Page 37 of The Widow and the Wanted

The loft gives another faint creak.

His gaze lifts. Mine follows.

A strip of darkness lies between the beams above us. No movement. No voice. Only the knowledge of her up there, close enough for every careless sound to carry.

I catch Boone by the jaw and lower my voice. “Hush. There is a woman not ten feet above us.”

“Then I reckon you oughtn’t make me holler.”

“Boone.”

That sobers him. A little.

“Yes, sir,” he whispers.

“C’est bien, Boone. Gentil garçon.”

His whole face lights, and he bites his lip. “Christ, you’re going to ruin me with that fancy talk.”

That is precisely why I use it.

I lean close enough that my mouth brushes his ear. “Sois sage, mon garçon. Et je te ferai jouir.”

“Mm.” He smiles, lazy and wicked. “I don’t know what that means, but whatever it is, I want it.”

I kiss him.

If Lula has unsettled me, if she has crossed his mind and mine both, then I want Boone beneath my hands where everything makes sense. I know the hitch in his breath before he knows it himself. I know the plea he will make before his mouth gives it voice.

Let her be new.

I am the one who knows him best.

Boone gives beneath my mouth with a sound I swallow quickly, his hands tightening on my shoulders while I take exactly what I want from him.

“It means,” I breathe against his lips, “be good, my boy, and I’ll make you come.”

His pupils flare.

“Will you be a good boy for me?”

He nods, though the grin says he intends to be trouble about it.

My hand slips inside his trousers and closes around his thickening length. Boone inhales hard.

“Okee,” he breathes, half warning, half plea. “I need you so bad.”

I make no answer. Instead I swing one leg over him and settle astride his thighs, the wool of my trousers rasping softly against his. With quick hands I free myself, already heavy and aching.

Years of discretion have taught me many things. One of them is that Boone Maddox cannot get fucked quietly.

Even now, his breath catches too sharply the moment our cocks press together, and my hand covers his mouth at once.

“Not a sound.”

His eyes flare above my palm.

I spit into my other hand and wrap my fingers around us both. The first slow glide drags a shudder through him. His lashes dip, his jaw working beneath my hand as he fights to keep still. I stroke us again, slower this time, feeling every twitch of him against me.