Something about the hunter's corn beef and sandwich for a late dinner that Mora had shared—much more convenient than the home-cooked meal of Lana at the western pack he normally ate as the wolf while in the wilderness—plus the cool twinkle of the moon and the roaring rumble of the waterfall, all replenished Ulrich's limbs with lead. In a reasonable, weary way. Or perhaps he was so hopped-up because it was past three in the morning, and he'd been pressed up against Mora's backside on the quad for the last eighteen hours, struggling to keep things friendly.
His circumstances have minimally improved now. Although his eyes had throbbed shut the moment he hurried himself into the sleeping bag, thoughts of Mora danced in his brain. Naked, sweet, and tantalizing thoughts.
Correction, not thoughts, more intense fantasies of what he'd like to be doing with the last few hours of darkness, and not one of those ideas consisted of sleeping.
