Amanda closed her eyes. A groan slipped past her lips before she could catch it. "Oh yes, Mr. Chandler. I learned quite a bit," she said, somewhat breathlessly. And it would have made a lot more sense to me if I knew what "making love" entails. Of course, she didn't say that, because a man like Jake would feel it his duty to tell her. Or, worse, show her. A queer, fluttery sensation tumbled in her stomach when that particular thought, and the erotic images it provoked, filtered through her mind like dappled sunlight.
Jake's chuckle did nothing to endear him to Amanda. "Want another lesson?"
The color in her cheeks deepened, and her heartbeat throbbed into double time. "That won't be necessary."
"Okay. Just ask if you change your mind. I'm always willing and able... for a lady."
Don't say it, Amanda. Don't you dare say it.
She didn't. Instead, her voice dripping sweetness, she said, "Oh, I will, thank you." And as she reached over and snatched up the stick, she swore inwardly that it would be a cold day in Hades before she ever voiced such a request. To any man!
Ten minutes later, kneeling in front of a still cold stack of unlit twigs and branches, Amanda came alarmingly close to choking on that vow. Dammit, what was she doing wrong?! She was whirling the stick exactly the way Jake had taught her. She had the chaffed palms to prove it. Her strokes were slow and easy, smooth and fluid enough, she'd hoped, to create a friction that would at least provide a satisfying curl of smoke, if not the wished for flame.
It didn't.
For an unprecedented first time in her life, Amanda pouted. She couldn't help it, she felt a disappointment that was irrational. And besides, she reasoned, it wasn't as though it was a big pout. Just a gentle out-thrust of her lower lip. Jake couldn't see it. The light would have to be perfect, and he would need to be looking directly at her...
The light on Jake's side of camp was damn good. And he was looking at Amanda. Directly at her. He saw her pout, and his body reacted swiftly and thoroughly, damn her proper little hide! He felt desire throb to life, straining and seeking, reminding him down to the second of how long it had been since he'd had a woman.
In the corner of his mind still able to function, he thought it was a good thing he'd already skinned and gutted the snake. The knife was safely tucked away, otherwise he would have worried about slicing his hand open—something he'd never, never done before. Then again, he'd never been distracted in such a way before. The attention he paid to that thrusting lower lip was all-consuming. He couldn't think beyond it, didn't want to.
Sweet. He'd thought last night that Amanda Lennox would taste sweet, just before he'd stupidly proved it. Now he knew... he knew The flavor of her lingered on his tongue, tempting and teasing him until his gut knotted. How in the hell was he ever going to keep himself from kissing, tasting, feasting on her, again?
He leaned his head back against the gritty bark and released a long, slow breath through his teeth.
Amanda wasn't the only one hoping for the fire to get lit. Fast. Jake was hoping for it too. In a way he couldn't remember hoping for anything in his life. Because if she couldn't light it without help, if he had to go over there and guide her again and... well, twigs weren't the only thing that were going to combust. If that happened, his pride and her proper Bostonian sensibilities were going to get singed. It was inevitable.
Unless he left. Just for a while. Just long enough to get himself under control. Ah, what a wonderful idea.
Jake tossed his supper aside and pushed to his feet.
He glanced at Amanda, and his senses were suddenly filled with the long thick braid trailing down her spine like a ribbon of captured moonlight. He wanted to snatch the frayed ribbon from the end of that plait and work the silky strands free, to bury his hands in the soft golden cloud, to...
His jaw clenched as Jake forced himself to acknowledge the problem that was raging inside of him. Control. That was what he was leaving right now to find. The problem was, he had a feeling he could search until dawn, but it wouldn't be out there in the moonlit woods waiting for him. Oh, no. The ugly fact of the matter was, when it came to this woman—this lady—this white lady—he didn't have a whole hell of a lot of control to hang on to. And he should. Dammit, he should!
"I'll be back," he muttered as, in one fluid, silent motion, he turned his back on her and stalked from the clearing.
Amanda watched him go, confused by his abrupt departure, even more confused by the nagging emptiness that came back with sudden, breath-crushing force. When Jake had been talking to her, looking at her, even when he'd been laughing at her, the vacancy inside her had been filled. It was empt
y now, hollow and yawning. For him.
Oh, God. She really was losing her sanity. She'd known the man less than two days, yet here she sat missing the sight and sound of him. She wished she could believe that Roger's kidnapping had upset her so much that her logic had been tilted off balance. She was, and it had. But Roger's wasn't the cause. Jake Chandler was; his mere presence knocked her off-kilter.
As she positioned the stick, determined to give lighting the fire another try, her mind flashed her an image of Jake as she'd seen him last night. Tight copper skin, hard bands of muscle, long black hair cast blue in the shimmering moonlight, piercing silver eyes. Wet. All of him. Her heartbeat raced and her palms grew suddenly moist, suddenly sensitive and alive when she thought about those few drops of water clinging to his shoulder and how badly she'd wanted to rub them into his skin.
It wasn't possible to breathe, and Amanda wondered ironically if perhaps Jake wasn't right about her corset after all. It could use loosening. She could use loosening.
Sheltered and structured was how her life had always been, though not by choice. Yet her years at Miss Henry's hadn't sheltered her from the raw male onslaught of Jake Chandler, naked and proud and wet. Nor had her rigid schooling prepared her for the exquisite structure of his body, the tender torment of his kiss, or the unladylike ache he fostered deep inside of her with a glance, a touch, a word. Nothing had prepared her for that.
When a lady thinks of a man, it is his good character and innate sense of honor she reflects upon. Not his body.
Miss Henry's words. Amanda almost laughed when she thought that perhaps Miss Henry didn't know as much about ladies as she professed. It was obvious the old woman had never in her prim-spinster life met a man like Jacob Blackhawk Chandler.
Jake had no "good character" that Amanda had seen, and his "sense of honor" had yet to be found. That left his body. And oh, how Amanda reflected upon it!
She felt the bark of the stick she'd forgotten she held bite into her palm. Prying her eyes open, she saw the slice of wood was being held in a white-knuckled grip that threatened to snap it in two.
Ease up... make your movements flow... stimulate the bottom stick... steady, but not jerky... get that friction started... I can't tell you how important rhythm is... once you've established the pace, you can't let up or you'll have to start from scratch.