High-Risk Fever

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High-Risk Fever

Copyright © 2014 by Lea Bronsen

ISBN: 978-1-61333-751-6

Cover art by Fiona Jayde

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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High-Risk Fever

By

Lea Bronsen

~Dedication~

To Aaron Sillis; all it took was a photo.

Thanks to talented authors, beta readers, and friends D.C. Stone, Cait Jarrod, Kishan Paul, Laura Dean, and Jesse Pearle for your advice and support. I can always count on you.

A special thank you to Bob Podrasky for making me believe in the story.

A distant boom of thunder made Anne look up from the dinner table, wiping cloth in hand. Outside, black clouds built above the hill tops in the horizon, threatening to embrace the small mountain village.

“Hmm, looks like the weather’s changing again.” Nodding, she returned to the wooden table and removed the remaining breakfast crumbs. “We’re in for another one, Brian.”

These storms came quickly in the French Alps, grazing the snow covered, fork-like peaks before diving into the deep valleys and ravaging them with inhuman force. After a few hours, the darkness would vanish as if wiped away by a magic wand, once again leaving the
villageois
with a familiar sense of awe and the tourists reeling in shock at the power of nature.

“What did you say?” Her husband’s low, gentle voice drifted from the kitchen.

She refocused on the window. Against the backdrop of black clouds beyond, reflections from the lit room played on the glass pane before her. Brian’s silhouette appeared, peeking from the open kitchen door.

Her chest filled with warmth. God, she loved that man with his long hair, moustache, and sad, hazel eyes. An old hippie, a bear of a man with more kindness and humanity than the world could take. He’d traveled continents and oceans alone for half a lifetime before turning up at this village one sunny afternoon, two years ago.

It took one look at the French hosts’ young daughter, Anne, to calm his vagabond heart. Despite their fifteen-year age difference, they’d married shortly after, about the same time her parents bought an apartment in town and left her in charge of the business.

Together, they ran the local bed and breakfast, a charming, two-story stone house with wooden framework and white-painted window frames. They welcomed visitors from all over the world, mostly trackers and bikers questing along the winding alpine roads. While Brian took care of the
cuisine
and administrative tasks, Anne shopped for provisions, cleaned the house, and served guests.

She focused on her reflection in the glass. Doe eyes in an oval face stared back. Not yet thirty, but a full, ripe woman. A lone brown tendril escaped from her shoulder-length hair and hung on her forehead. She pushed it back before smoothing her white blouse and kilt.

All she needed to be happy now was a child.

Thunder in the distance again, and her heart skipped.

Brian approached. “Sweetie, I didn’t hear you.”

Anne dropped the cloth on the table and stepped toward the front door. “I said a storm is coming. We should close the shutters.”

“Let me take care of that.” Before she could protest, he caught her from behind, bringing along the smells of frying oil and detergent.

Large, manly hands slipped around her waist and settled on her stomach. His tall, warm body enveloped her. Hot breaths brushed against her ear. “And then maybe we can….” He held her tighter, pressing the outline of his cock against her ass.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She smiled. Though they knew each other inside out, he’d never lost his untamed desire and grabbed every opportunity to give her some loving, at least once a day.

If only he were a bit more creative, it would be perfect. But instead of, for example, right this moment, bending her down on the table, pulling up her skirt, and doing her from behind with long, lusty strokes, he would take her hand, bring her upstairs, and perform the same old romantic missionary thing in the bed sheets.

With a low rumble in the depth of his throat, he moved his hips up and down, rubbing her through his pants and lodging his burgeoning erection farther between her cheeks. “I love you, Anne. Every single bit of you. Can you feel it?”

“Yes. And I love you.” To hell with creativity. A pinch in her inner thighs called. Her nipples hardened against the soft blouse. She sighed, leaned her head back on his shoulder, and almost gave into temptation. It would be so easy to dive into the fluffy sheets and let him fill her with his gliding hardness until all she could do was whine like a cat in heat.
Good God
.

But, no, not now. The tenants could come back anytime. Three families rented rooms today, and though their schedules varied, the approaching storm might rush their return to base.

She sought distraction from her arousal.

The first floor consisted of a dining and living area in one room, a kitchen, and a small office in the back. Her gaze wandered from the dark-painted wood beams in the ceiling to the plastered walls they had decorated with artifacts from her husband’s many voyages. Two Bordeaux-colored couches and a dark-wood coffee table sat in one corner. In the other, sharing a wall with the kitchen, a bar with a couple of stools fronted a shelf filled with a selection of bottles. Small flags from different countries hung from a string above the bar area, and on the countertop, a laptop mingled with beer pads and ashtrays.

