She rode harder, faster, bringing us both to a simultaneous peak—too soon, but too long delayed. I pulled her down across my body, kissing her again as her orgasm crested, clenching on me as I released, the pulse and breath of us as one. I ran my hands over every part of her luxuriant skin, rubbing soft circles over her back, her hips, her neck as she slowly relaxed into bliss.
We stayed like that for some time, wrung out, comfortably silent, the crackle of the hearth the only sound but Rye’sgradually calming breaths. Eventually—again, too soon—she straightened and looked down at me with a strange flicker in her eyes.
“Feel better?” she asked.
I did. But I shook my head. “Let’s try again and see if that helps.” I couldn’t help the wicked grin that cracked my face, almost painful in its rarity. When was the last time I’d joked with a woman like her?
Never. I knew that.
I’d never met a woman like her.
She gave my cheek a light pat, returning the grin before standing and rewrapping herself in the robe. She did the same luxurious stretch she had moments before, this time with a deep, satisfied groan that sent a thrill down my spine.
“Well, I need my beauty rest before round two, so you’ll have to wait.”
“I’d be a fool to deny you anything, much less rest.”
She turned over her shoulder, a bemused smirk only interrupted by the cigarette she lit. “I didn’t take you for a sweet talker.”
“I’ve been alive too long for something as trite as sweet talk, Miss Amato.” I meant it.
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been inside me. I think you can call me Rye, now.”
I would’ve flushed at the crass language, but she was right. I nodded, tucking myself back into my pants and straightening my clothes, standing to join her in the middle of the room. “Rye, then.” I took her by the waist, plucking the cigarette from her mouth and planting a kiss upon her smoky, musky, delicious mouth. Dragging on the cigarette myself, I returned it to her. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. I greatly look forward to further understanding my . . . condition with you.”
“I already told you, I’m great at research.” She winked and waggled her fingers goodbye, popping a cheeky thigh from her robe. I took the signal and returned the wave, latching her hotel room door behind me with a heaviness I’d not felt prior.
Six
Some hours later, I arrived at the village pub as Alex had instructed. Rye was smoking at the entrance, wrapped in an expensive-looking trench that flared like a capelet over her shoulders before tapering to her waist and legs.
“Are we off to solve a mystery this early, Miss Amato?” I couldn’t swallow the grin.
She rolled her eyes, blowing smoke in my direction. “I won’t correct you again. It’s Rye.”
Alex poked his head around the corner of the building, giving the uncanny appearance of a floating head. “You two are friendly, then?”
“Don’t answer that.” Rye pointed a warning finger at me before turning her attention to the fangling as the rest of him materialized before us. “Ready?”
Alex simply nodded, gesturing for us to follow as he sped off down the cobblestone street. It was barely more than a breath for the two of us before he stopped outside one of the manyidentical, white-washed thatched cottages that lined either side. A rusty horseshoe hung above the door, and a few attempted flower boxes were overrun with weeds, dried blooms drifting over the edges. A bicycle leaned against one wall, cracked helmet resting on the seat.
“Before we go in,” Alex fixed Rye and me with a meaningful turn of his head, “you don’t tell anyone about this. What happens in the cottage stays there.”
Rye put a comforting hand on his arm and squeezed, the small gesture enough to affirm her agreement. The fangling dropped his shoulders from his ears, squared his chest, and guided us through the squeaky front gate, across the moss-covered flagstone walk, and through the tiny front door.
Inside, heat slammed over us at full force. It was like stepping too close to a furnace with no exhaust outlet. I choked against the thick air, trying my best to politely cough into my arm as if I were clearing my throat and not being throttled by the sudden extreme temperature. Rye fared better, slipping easily from her coat and pushing the sleeves of her knit top to her elbows.
The room was cozier than the heat might have dictated, a well-loved sofa set next to the front windows, the walls and mantel absolutely covered in photos of children smiling, laughing, growing. Just past the screaming hearth was a rough-hewn kitchen table and chairs, the former piled high with various detritus of a busy life—junk mail forgotten, a lunch pail half-emptied of its containers, a puzzle in progress, and a few empty pots awaiting dirt and seeds stacked in the paper bag next to them.
The kitchen counters were covered in similar clutter to the rest of the space, dishes piled high, ready meal containers strewn about, and a small icebox absolutely plastered with photos of the same smiling, freckled kid.
A stocky woman with stick-straight brown hair had her back to us as she fussed at the sink, the night outside pressed thick against the tiny window above. She hummed pleasantly to herself, a tune I thought I recognized from a life now too far gone to truly remember.
“Morning, Mum,” Alex called from the door. “I hope it’s okay, I brought my new mentors I was telling you about.”
The woman turned, and it was all I could do not to gasp out loud.
Marring the stunning warmth of her smile and the bright flash of her watery blue eyes, streaking red and angry through the field of freckles dotting her plump cheeks, were the clear scars of an attack by some wild creature. The tight, healed skin tugged her smile at opposing angles and tilted her gaze, so it was as if she looked in several directions at once.
