trembling dangerously. Blake said nothing and in his silence, Christie realised he did not believe her denial.
She heard him exhale as he swore quietly. “Are you going to be honest with me?” Blake asked, his voice low.
Christie tensed as she heard the frustration in his voice. “It’s just a bad dream,” she repeated, still not comfortable explaining Paul to Blake.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, his gaze pinning her in the glow of the torch beam.
“Whatever,” Christie said. “Please don’t make a big deal out of it, Blake. Just go back to bed.” Christie could hardly breathe, acutely conscious of Blake standing by her bunk, watching her. Desperately, she hoped her explanation would at least shut down his relentless questions, the unbearable hint of concern behind his rough tone. He did not move, still standing by the bunk, frustrated she would not talk to him when he had heard her call out, thinking what he had heard her say.
He tried a final time. “You won’t talk to me then?”
“Blake, just leave it, please. I don’t want to talk about it.” She felt his frustration like it was a physical barrier between them, heard his quiet oath. Christie stared blankly at her torch, watching the shaft of light glowing, illuminating the wooden bunk frame, the top of her pack. She heard Blake returning to his bunk, fought the mingled disappointment and relief.
Too late, Christie realised he was returning, crossing the small room in only a few strides, ducking his head, climbing around her into the bunk, catching her with his arm and silently pulling her against him before she could react. “No talking then,” he said, his voice unreadable.
“Blake, I…Stop,” Christie began disjointedly, trying to form a sentence as he threw his open sleeping bag over them both like a blanket. She acidly pointed out it was a single bunk, frantically seizing on a practical complaint as desire rippled through her, instantly realising how revealing her comment was.
“Is that your only problem?” Blake’s voice was low.
“No, it’s not,” she began heatedly, denying her desire. “Just because—”
“Christie, listen.” Blake’s voice was still unreadable. “It’s a wide bunk. You’re still in your sleeping bag and we’re both wearing God knows how many layers of wool. And—” he paused, “—you can change bunks any time. I’m the one against the wall. Up to you.” Christie stayed silent, incapable of moving, able only to think of the reassuring strength of Blake’s body warming her through her sleeping bag, the extra warmth of his sleeping bag over hers. “You did say you were cold,” he added, his voice low in her ear, sending a shiver of desire down her spine.
I should leave the bunk , her mind told her, even as her heart rejoiced at Blake’s closeness, the cocoon of warmth his body created, the light pressure of his arm burning through her sleeping bag, sending a trail of desire around her waist. Unable to speak without completely betraying her emotions, Christie made a half-hearted attempt to swing her legs out of the bunk, feeling Blake tense. She hesitated as she felt Blake’s arm tighten almost imperceptibly around her.
“I want to go,” Christie whispered, her voice heavy with unshed tears and hidden longing.
“Nothing’s stopping you,” Blake replied calmly.
“Your arm is around me,” she said, hating herself for her pretence, her denial of her true feelings.
“You can still go,” Blake said, the tension in his body belying his tone. Christie paused, her heart pounding, conscious only of Blake, her nightmare a dim memory now swept away by his presence. “Or you can stay.”
Blake’s voice remained low but to Christie it assumed the imperative of a direct command, echoing the voice in her heart. As if in a dream, she curved her legs back onto the bunk, trying to relax. “You’re staying then,” Blake said quietly.
Christie
She heard him exhale as he swore quietly. “Are you going to be honest with me?” Blake asked, his voice low.
Christie tensed as she heard the frustration in his voice. “It’s just a bad dream,” she repeated, still not comfortable explaining Paul to Blake.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, his gaze pinning her in the glow of the torch beam.
“Whatever,” Christie said. “Please don’t make a big deal out of it, Blake. Just go back to bed.” Christie could hardly breathe, acutely conscious of Blake standing by her bunk, watching her. Desperately, she hoped her explanation would at least shut down his relentless questions, the unbearable hint of concern behind his rough tone. He did not move, still standing by the bunk, frustrated she would not talk to him when he had heard her call out, thinking what he had heard her say.
He tried a final time. “You won’t talk to me then?”
“Blake, just leave it, please. I don’t want to talk about it.” She felt his frustration like it was a physical barrier between them, heard his quiet oath. Christie stared blankly at her torch, watching the shaft of light glowing, illuminating the wooden bunk frame, the top of her pack. She heard Blake returning to his bunk, fought the mingled disappointment and relief.
Too late, Christie realised he was returning, crossing the small room in only a few strides, ducking his head, climbing around her into the bunk, catching her with his arm and silently pulling her against him before she could react. “No talking then,” he said, his voice unreadable.
“Blake, I…Stop,” Christie began disjointedly, trying to form a sentence as he threw his open sleeping bag over them both like a blanket. She acidly pointed out it was a single bunk, frantically seizing on a practical complaint as desire rippled through her, instantly realising how revealing her comment was.
“Is that your only problem?” Blake’s voice was low.
“No, it’s not,” she began heatedly, denying her desire. “Just because—”
“Christie, listen.” Blake’s voice was still unreadable. “It’s a wide bunk. You’re still in your sleeping bag and we’re both wearing God knows how many layers of wool. And—” he paused, “—you can change bunks any time. I’m the one against the wall. Up to you.” Christie stayed silent, incapable of moving, able only to think of the reassuring strength of Blake’s body warming her through her sleeping bag, the extra warmth of his sleeping bag over hers. “You did say you were cold,” he added, his voice low in her ear, sending a shiver of desire down her spine.
I should leave the bunk , her mind told her, even as her heart rejoiced at Blake’s closeness, the cocoon of warmth his body created, the light pressure of his arm burning through her sleeping bag, sending a trail of desire around her waist. Unable to speak without completely betraying her emotions, Christie made a half-hearted attempt to swing her legs out of the bunk, feeling Blake tense. She hesitated as she felt Blake’s arm tighten almost imperceptibly around her.
“I want to go,” Christie whispered, her voice heavy with unshed tears and hidden longing.
“Nothing’s stopping you,” Blake replied calmly.
“Your arm is around me,” she said, hating herself for her pretence, her denial of her true feelings.
“You can still go,” Blake said, the tension in his body belying his tone. Christie paused, her heart pounding, conscious only of Blake, her nightmare a dim memory now swept away by his presence. “Or you can stay.”
Blake’s voice remained low but to Christie it assumed the imperative of a direct command, echoing the voice in her heart. As if in a dream, she curved her legs back onto the bunk, trying to relax. “You’re staying then,” Blake said quietly.
Christie
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