours. You need fresh eyes.”

He took my hand and pulled me in to him. His body was warm and comforting. Right away everything felt better.

“Do we sleep in here, or—”

“Downstairs,” Boone said, pulling me gently from the foyer. “Those embers might stay until morning, but the mineral springs will keep us warm without having to feed the fire all night.”

Twenty-Seven

MORGAN

He took me again in the pile of sleeping bags at the edge of the pool, spreading me open and driving himself deep inside me. I was breathless at first. Adrift in the feeling of being so thoroughly, utterly dominated. It was a whole new experience for me, being possessed this way. Having to focus on the depth and ferocity of every stroke, where penetration rode that exquisite knife-edge between pleasure and pain.

We fucked for what seemed like forever against the backdrop of the rising steam, until I erupted in a cry of agony and ecstasy. When I returned to earth I expected to feel his own release at any moment, but Boone only slowed down and began working me all over again.

This time it was different. This time we did it tenderly, holding hands. Stroking and kissing and touching each other, until I was right back at the edge of forever. A tear streamed down my face and he wiped it away with his finger, that’s how life-changing it actually was.

The whole thing was incredible. Boone was unlike any lover I’d ever had, or imagined I’d ever have. When we finally exploded together in simultaneous release I almost passed out from the pleasure. He breathed my name into my mouth, his eyes screwing shut as I felt his manhood throbbing… surging…

Jesus, Morgan…

This time I kept him inside of me. I raked his back, clutching him tightly as he filled me to overflowing with his hot, runny seed. It was the most beautiful thing, in the most beautiful of places. A moaning, screaming release of pent up stress and guilt and sexual energy, after a long, hard-fought day.

Then we passed out in each other’s arms and slept like the dead.

I dreamed, and in my dream I was surrounded by warmth, and heat, and love. Everywhere I reached I found flesh and comfort, a virtual wall of contentment and gratification. Wherever I was, I felt like I somehow belonged. As if I’d earned or even deserved it. For once there was no doubt or guilt or anything stopping me from enjoying the sheer, unbridled pleasure of being deliriously happy.

I woke up drooling in the crook of his arm — not the most attractive part of the whole experience, but I recovered quickly. While Boone still slept, I studied his tattoos. They were dark and flowing, each one seeming to trail into the next. Slowly I traced the outlines with the pads of my fingers, up and down his arm, across his chest to where the sexy silver bar of his nipple-piercing lay dormant. I’d played with that piercing last night, pulling the stud between my teeth while bucking against him and urging him to come. It was by far the hottest, most daring thing I’d ever done to a guy, which in retrospect was a little sad.

He could change all that, you know.

Yes. Yes, he could. But that’s if he actually wanted to be with me instead of just possessing me this one singular time. I was as much a fantasy to him as he was to me, only Boone’s infatuation was built on an image, a mirage. A twice-weekly walk to the campus library during which his mind molded me into whatever he wanted, rather than the reality of what I actually was.

Circumstances had finally thrown us together, but would he even look me up after this? I was little more than a conquest to him. A notch on his very long bedpost. The idea that he’d want to continue seeing me, even after we were rescued was—

THUMP!

At the end of the cavern, something moved. Or rather, a noise floated in… perhaps from the doorway.

I stirred, and there it was again. A bump. Followed by a scratching noise, or maybe—