all over again. She was glad—these were good
feelings.
A shout of laughter interrupted her thoughts,
and she looked up to see Morgan holding the stick up triumphantly
once more. Suddenly, Adriana noticed Morgan’s back, which was
turned towards her. Long red welts stripped it, as if someone had
whipped him. Her crayon hung suspended in mid–air as she stared at
his back.
How could someone do that to him? How could
he allow it? He was such a large, strong man—and someone had
whipped him?
Adriana’s hand came to life once more, adding
in the long welts down his strongly muscled back. A tear dropped
onto her paper.
As she smoothed the black lines running down
Morgan’s back in her drawing, her hands tingled with an
overwhelming desire to run her fingers down his real back and sooth
away the hurt. Suddenly, she wanted desperately to touch him. To
run her hands over his back and his chest and along the strong
muscles of his arms. To trace the contours of his muscles with her
fingers. To feel his soft skin and its warmth. To hold him close
and feel the strength in his arms as he wrapped them around her
and...
She put her hand up to her heated cheek,
unable to even continue with the thought.
Directly in front of her, Morgan came up from
under the water, having once again beaten his dog to the stick.
This time, the dog grabbed hold of one end of the stick and began
to pull. Morgan laughed and held on to the other end with both
hands. Slowly, he began to back out of the water, dragging the dog,
who still clung with determination to the stick.
Adriana watched with fascination, flipped to
a clean page and sketched a new drawing rapidly as, step by step,
Morgan slowly revealed more and more of his naked body.
Her conscience pricked her. She should leave.
But she just could not tear her eyes away from the sight of this
amazingly attractive man.
Quickly, she worked on her drawing, copying
his lines down to his bare ankles, trying to see him purely as an
object to be sketched rather than an incredibly handsome, and
disturbingly desirable man.
When Morgan was standing at the very edge
with only his feet still covered by the lapping water, the dog
suddenly stopped tugging on the stick and let go.
Morgan took a step backward to regain his
balance and laughed, “Ah ha, you finally give up, do you,
Oberon?”
The dog had not given up, however—he had been
distracted by the sight of Adriana. He gave a bark and took a few
tentative steps in her direction. Morgan stopped laughing, and
began to turn inquiringly toward the wood where she stood.
With a gasp of fright, Adriana dropped her
sketchbook, turned, and ran.
Eight
O beron took a step
or two towards the trees, and barked. He had seen something or
someone in the woods.
Morgan turned around in time to see a woman’s
fleeing back. It was her! He knew it instinctively. It was
the woman he’d saved in the forest the day before.
He ran to the edge of the trees and tried to
call out to her. He wanted her to stop running away, he wanted to
talk with her. But his voice wouldn’t come. No matter how hard he
tried, he could not get a sound out. Morgan’s throat was closed.
There was nothing he could do.
His mother’s command! It was her command
stopping his voice!
He hit a tree in frustration, and hurt his
hand.
He hadn’t sought her out. She had found him.
Didn’t that count? Morgan supposed not, since she was running away
from him.
But why was she running away? Why hadn’t she
come and spoken with him? If she had come all this way, why hadn’t
she... Oberon gave another bark to draw his attention to something
on the ground.
It was a book, a sketchbook. Morgan picked it
up and turned it over. His skin prickled at the drawing of a naked
man pulling on one end of a stick while the other end was held
firmly by a large black Labrador. He could almost hear the sound of
the man laughing in his game of tug–of–war with the dog. He knew
immediately this was a
feelings.
A shout of laughter interrupted her thoughts,
and she looked up to see Morgan holding the stick up triumphantly
once more. Suddenly, Adriana noticed Morgan’s back, which was
turned towards her. Long red welts stripped it, as if someone had
whipped him. Her crayon hung suspended in mid–air as she stared at
his back.
How could someone do that to him? How could
he allow it? He was such a large, strong man—and someone had
whipped him?
Adriana’s hand came to life once more, adding
in the long welts down his strongly muscled back. A tear dropped
onto her paper.
As she smoothed the black lines running down
Morgan’s back in her drawing, her hands tingled with an
overwhelming desire to run her fingers down his real back and sooth
away the hurt. Suddenly, she wanted desperately to touch him. To
run her hands over his back and his chest and along the strong
muscles of his arms. To trace the contours of his muscles with her
fingers. To feel his soft skin and its warmth. To hold him close
and feel the strength in his arms as he wrapped them around her
and...
She put her hand up to her heated cheek,
unable to even continue with the thought.
Directly in front of her, Morgan came up from
under the water, having once again beaten his dog to the stick.
This time, the dog grabbed hold of one end of the stick and began
to pull. Morgan laughed and held on to the other end with both
hands. Slowly, he began to back out of the water, dragging the dog,
who still clung with determination to the stick.
Adriana watched with fascination, flipped to
a clean page and sketched a new drawing rapidly as, step by step,
Morgan slowly revealed more and more of his naked body.
Her conscience pricked her. She should leave.
But she just could not tear her eyes away from the sight of this
amazingly attractive man.
Quickly, she worked on her drawing, copying
his lines down to his bare ankles, trying to see him purely as an
object to be sketched rather than an incredibly handsome, and
disturbingly desirable man.
When Morgan was standing at the very edge
with only his feet still covered by the lapping water, the dog
suddenly stopped tugging on the stick and let go.
Morgan took a step backward to regain his
balance and laughed, “Ah ha, you finally give up, do you,
Oberon?”
The dog had not given up, however—he had been
distracted by the sight of Adriana. He gave a bark and took a few
tentative steps in her direction. Morgan stopped laughing, and
began to turn inquiringly toward the wood where she stood.
With a gasp of fright, Adriana dropped her
sketchbook, turned, and ran.
Eight
O beron took a step
or two towards the trees, and barked. He had seen something or
someone in the woods.
Morgan turned around in time to see a woman’s
fleeing back. It was her! He knew it instinctively. It was
the woman he’d saved in the forest the day before.
He ran to the edge of the trees and tried to
call out to her. He wanted her to stop running away, he wanted to
talk with her. But his voice wouldn’t come. No matter how hard he
tried, he could not get a sound out. Morgan’s throat was closed.
There was nothing he could do.
His mother’s command! It was her command
stopping his voice!
He hit a tree in frustration, and hurt his
hand.
He hadn’t sought her out. She had found him.
Didn’t that count? Morgan supposed not, since she was running away
from him.
But why was she running away? Why hadn’t she
come and spoken with him? If she had come all this way, why hadn’t
she... Oberon gave another bark to draw his attention to something
on the ground.
It was a book, a sketchbook. Morgan picked it
up and turned it over. His skin prickled at the drawing of a naked
man pulling on one end of a stick while the other end was held
firmly by a large black Labrador. He could almost hear the sound of
the man laughing in his game of tug–of–war with the dog. He knew
immediately this was a
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