Page 87 of Death Kiss

Summer has brought out all the wildflowers around the rescue's penned outer area. We don’t have any new dogs, and our existing six, not including Hamish, are all settled and doing well. The breeze dances my hair across my shoulders as Tornado, very much named after her wild nature, storms past me.

Converting a large part of the land to a rescue centre was at the top of my list, creating a space where dogs who need kindness can adjust at a slow pace. There’s no time pressure. No putting down. We treat every dog as an individual and rehabilitate them until we can find them a new, loving home. Liam’s an expert at reading the people who are faking happy families or stability, watching the dogs carefully to make sure that they really do go only to loving homes.

The sun is beginning to lower in the sky, so I stand and call the pups, who tear or trundle across the grassy mounds, leaping over tree trunks and skipping through the burn.

It takes a while to dry them off, feed them, and settle them into their cabins for the night. There’s still outside space attached, but the interiors are designed with couches and beds to mimic a more domestic setting. It’s worked wonders in helping them adapt before going into new homes.

And I doubt some will ever find a new home. I’m in no rush to hurry them along either. Old Tammy loves dog company, but is terrified of people. She only just tolerates Liam and me, but adores Hamish. So she spends her days sunning herself on the grass and filling her tummy with good food while playing with her four-legged pals. There’s no reason to force her into a new home, nor to put her down just because of the way she’s been treated previously.

You can’t break someone and expect them to conform to your expectations.

So we keep our expectations for the rescues light.

By the time I get back to the house, it’s getting dark. The wall lights in the expansive hallway reflect off the polished marble floor as I kick off my shoes and head upstairs. There are still empty rooms. Rooms that are hard and cold and unloved, but as the years have gone on, we slowly do up rooms one at a time.

We go to charity shops, sanding and painting until we turn a tired old piece into something to love. A bit like us, I suppose.

I throw myself straight into the shower when I get upstairs, washing the dog and the day's dirt off. I’m walking into our bedroom, towelling my hair, wearing sweet fuck all, when I spot Liam in the mirror behind me.

Not just Liam.

The masked version, sleeves rolled up, that makes my thighs clench. Two years of peace haven’t whetted our appetites yet, as far as devouring each other is concerned.

Those pink, heart-framed eyes stare at me as I turn, holding my towel coyly in front of me. The hallway light highlights the thick muscles in his forearms. A low, filthy spark shoots through me, making me clench my thighs.

We’ve converted some rooms to B&B to help keep afloat in this massive house, and with our regular turnover of occupants, I can’t see him like this often.

‘Tonight’s guests cancelled,’ he says, pressing one hand up against the doorframe and leaning forward.

Fuck me.

Even after all this time, he knows how to light a kinky fire between my thighs with barely more than a look.

‘Liam,’ I say, my breathy voice giving me away.

With a growl, he says, ‘Run.’

The thrill thunders through me before I’ve even set off. I dart, naked as the day I was born, through the door that leads to the upper sitting room and then back out onto the landing. His footsteps follow.

The house is big enough that I put up a good chase, darting into a room and holding my breath as he runs before turning and dashing back the way I came. My breath is quick and my heart quicker.

Liam jumps around a corner and nearly gets me.

I shriek and dodge him, laughing when he grunts.

‘Gotta be quicker than that old man,’ I say, running down the stairs.

‘I’m only a few months older than you.’

‘Shame you’re too slow to catch me then, huh?’

My feet slap on the floor as I dart left, twisting through doorways. A chair goes flying as I run through the kitchen with my masked man in hot pursuit.

‘Shit,’ he says as he jumps over it.

‘You’re getting so slow,’ I mock him, which urges him into full-on pursuit. I know my moments of freedom are numbered, and I don’t exactly hate the prospect of being caught.

He’s close.