Slowly, painstakingly, he combed his long fingers through her wet hair, gently separating the tangles. She grew sleepy, her limbs pleasantly exhausted, the way it used to be when she was a child, play-weary after a long day in the summer sun. Lying together in the firelight, they listened to rain drumming against the thatch of their little haven. Their clothes--or what was left of them in her case--were stretched out across the chairs to dry, dripping rain and saltwater onto the flagstones. For one of the few times in her life, she didn’t care to talk. When he shifted, easing her back to the fleece, she complained at the loss of his firm chest and wide, warm shoulder. Regarding her carefully, his weight propped up on one elbow, he began, “Woman, I…” Pressing a finger to his lips, fearing he would lecture her, as he’d done before, she said simply, “I wanted you.” It was uncomplicated, in her eyes. He looked away for a moment, then back down at her. His nostrils flared slightly.
