Page 41 of The Betrothal

How long had it been since I had been with someone? Or even with myself?

My fingers danced close to the ache between my legs, too overwhelmed with need to comprehend the shift from fearful runaway to panting, trembling woman in someone else’s shower.

Days. It was days in Seb’s company, and he’d got me joking and laughing, and now touching myself.

My fingertips ghosted over the sensitive flesh, and I panted, hand flying out to the glass shower screen.

“Nope.” I snatched my hand away, rushing to rinse the conditioner from my hair.

Ben had conditioner; it was thick and smelled exactly like the other products. The guilt that rolled over me for relying on his things sobered the burning in my lower belly, and I turned the shower off. Finishing up in the bathroom, I threw on the black joggers and t-shirt, which were now clean and gave off the lightest scent of clean laundry. I smelled entirely unlike myself now, and it seemed fitting.

Back in the bedroom, smiling at the small stack of books, I picked one of the novels. The blurb spoke of a young farmhand and the daughter of the owner of the small farm, following their inevitable descent into hay-rolling good times. I settled in for a couple of hours under the crisp winter sun on the window seat.

The relaxation was only interrupted by the grumbling of my stomach, and I dragged myself from the comfort, resolving to make food.

“Seb?” I called from the bottom of the stairs. In the brief time I had known him, I believed without a shred of doubt that man would be almost anywhere but upstairs in his own company.

Sure enough, he sauntered through the open study doors, a smile like a Cheshire cat plastered over his devastating features.

“You need me, Killer?”

I laughed easily as he closed the distance, comfortable in my personal space now, it seemed.

“Did you have a good shower?” he whispered.

I didn’t dignify it with a reply.

“Oh my God.”

The absolute filth of his chuckle had my need surging back to the surface, and my cheeks warmed, betraying me.

“Did you think about me?”

“Seb,” I whispered, but he got the warning and shifted back to take me in.

His eyes caught on the tattered knees of my clothes, and I shrugged, beggars and choosers. Plus, these were my favourites, torn knees or no.

“Knees look a bit better, want me to take another look?” The offer seemed absolutely innocent. The suggestion in his voice had been dropped, but the damage was done.

“No.” I steadied my voice, which was still slightly breathy. “Thank you.”

He dropped to his knee, fingers finding the edge of the tears, immediately in doctor mode.

“They could do with a bit more ointment?” His fingertips brushed so softly over my skin, and I gasped. I gasped!

“Shit, still sore?” He looked thoroughly concerned, brows knit together. That was until he saw my face.

“I…” My heart hammered as I tried to think of a way to brush it off, but all my logic had completely disappeared with every atom of my attention where his fingers touched me. “Can you please… I need you to move your hand.”

His concern deepened, and I groaned softly.

“Seb, I can’t focus with you touching me right now.”

His lips parted, concern morphing immediately into something darker, and he stood, taking a large, deliberate step backwards.

“Right.” His voice had deepened. “Sorry, Iz.” He blinked slowly, rolling his shoulders and visibly re-setting.

“I was going to try to make lunch.” I sounded entirely monotone; the effort of being unaffected ripped any emotion from the words.