10
Patty shrugged on a parka so that she didn’t freeze when she straddled Mick Quinn for “breakfast.”
The PJs had called on the radio, “Half an hour to first light. Be ready to go.” The call had been the only sound on the mountainside. The storm was gone and the silence was vast.
She’d unzipped the upper half of the sleeping bags to get some maneuvering room and took a moment to admire Mick’s chest by the soft light of the headlamp she’d flicked back on. A man was so differently shaped when he’d been born to hard work rather than when he developed it as a gym workout. Mick’s chest was spectacular even by fisheryman standards.
Patty leaned down to rub her own chest over his. The powerful sensations of last night hadn’t been diluted by a night sleeping in his arms. Well, mostly sleeping.
