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“And if it isn’t?”

His thumb brushes once along the curve of my jaw.

“Then tell me that, too.”

The honesty of it nearly undoes me more than the wanting.

I can see the patience he is forcing on himself, at the heat he makes no effort to hide, at the care in him laid so bare it would take a fool not to see it.

And my mam didn’t raise a fool.

So I slide my hands up his chest, feel the hard shape of him under my palms, and say, “If you keep standin’ there like a gentleman, I may throw you into that bath out of sheer frustration.”

His eyes close for half a second, and when they open again, the last of his restraint looks frayed nearly to breaking.

“That is not a threat I can responsibly ignore.”

I laugh, and he kisses me without another word.

No warning or flourish. One hand at my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck, and then his mouth is devouring mine as every thoughtful, careful thing in me takes flight like birds flushed from the hedgerow.

He kisses like he means to collect on every look, every word, every bit of torment I gave him earlier. Deep and thorough and hot enough to pull a helpless sound from me before I can think to swallow it back. At the sound, he makes a rough one of his own, and his hand tightens at my waist.

I rise onto my toes without a scrap of dignity and catch at his shoulders to hold on to him, though he shows no sign of going anywhere. The room smells of hot water and fire and him, and the taste of him is enough to make me feel briefly drunk.

When he finally lifts his mouth from mine, he does not pull away. His forehead settles against mine, his breath rough and warm between us.

“You are trouble,” he says softly.

“I believe that has been thoroughly established.”

His mouth brushes the corner of mine. “You still haven’t answered me.”

“About what?”

“Whether you want peace.”

I smile against his mouth. “I think that ship has sailed.”

He kisses me again, harder this time, as if the laugh has cost him the last of his discipline.

His hands roam with more confidence now. One spanning my waist. One sliding down my back and then up again, slow enough to make me arch toward him without meaning to. He feels every bit of it. I know he does. The way his breath goes ragged tells me so.

“You were waitin’ in here rather calmly for a man who claimed he was gonna be spendin’ the day with a juttin’ erection.”

“I was not calm.” His hand slides to the small of my back and draws me closer until I can feel how untrue that calm is. “I was trying not to think about you naked in that tub, and failed miserably at playing a decent man.”

I let my hands drift lower, over the hard planes of his stomach, and feel him go still beneath them. “Do you know,” I murmur, “I was exhausted when I came up here.”

“Were you?”

“Mmm.” I press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “And now I seem to have found a second wind.”

His hand tightens in my hair. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Doing what?”

“Trying me.”