Page 90 of Graciously His

I examine the way the sun has touched her skin, staining her nose and cheeks a delicate shade of pink. Or maybe it’s just Grace’s natural complexion, shining now that she’s healthy.

“I’m not sure why you’re surprised,” I say, slow and measured, “when we agreed weeks ago that I would stand digital guard for you.”

“I never agreed to you hanging up on calls!”

She’s deliciously outraged. I ignore the urge to take her into our bedroom, put her over my knee, and spank her until she stops questioning my care. I have to find out what her mother said—right fucking now—but I don’t want to admit to Grace that I wasn’t able to listen in. I need her thinking I’m fully across everything.

“How was it,” I say, “hearing Mother’s voice?”

Her sun-kissed cheeks go red and she steps past me, heading towards the house. “I need to get cleaned up.”

She’s on the third floating deck, about to enter the bedroom, when I catch her. My fingers wrap around her bicep and I turn her to face me. Grace gasps with surprise, her eyes wide.

“Don’t you walk away from me.”

Before she can answer, I take her mouth in a punishing kiss. She makes a sound of protest and I sink my teeth into her lower lip hard enough to make her swell. Grace twists in my arms, raking her fingernails down my side. I pull back to look into her eyes, the pupils so wide I can hardly see the amber striations.

“You want to play that game, little girl?” I harden my grip until her eyelids go half-mast. “We can, but only after you answer my questions. How do you feel after your catch-up with your mother, Grace?”

It’s as close as I’ll get to an admission that I didn’t hear the call, and it lands exactly wrong. She resists my grip, her expression devoid of the compliance I need. I should have saved the question for when she was properly in my power.

“Let go of me, Nate. Right now.”

I do, watching her take a long step back.

“You wanted to clean up,” I say, steady despite my renewed anger—at myself as well as her. “I’ll draw you a bath, then we’ll talk.”

She shakes her head, backing into the bedroom as if I might jump on her if she moves too suddenly. I walk past her and into the bathroom and, in direct opposition to her refusal, I start filling the tub. I need to treat Grace like she’s having a relapse. In effect, that’s precisely what the Munchausen bitch getting through my defenses is—a motherfucking relapse.

I add epsom salts to the bath as well as an immune-support blend of essential oils, stirring the mix into the steaming water with my hand.

“I don’t want a bath.”

I almost flinch. With the sound of the tap and my own tangled thoughts, I didn’t hear Grace come in. I meet her eyes with the authority she has come to expect of me, standing tall so that she can lean on me when she’s ready.

“You need one—you said so yourself. So either you undress and climb in, or I’ll strip you down myself. But if you make me do that, Grace, you’ll have to give me an apology first.” I lean in slowly, feeling a surge of tenderness as I brush my nose along hers. “Come on, now. You’ve done enough today. Lambing and cleaning, and then that call. Let me give you what you need.”

A tiny noise escapes her. “Why do you always get to decide what I need?”

“Because,” I kiss her reddened lower lip, “I know better than you do. Especially when you pretend otherwise.”

Her breath comes out in a sigh, then Grace puts her hands up, a clear signal for me to take her top off. I do, pausing to kiss her bare shoulder next to the strap of her camisole.

“Don’t,” she murmurs as I trace my tongue along the slope of her collarbone. “I’ve spent half the day handling sheep.”

“And you taste like it.”

A laugh tumbles from her, moving her breasts too enticingly to ignore. I dip my face to her chest, nuzzling my way into her camisole. I need her, I realise. Like this. Soft and grounded, and choosing to let me in.

“Are you saying I taste like a sheep?”

That gets an answering chuckle from me. “You taste,” I swipe my tongue along her sternum, “like a woman who’s been sweating under her clothes while taking care of babies all day. Fucking delectable.”

She murmurs something I decide is appreciation, and then wriggles. We’ve developed a physical language for moments like this: Grace’s arms go up a second time for me to take her camisole off, then I’m popping the button on her jeans while she hooks her fingers into the waistband. Then I rip into her underwear. I’m past sweetness.

“I liked that pair,” she whispers.

“Should’ve taken them off faster, then.”