Joanna said sagely, when she recovered her power of speech, “is not the solution to our dilemma.” Teague, lying beside her in the tangle of bedding, hauled her on top of him and chuckled. “You couldn’t prove it by me,” he said. “Right now, I’m wondering what ‘our dilemma’ is, exactly.” Outside, the wind howled around the edges of the cottage and rattled the glass in the windows. Joanna knew she ought to withdraw from him, get out of bed, get dressed, but there was a disconnect between her mind and the corresponding muscles. She’d melted, that was the problem. “We don’t talk when we’re having sex,” she said, idly winding a finger in a strand of Teague’s hair. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Teague suggested. “Maybe words get in the way of what we’re really trying to say to each other.” “I don’t see how we can settle anything if we don’t talk,” Joanna replied. “But I’m intrigued by the theory.” She reached under the covers and closed her hand around him, pleased that he was getting hard again.
