She’d done all she could. Had coaxed him to drink water, urged him to eat soup from a spoon, mostly to no avail. She’d finally pushed the kettle to the back of the stove and left the rabbit to cook overnight in a small pan. It would fall off the bones by morning, a fit addition to the soup kettle. Her hand caressed Quinn’s chest beneath the quilts, and she traced the lines of his body, as if she must reassure herself of his presence beside her. Along the path of his bearded jaw to the strong cords of his neck, her fingers moved gently. His shoulders were wide and strong, his chest full and well muscled above the spare line of his waist. Below that her hands followed the narrow line of hair that ran down to his navel, her fingertips marking its route. She slid her index finger into the small indentation, enjoying the texture of his skin, discovering the small knot of flesh at its base. He shifted as she explored, his hand moving to cover hers, and he muttered her name again. “Erin?”
