Uh, yeah, but how were they going to light that fire and—
He pulled out a small kit from his pocket and went to work. A flame flared seconds later.
Her breath expelled in a relieved rush.
Still kneeling in front of the fire, Thomas glanced back at her. “There was no way I’d come into the Alaskan wilderness without a fire kit.”
She shivered. Again.
“Strip,” he ordered once more.
The cabin was deserted, so they sure weren’t going to get any rescue crew out there that night. But if they didn’t warm up, soon, Noelle realized the odds of them making it until morning weren’t going to be high.
Thomas headed toward her.
Noelle tensed.
“There you go again,” he said, and he sounded angry. “When will you learn, I’m not going to bite?”
“I—”
He brushed by her and yanked open a small closet. No, he yanked down that closet’s door; the old thing just literally fell off its hinges. “This will have to do for kindling ’cause we aren’t finding any dry wood outside.” He broke the door into heavy chunks. He had the fire flaring even higher when he added it. His back was turned to her as she inched toward that inviting warmth.
“My clothes are hitting the floor,” Thomas told her bluntly. “Yours need to do the same.”
Because they were soaked. But...
He stripped out of his sweater. Dropped the shirt he’d worn under it for layering. When he bent to remove his boots and socks, the firelight flickered over the tight muscles in his chest and arms. He had to work out—a lot. She’d never seen anyone with such sculpted muscles. As she stared at him—probably too long and too hard—Noelle could just make out the...scars on his body. Twisting, sharp, they snaked around his abs and lined his back.
She remembered the wound notations in his files. He’d been captured on a mission a while back. Held. Tortured. But, by the time rescue had come, all of his captors had been dead.
Thomas turned then. He still wore his jeans. His eyes met hers. “It’s not personal,” he told her in his deep, dark voice. “It’s survival.”
She felt her cheeks burn. Well, at least burning was better than freezing. Noelle fumbled and her clothes started to hit the floor. His jacket. Hers. Her sweater. Her undershirt. Her boots. Her socks.
Her fingers were fumbling, unco
ordinated, as she tried to unhook the snap of her jeans.
“Let me.” His voice was rougher than before, and his fingers were suddenly working at her waistband. He was so close, seeming to surround her with his strength. Noelle tried to pull in a deep breath, and his scent—masculine and crisp—wrapped around her.
Her zipper eased down with a hiss of sound.
She jerked back from him. Nearly fell. Would have, if Thomas hadn’t snagged her arm so quickly. “Easy,” he murmured.
Easy was the last thing she felt right then.
His fingers slowly uncurled their grip. “I’ll spread out our clothes to dry. We should try to get some rest near the fire.”
Noelle didn’t hold out a lot of hope regarding rest. She bent and pushed her jeans down her legs. Then she looked up. Thomas had turned his back to her, but he’d stuck his hand out behind him, obviously waiting for her jeans. She pushed them into his hand.
“The rest,” Thomas pressed.
“No way,” Noelle said, aware that her voice held a sharp snap. “I’m keeping on my underwear, and I want you to do the same.” Her panties and her bra were dry enough, and she was absolutely not planning to flash him any more than necessary.
Noelle thought she heard Thomas sigh, but he bent and finished spreading out her clothes. And his. And—
“Sorry,” he said, voice a bit wry as she jerked her gaze off him and back toward the fire. “But I’m not wearing underwear.”