River’s End

it flowed to a stop at the nape of her neck. “There’s time.”
    She pushed off, he pulled her back. It infuriated her that she was continually underestimating his strength—and his stubbornness. “Look, pal, unless you want to go cold and hungry, we need wood.”
    “I’ll get it in a minute.” To make sure she stayed where he wanted her to, he reversed positions again, studied her face.
    “You want to pull away, Liv. I won’t let you. Not again.” He tried to disguise his hurt. “You want to pretend that this was just a nice, hot bout of sex in the woods, no connection to what we started before, years ago.” He fisted a hand in her hair. “But you can’t. Can you?”
    “Let me up, Noah.”
    “And you’re telling yourself it won’t happen that way again,” Noah said angrily. “
    That you won’t feel what you felt with me again. But you’re wrong.”
    “Don’t tell me what I think, what I feel.”
    “I’m telling you what I see. It’s right there, in your eyes. You have a hard time lying with them. So look at me.” He lifted her hips and slipped inside her again. “Look at me and tell me what you think now. What you feel.”
    “I don’t—” He thrust hard and deep, hammering the orgasm through her. “Oh, God.” She sobbed it out, arms and legs wrapping around him.
    Driven as much by triumph as frustration he took her in a wild fury until he emptied. When she was still shuddering, he rolled aside and, saying nothing, rose, dressed, then went to gather firewood.
    She wondered why she’d ever believed she could handle him or herself around him. No one else had ever managed to befuddle her quite so much or so often. He’d convinced her to be with him alone when she knew it was best if she conducted business with him in more traditional surroundings. He made her laugh when she didn’t want to find him amusing. He made her think about things, about pain she’d so carefully tucked away.
    Now he’d lured her into sex on the bank of a stream in daylight, along a route that, while not well traveled, was public land. If it had gone according to her own plans, they would have had their evening meal, perhaps some conversation, then some civilized, uncomplicated sex in the dark privacy of the tent.
    Once that was out of the way, it would have been back to business. Instead, everything was tangled up again. He was angry with her for something she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, change. And yes, something she hadn’t quite forgiven him for. She was left feeling unsteady, inadequate and uneasy.
    To compensate, she ignored him and went about the business of setting up the cook camp several safe feet from the sleeping area. She hung the food high, then gathered her tools and got down to the business of cleaning the fish for their dinner. He was just like every other man, she told herself. Insulted because a woman isn’t tongue-tied with delight at his sexual prowess. Miffed because she wasn’t moony-eyed in infatuation, which he’d use up then discard anyway the minute it started to cramp his style.
    It was a hell of a lot smarter to think like a man yourself, she decided, and avoid the pitfalls.
    Let him sulk, she thought as she carefully buried the fish waste. When she heard him approach, she sniffed in derision and had no clue just how sulky her own face was when she lifted it to look up at him.
    “What do you want?”
    He decided, wisely, that she’d kick him in the ass if she had any idea just how easily he could read her. So he just held out the wine he’d poured. “I brought some along. It’s been cooling in the stream. Figured you’d be up for a glass about now.”
    “I need to cook this fish.” She ignored the wine and strode back toward the fire.
    “Tell you what.” Tongue tucked in his cheek, he strolled after her. “Since you caught it and cleaned it—neither of which I have any experience in—I’ll cook it.”
    “This isn’t your pretty kitchen. I don’t want my catch going to waste.”
    “Ah, a direct challenge.” He pushed the wine at her and snatched the skillet. “Sit down, drink your wine and watch the master.”
    She shrugged her shoulders and plucked a berry out of her hat. “You screw it up, I’m not catching more.”
    “Trust me.” His eyes met hers, held. “I won’t disappoint you, Liv.”
    “You don’t risk disappointment if you handle things yourself.”
    “True enough, but you miss some interesting adventures. I had to learn to cook,” he