Rude, maybe. I could have invited him in, offered him a drink, at least pretended to be a polite host.
Right now, though, I’m standing at a breaking point where Tally is concerned. If she were to stumble out of that bedroom dressed in anything less than a goddamn snowsuit in front of another man, I can’t promise I’d do the smart thing.
Better he stay outside.
Better he stay alive.
I set the gun on the counter within easy reach and rest my hand on the bag with her laptop inside.
Business can wait until morning.
The woman sleeping in my bed?
That’s the part that won’t wait forever.
TWENTY-SIX
TWIGGY
Sunlightfilteringthroughtheslatted blinds drags me up out of sleep in slow, stubborn increments.
First comes the awareness that this is not my bed. The mattress is softer, the sheets smoother, the faint smell of pine and wood smoke and Bran clinging to the air.
Then the memory of where I am—and why—clicks into place.
Cabin. Tennessee. Hiding, but not hiding. Running, but not alone.
Finally, everything from last night slams back into my brain in one long, molten reel.
The way his mouth felt on me, reverent and filthy and full of single-minded intent.
The way his voice went rough when he told me to come.
The moment he pushed inside me and the world narrowed down to stretch and shock andhim.
My muscles protest as I shift, a chorus of delicious aches singing through my thighs, my hips, my core. Every part of me feels used and claimed and loose at the same time, like someone took me apart carefully and put me back together better.
My body remembers him before my brain fully does, and my pulse kicks up between my legs, a deep, slow throb.
If I thought I could move without everything seizing, I’d want more.
Who am I kidding? I want more even if I can’t move.
Eyes still closed, I slide my hand across the cool percale, fingers searching for Bran’s solid heat.
Nothing.
My fingers skate over empty sheet and a faint indentation in the pillow where his head should be. My eyes pop open.
Well, shit.
The immediate sting lands low in my chest before my logic boots up. Of course he’s not still in bed. He’s not a lounge-around-all-day guy. He’s Irish mob, not a cat who naps on sun-warmed windowsills.
Still. A tiny, traitorous part of me had liked the idea of waking up tangled around him.
Shoving down the first flicker of hurt, I roll out of bed with a wince and pad to the bathroom. My hair is a Medusa situation; I tame it into a messy bun that at least looks intentional. I brush my teeth until the taste of sleep—and Bran—is replaced by mint.
The scratch on my arm is healing nicely, the angry red fading to a tender line. I peel off the Band-Aid and flex experimentally. It twinges, but not in a way that feels worrying. I decide to leave it uncovered today. A little battle scar. Very “final girl.”
