His need to touch Morgan, to be inside her, to pound and plunder away all of the want went from smoldering to flashpoint within seconds. He used his energy to create a fire pit, willing the visions away. The sweaty work of gathering heavy rocks to construct an ornate circle did little to erase the picture of cool water sluicing over golden skin. In the end, Hunter sat in front of the fire, staring into the flames with his muscles wound tight as an archer’s bow, hoping the images torturing his mind would vanish. By the time Morgan approached from behind he’d found a tenuous grip on his unrelenting need. He used the small ladle to scoop simmering stew. “You can’t have a fire out here. This isn’t a designated area.” He glanced up—stomach clutching in reflex—but never skipped a beat, even though she wore a towel and wet hair. “They’ll have to fine me. I’ll put it out in the morning before we go.”
