The tense line of his shoulders softens. He turns dark green eyes on me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s OK.” I pad in, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly aware I’m in nothing more than a pale silk nightgown. “Are…you OK?”
“Good enough.” He pauses, maybe considering how much he wants to share—or how much he thinks I can handle. “I got a fighter. He nailed me a few times. Got me with a pocket knife, but I’m good.”
I bite my lip, ignoring the fear and sympathy and confusion that crops up in my mind at his work, and why he does it, and how much a life or death is really worth. I let myself cross the room, reaching for him.
“Do you know what I did for a living in Waterford?” I ask, taking his bloody forearm into my hands. The gash is small but deep. I guide it under the running water. “I was an elementary school teacher.”
I feel his eyes on me, though he says nothing.
“I loved it,” I confess, taking a bottle of antiseptic that sits by the sink and gently pouring it over his wound. “A simple life. One with some freedoms. But a little life I made for myself.”
Malcom grimaces as I gently wipe blood from the wound. It’s very clean, but it could use stitches. I don’t find anything I could use to implement them, so I settle for medical tape, gauze, and bandages.
“Once in a while there was a fall or a scrape, and I’d look after the little ones like I’m looking after you now.” I don’t need to look up to know his aspect steels at this. I let an amused smile touch my mouth. “Do you still know how to smile?”
When I’m done, I release him, looking up. I find his eyes on me, heated and inscrutable. I’m struck by the urge to brush the dark, wet curls from his forehead. It dawns on me that we’re close enough to touch. He’s so much taller than me that I have to look up to meet his eyes.
“You play with me,” says Malcom softly. “I thought I’d broken you.”
I lift a brow. “You’ve offended me. You’ve torn me from my world. But you can’t break me, Malcom Walker. No one can.”
He touches my face, rough fingers ginger against my jaw. “I’ve known a great many women in my life, you know. I’ve met many who walk the same way as I do. But I knew, when Sampson announced whomever he appointed as his successor needed an heir, I knew—you were the only one. The strongest. The closest to me in spirit, even now. When so much has changed.”
Strangely, guilt twists in my belly. I look away, but his palm turns my eyes back to his. He holds them for a dangerous, electric moment.
And then he kisses me.
I gasp, the soft sound erased by the rough press of his lips. His beard is coarse against my skin, his arms as they wrap around me bracing and powerful. I press my hands to his chest—but I don’t push. I don’t stop him.
It hits me then, rocks the earth beneath me—I don’t want him to stop.
“Malcom,” I whisper against his lips, and then his tongue slides into my mouth. I wrap my arms around his neck, sliding my hands through his dark, wet curls. He lifts me as though I weigh nothing and turns, sliding me onto one of the thick stone counters. “Don’t stop.”
He lays me down, his kiss hungry and desperate, his tongue hot and stroking mine. I wrap my legs around his waist and he leans back, dragging rough, large palms down the length of my body. Pleasure pours through my veins, wetting me instantly. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex with Trevor. Those last months were tinged with desperation, obligation, expectation, disappointment. This is everything opposite. This is reckless. Aimless. Driven by nothing but rule-breaking, mouth-watering desire.
Malcom’s jaw tenses as his hands seek the hem of my nightgown. My heart is raging, my breath hitching as he draws up the silk, revealing my bare thighs, my lace underwear. His rough hands circle my legs, drawing up to my hips. My heart is in my throat. A thousand questions crop up in me like a storm wind, but I don’t have the discipline to hear them. I don’t want any reason to stop him.
He bows his head, lips alighting on the curve of my hip. I can’t breathe. I touch his crown of dark curls as his head ducks lower, lower. He tugs aside the lace, breath stirring. The first stroke of his tongue leaves a line of fire.
A soft mewl rises from my lips. I cover them with the back of my hand, arching my back as Malcom explores me with his mouth. He’s practiced, expert. I remember that from when we were together all those years ago; he was the best I’d ever had. After he left, every man I slept with had his face in my mind, in my dreams.
His rough hands cup my thighs as his tongue slides inside of me. I bite the back of my hand, gripping his curls with the other. Smothering my moans only increases my pleasure, my desperation. I’m liquid as the orgasm comes, easy as a flipped switch, my body entirely, utterly his. My back arches and I swallow my cries, ecstasy flooding me in a bright, throbbing tide. His tongue matches my every movement, and I sink weakly back onto the counter when it’s over, shaking like a leaf.
I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Embarrassment hinges at the edge of my fading pleasure.I’m not supposed to let him do that. I’m not supposed towanthim to do that.
What’s worse—I want him to do more.
When Malcom pulls away, I catch his sleeve. His eyes meet mine then, piercing straight through me. I sit up, breathing still ragged, and slowly, anxiously, touch my palms to his chest. His heart races beneath my palm. I bite my lip as I tentatively explore his chest with my hands, his powerful shoulders, his straining arms, the hard ridges of his abs.
Oh.
He’s rigid, hard as steel. And larger than I remember.I shouldn’t. I can’t.
But I’m practically drooling with want. And what would be the harm? I won’t escape Rosehill. After the last few weeks, in the darkest part of my soul, I acknowledge that maybe I don’t evenwantto leave Rosehill. And I’m barren. Malcom can’t impregnate me. If I told him, would he cast me out into the rain? Leave me for dead somewhere on a country street?
After he took me from my life, do I owe it to him to tell the truth?