The pride Brian took in welcoming the guests was one of the things she loved about him. His jovial generosity, the way he’d fill glasses of beer to the brim and only charge for half, always with a friendly word and a smile. Or the time he’d take to patiently explain the local topography and directions to various mountain treks, not to mention the hours spent in the kitchen trying out delicious recipes, making sure the visitors left the Alps with a sense of having found a second home.

He was good to her, too. He’d often surprise her with a kiss when she was absorbed by some task, telling her he was the luckiest guy on this side of the globe. When she least expected it, she’d find a rose on her nightstand, fresh from the garden, or some ripe fruit he’d collected for her. It was the small things, and she loved him for each token of his affection.

A loud knock sounded on the door. Once more, her heart jumped.

Merde
. She stiffened, and so did Brian, against her back.

“It must be the postman.” Hoping the busybody of a village
facteur
hadn’t seen anything through the white flowery curtains, she slid out of her husband’s tense grip, immediately regretting the loss of contact with his hard-on, and stepped forward.

Brian grumbled a low curse, but stayed put.

This shouldn’t take too long. Unlike yesterday, she would just take the mail from the slim, uniformed man and, with a polite smile, close the door, cutting off his usual attempts to chat. In her mind flashed the picture of his expectant smile and curious eyes beneath the black
La Poste
cap, and the short conversation they’d had about her pregnancy—or, the lack thereof.

A subject worth mentioning to Brian.

She paused in front of the door, a hand on the cold brass handle, and pivoted. “You know what he asked me yesterday?”

Brian stared at her. “No?”

“If we had any good news.”

“What do you mean, good news?”

God, how could he not immediately understand what she was talking about? She placed her free hand on her stomach. “You know.”

He raised a brow. “Oh, a baby?”

“
Oui
.” She held back a sigh.

In the course of their two years of marriage, she hadn’t gotten pregnant, hadn’t even had a miscarriage. Though Brian repeatedly confirmed he liked the idea of fatherhood and was more than willing to perform the act of baby-making, she wasn’t sure to what extent he understood and related to her wish for a child.

“Sweetie.” He cocked his head. “We’ll just keep trying. One day, you’ll be pregnant. I promise.”

“I wish you’d take the fertility test. I’m willing to—”

“We’ve been through this.”

She nodded, would drop the subject for now. But one day, she would insist and—

Knock, knock
.

She spun around and, with a fake smile, opened the door.

A gust of cool air blew in, filling her nostrils with acrid wetness. Torrential rain would hit anytime.

Outside, two young men sat on tall bicycles, greeting her with expectant gazes. Both carried rucksacks. Wearing only tight, colorful spandex clothes from top to toe, they were far from equipped to tackle the bad weather.

Behind them, across the narrow street, houses similar to the bed and breakfast stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Fast-moving storm clouds loomed above their black-tiled rooftops.

The nearest bicyclist, a thirtyish suntanned blond with the looks of a movie star, gave her a frank smile. His deep-emerald eyes drew her to him so intensely, she almost forgot his companion, almost erased Brian’s hard cock from her memory, and almost ignored the rumbling thunder at the entrance of the village.

“Yes?” She studied the blond.

His well-toned arm and torso muscles worked beneath the thin yellow spandex, and a visible pulse beat in his throat. As he sat on his bicycle—a modern, thirty-something-gear mountain monster—his “package” bulged on the front of the leather seat, reminding her of what Brian had offered seconds ago. She swallowed hard, imagined peeling the spandex off this beautiful man’s svelte body and discovering what sexual beast hid inside. She might be married, but admiring another man could not possibly do any harm.

“We’re looking for a place to stay for the night.” The young guy’s voice, low and confident, with a clear American accent, brought her back to his face. Bedazzling green eyes met hers with a grin displaying a row of perfect white teeth.

“Oh.” She shook herself and took a deep breath, then pointed backward into the living room. “Um, Brian, my husband, will be happy to accommodate you.”

Happy, my ass. I should be the one handling this
.

Irritation grew at that thought. Her parents had run the bed and breakfast the same way, with
Papa
controlling the property and making all the family decisions, and in spite of his hippie roots, Brian had adapted to the tradition. It didn’t matter that
she
was the formal owner. In this remote part of France, the man of the house automatically had the last word.

“Chéri?”

“Yeah.” Brian joined her. The big bear filled the doorframe, oozing warmth at her side.

“These young men—”

A growling noise interrupted, building at the end of the road. A semi-trailer entered the village, going full speed as it passed merely a meter from the two bicyclists and bringing along a violent
swoosh
of cold mountain air.