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his high point. After staring at the
sodden bag for a long minute, he pulled out the hat. Then he reached in for the
shimmering warming cloak too. She was cold? The very least he could do was warm
the poor woman up. He was only a tool but at least he knew it. She’d never
understand.
    As he headed down the hillside, back to the cave, he grimly
wondered if the effing DHU had known the truth the whole time. The director
obviously did. Him and his flipping “instinct”.
    Jazz would have plenty to say to that bastard when he got
back home.
    In the cave he reached out a tentative hand and stroked the
skin of her cheek. Chilled and soft. He lightly pressed his hand to her face.
In her drugged sleep, she turned toward the source of warmth.
    He backed away, unbuckled the stupid sword and laid it on a
rock next to the CR.
    “CR, very low light,” he instructed and remembered to flick
on the timer.
    Then he threw the large cloak over her and crawled under to
join her.
    He had intended not to touch her unnecessarily, some formal
kind of “inoculation” was the only way he had to maintain her dignity. And his,
he supposed.
    A chaste touching of bodies at the crucial points only. Huh.
He had even tried to invent polite phrases to describe this particular task.
    Thick, demanding relief—his cock certainly announced its
readiness to perform his duty.
    But when he burrowed his hand through the layers of clothing
to touch the center of her body, accessible through some odd, open
undergarments, he discovered a soft brush of hair, soft skin, but no dampness.
Of course she was not ready.
    He groaned. No way could he shove anything into her without
hurting the woman.
    He lightly traced fingers along the slit between her legs
and tried to recall what he’d learned from Rae and the two other women he’d
slept with.
    Foreplay, they might call it for regular sex. For this
event…? Manipulation might be the right word.
    Stop thinking. He dampened the tips of his fingers with his
tongue and then reached back under the skirts of the woman. Stroke her there,
at the opening. And there, at the smooth, rounded hard flesh of her clitoris.
He prayed it would help. The feel of her certainly seemed to help remind his
body of its screaming need. His heart raced.
    After a while she sighed aloud and moved against his hand,
blooming into swollen, slick warmth. Her sleepy but heated response increased
his own temperature. He carefully pressed his forefinger into her. Ah, and he’d
forgotten how warm and tight and damp a woman was. Then he had forgotten how to
breathe. He grew dizzy and forgot about his resolution to only properly touch
her at the center of her body.
    Under the tent formed by the featherweight warming cloak, he
hiked up her skirts, lowered her blouse, flung aside petticoats. He touched her
everywhere his fingers could reach. He kissed her on the mouth, and he kissed
everywhere his mouth could reach. Licking to taste her warm breasts, the
strange delicious flesh of her soft arms. She groaned again. Her musky sweet
odor filled him with even more dizzying need.
    A soft chime from the CR had warned him he had only a few
minutes left. Clumsy, rushing, he moved between her legs, spreading them even
wider, hoping that he wasn’t imagining that she tilted up in response. At last
in the dim light, he carefully positioned himself above the froth of skirts and
with one hand to guide his cock, nudged into her opening, a difficult task
since he was determined not to hurt her—they had many miles to walk, after all.
    Innoculation. Fast but gentle—even, he hoped, painless.
Yeah, right.
    She seemed so small. As he pushed in, a soft moan escaped
her throat. Blast. He tried to move as little as possible, only a tiny motion
to bring the necessary release.
    After a few careful and wickedly slow strokes he had felt
her sigh and wiggle, just a tiny motion that pulled him farther in. No. Too
good. Too much. He lost control and plunged—all the way in.
    He