Secrets of a Perfect Night Read Online Free Page B

weak lungs in his family. None of the Hawsleys died of a chill that I ever heard of.”
    The reassurance did not help. She built up the fire, then crossed to the bed. The room was warm now, but would cool during the night. She closed the side bed-curtains but left those at the foot, directly opposite the now roaring fire, open; she hoped heat would wash in, then remain, trapped by the curtains and the canopy.
    She paused by the side of the bed, inside the curtain. Steeling herself, she lifted the quilt and slipped one hand in, close to his body. No warmth met her questing fingers. When she touched his chest, his skin was still cold.
    “Damn!” Abby checked the bricks, but beneath their flannel wrappings they were still too hot to touch. No point trying to heat them more.
    She stood and looked down at Adrian’s large bodysprawled on his stomach under the quilt. He was too cold—far too cold. It couldn’t be a good sign.
    “What more can I do?”
    He was coming home. She couldn’t let him die on the way.
    She didn’t let herself think. She rearranged the hot bricks, stripped off her robe, flung it to the foot of the bed, then lifted the quilt and climbed in beside him. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown—safe enough, surely. He would be used to silk—he’d probably think she was a lumpy pillow.
    Turning on her side, her back to him, she curled and snuggled back, pressing against his side.
    “Hmm.”
    She froze.
    Behind her, Adrian shifted, then his body curled around hers. His hand found her hip, then traced lazily upward, over her waist, up to her breasts, then confidently slipped between, long fingers curling about one soft mound.
    Abby bit her lip and held her breath. An instant of still silence ensued.
    Then the tension that had temporarily invested his body fell away. He sank into the bed behind her and she heard the soft huff of his breath.
    She listened to the rhythm of his breathing, then closed her eyes in mute gratitude. He was sleeping. She was so relieved she felt weepy—not only was he no longer unconscious, but he was also still asleep and unaware it was she sharing his bed. Misty-eyed, she ran her palm over the muscled arm around her, then ran her foot up and down his leg. His body felt like acold compress down her back. His skin was still cold, but perhaps not quite so icy. She didn’t think she was imagining it.
    In the muffled darkness, she lay beside him and willed her warmth into him. When she was sure he was thawing and it wasn’t just wishful thinking, she relaxed. She contemplated the wisdom of leaving him to continue to warm up by himself, but he was still a lot colder than she knew he should be.
    Pulling the covers tight around them, she snuggled down and pressed herself even more firmly against him. His arm tightened, then relaxed. Reciting a mental reminder to wake up before dawn and get back to her own bed, Abby closed her eyes…and slept.
     
    And dreamed. It was the most wonderful dream—her favorite dream. This time it was sharper, more poignant, more involving. Infinitely more sensually gratifying. In the dream, she purred and stretched under the hands that so artfully roamed. Hands that knew her, knew how to caress her so her skin flushed and heated, so her breasts filled and swelled and the peaks grew so tight they ached.
    The fingers knew her, too—knew to pluck lightly at her nipples to send the ache spreading, then slide away, tracing, teasing, gently taunting as they skated over her flickering skin. They found her stomach and knowingly kneaded, then slid lower to brush the curls between her thighs.
    She sighed and smiled and parted her thighs—a hand helped her, lifting one knee, sliding that calf back over a hard thigh.

    It was then that she realized what was different about this dream—her lover was behind her. It was his chest behind her, warm and comforting, not a sun-warmed rock.
    Then his fingers found her and the discovery slid away into the mists of her