OverTime 03: Slipping (First 70 Chapters)

Ch. 23: The Madwoman in the Tent (Lillabit)

I know, I know -- I shouldn't have laughed! I might not have had a lot of experience with sex, but even I get that mockery in bed? Not the turn-on some stand-up comedians might hope. And yet...

He saw himself as a bad guy?

How?! Our post-stampede sex had been amazing. World-exploding, angels-singing, worth-the-time-trip fantastic! I didn't want to move, for savoring the phantom sensations lingering across my body. I would gladly start more stampedes, to make sure it happened again!

There I'd lay, high on our happily ever after, and apparently Jacob had been in an entirely different tent. In his tent, I was the damsel in distress and he was the moustache twirling villain.

My initial thought--after my burst of shocked laughter--was that maybe I'd done something wrong to make him think he'd done something worse. But what? I'd encouraged him. Yes, I'd made noises--satisfied noises, for the obvious reasons--but nothing too different from sex scenes in movies, or noises I'd heard from my college roommate while I'd sat in the hall waiting for her girlfriend to leave. Yes, so I'd tried to muffle my cries against him and to swallow back my moans, since tents aren't exactly soundproof. Had that effort somehow changed their timbre to something like distress? Or...

Was it possible that, cursed by a criminal lack of sex ed and God-knows what kind of sexual history, Jacob just didn't recognize the concept of multiple orgasms?

He knew everything, didn't he? This man could spot hidden wildlife and read subtle changes in the landscape without effort. He could read tracks that seemed invisible to me, and diagnose a distressed cow or horse in a glance, and predict the weather from the way the birds flew!

Did he really know this little about women?

He'd been staring at me since I grabbed his leg but, between the darkness and the beard, I couldn't really read his expression. Still, some of his tousled hair fell over his forehead and across one eye, in a surprisingly vulnerable way, and he was so quiet. Not in his usual strong-and-silent way, either.

I wanted to hug him. But when I moved to do so, he turned and launched himself out of the tent.

Well I followed.

Only as I stood up, under the stars and the increasingly low half moon and in the faint light of the campfire, did I realize I was wearing only one boot. Huh. My old-west drawers circled that one boot like the bulkiest anklet ever, but all I did for now was tuck enough material into the boot-top that I wouldn't step on anything. "Jacob?"

He headed for the picket rope, where the gray gelding still wore his saddle.

No way was I letting him ride away, thinking so badly of himself--and, worse, of him and me together. I hobbled after him, wincing when I stepped on a rock. "Jacob, wait!"

Either he heard in my voice what actual--if fleeting--pain sounds like from me, or he realized I'd escaped the harem. He spun and looked me up and down, from that one bare foot and the undie-anklet to the poorly tied camisole and my bare arms.

Yes -- bare arms! Gasp! The outdoor air felt wonderfully soft on my skin and no, I didn't mind. I was still wearing an ankle-length skirt and two petticoats, for Pete's sake, although one petticoat dragged the ground. When you come from an era of string bikinis, you can only get so embarrassed by a scandalous lack of sleeves.

Jacob reacted for both of us, his eyes widening comically. He made an immediate about-face and hustled me back into our tent.

Good. That's just where I wanted him.