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She works the comb through her hair section by section with hypnotic motions, starting at the ends and working up toward her scalp. Somehow, this completely innocent act is the most erotic thing I’ve seen in months.

Her hair is long. Intellectually, I knew that. Shit, I saw it yesterday when she was bathing. It was hot as fuck then too.

But seeing it dry and loose, the waves cascading all the way down to her waist?

Images swarm my head.

Esme, with her hair spread across a pillow. How her locks would feel wrapped around my fist while I take her from behind. How it would sway if she were on top of me, riding me slowly and deeply, her face flushed and her mouth open, her hair forming a curtain around us that blocks out the rest of the world.

Stop. You’re sitting here fantasizing about a woman who’s so trusting, she’s combing out her hair like you’re safe to be around while you’re cataloguing all the things you want to do to her.

I stare at the fire instead, listening to the frogs and night birds and making sure the scavengers at the river aren’t coming this way. I can focus on plenty of things besides imagining what Esme’s hair would smell like if I buried my face in it.

Esme flinches and huffs as the comb snags on a tangle.

I may not survive until dawn.

When she shivers and rubs her arms, I unfasten my cloak and drape it over her shoulders. Her eyes widen before brimming with unexpected warmth.

My pulse stutters. “You looked cold.”

Her hair, shiny in the light, slides over her shoulders and caresses her cheek. “Thank you.”

I back away and try to convince myself that I’m staging a strategic retreat rather than fleeing.

Her fingers snag my wrist, the grasp so light that I could extract myself with minimal effort.

Instead, I freeze.

She lifts the edge of the cloak. “Come. Sit. We can keep each other warm.”

Fuck.

How can I say no without hurting her feelings?

My muscles shift without permission, and the next thing I know, my hip brushes hers.

She smiles and wiggles her own hips, getting comfortable.

I’m in the danger zone. Any closer, and I may lose control and wreck the innocent picture she creates. The cloak is big enough to cover us both if we huddle close, but with the fire raging, there’s no reason to cuddle for warmth.

Esme leans across my body to adjust the cloak so it covers me completely too. My arm circles her automatically, and her scent—meadow grass and sunlight and earth after rain—envelops me.

I am so fucked.

She could be, too, if I don’t get out of this soon.

We sit and watch the moon in silence. My cock throbs, demanding attention. I’m once again grateful for the loose, baggy pants the Meridians wear with the tight undergarments I originally hated.

Because I sit here trying to hide an erection like a teenage boy who doesn’t know how to control himself.

Except I do know. I’ve had decades of practice controlling my urges, channeling violence and lust into more productive outlets.

None of that practice is helping now.

A massive, fast-moving shadow passes across the sky.

Esme gasps, her hand darting up to her lips. “What⁠—”