Malachi doesn’t smile, but his jaw ticks in a way that says he’s filed the guy under a problem to be handled.
“You know the offer to work here’s still open. Ruby too.”
I shift, leaning back against the table, the edge biting into my spine. My hand curls against the wood, fingers tapping out a slow, steady rhythm. A beat I barely notice anymore. My secret language. My shield.
“I could help with cleaning during the day. Or shop admin stuff.”
His smile finally returns, slow and genuine.
“Yeah, if you want. But you don’t have to clean.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah, I do. This place smells like sweat and testosterone. It needs regular maintenance.”
He steps in, crowding into my space with certainty that says he belongs there. One hand finds my hip, the other braces against the table beside me. My hands go to his chest on instinct, the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric. His mouth brushes my jaw, beard scratching in the best way.
“Are you saying we’re dirty?”
I smile despite myself. “I’m saying this place needs a woman’s touch. Sloane tries, but she’s juggling the hospital.”
His eyes gleam. “This place definitely needs a woman’s touch.” His lips trail to my neck. “I also need a woman’s touch.”
I laugh, shaky and breathless. “I’m sure there are plenty of women willing to volunteer.”
His growl vibrates against my skin a second before he grabs my hips and lifts me effortlessly onto the table. My breath hitches.
“You’re the only woman I want touching me.”
He says it with the kind of certainty that dares anyone to argue.
You’re the only woman I want touching me.
Something inside me fractures because I believe him. I want to believe him. Because last night wasn’t enough, not even close, and I’m still aching from it in ways that have nothing to do with muscle memory and everything to do with him.
I should be running. I always run. But I don’t.
His hands grip my thighs with possession, claiming space, staking ground, and I swear the air between us thickens with every breath. My body’s already responding. Tightening, pulsing, melting under the weight of his stare.
A lyric rises in my chest—say it slow, wreck me honest—but I bury it deep, same way I always do.
“I want to take care of you,” he says again, quieter this time, carrying the weight of a vow he fully intends to keep. “Let me, sweetheart.”
I don’t speak. I just nod. That’s all he needs. He moves with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he wants. And it’s me.
He drags me forward by the hips until I’m on the edge, legs spread around his waist, nothing between us but the thrum of want and the clothes he’s about to tear off me.
“Fuck,” he mutters, lifting my shirt slowly, reverently. “Always hiding under these damn shirts like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
His fingers skim the skin just beneath the hem, knuckles brushing over my ribs in a motion that feels closer to prayer than hunger. He peels it over my head and tosses it somewhere I don’t care to track, eyes raking down my body with the kind of veneration that says he’s ready to drop to his knees in worship.
Then he does. Literally.
One knee hits the floor, and he drags my leggings down in one rough pull. I’m bare beneath, no panties, and the groan that rips from him goes straight to my core. The noise is guttural, half-growl, half-confession. It lands somewhere between my hips and my ribs and sets everything inside me unraveling.
“You did this on purpose,” he growls, eyes burning as he presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “No fucking panties. You knew I’d lose my mind.”
My hand fists the table edge. The wood bites into my palm, grounding me, barely. I breathe his name, but it slips out on a gasp. He spreads me with one hand, the other anchoring hard to my hip as he leans in and licks me.
A long, slow drag of his tongue that makes my hips jolt.
