Page 38 of The Widow and the Wanted

“You wanted to court,” I whisper near his ear. “Now hold still and be quiet.”

The look he gives me is near enough to worship to make me cruel.

I tighten my grip and stroke us harder. His hips rise despite himself.

My expression chides him back down.

“Please,” he breathes against my palm.

“No.”

I bend lower, forehead nearly touching his. Boone’s hand clamps around my wrist and pulls my palm from his mouth just far enough to whisper, “Okee.”

One word. Barely a breath.

Mercy.

I could give him more. He wants it. I know how his knees would part, how quickly he would surrender, how badly he would fail at silence if I worked him open here on the rug.

The thought nearly undoes me.

Then the boards overhead creak beneath Lula’s weight.

No.

Not tonight.

I cover Boone’s mouth again and work my hand between us faster.

His fingers dig into my hips. His breath breaks hot against my palm. I kiss the side of his face, his cheek, his temple, anything to keep him anchored and quiet while I drive us both toward ruin.

“Easy,” I whisper, though there is nothing easy in me.

Every movement risks some betraying sound—the floor, the cloth beneath us, Boone’s breath, the wet drag of skin against skin. His body begins to shake, and his fist catches in my shirt.

I grip tighter.

“Okee.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck. I’m coming.”

He spends with a strangled cry he nearly manages to swallow, body jerking beneath mine as he spills between us. The small failure of restraint tears through me. I come a moment later with my face buried against his throat, angry and aching and not entirely certain where one feeling ends and the other begins.

For a long while, neither of us moves. We lie tangled in front of the hearth, hearts pounding, listening.

Boone lets out the smallest laugh, breathless and foolish, and I clap a hand over his mouth again. His eyes crease with wicked amusement at my glare before he turns his mouth into my palm and kisses it.

We clean ourselves with a dirty shirt dragged from the laundry basket. Beyond the hearth’s dull glow, the dark presses close around us.

“You ain’t mad at me, are you?” Boone asks softly.

I still. “No. Of course not, my love.”

His grin fades into something gentler. “So what then? You’re scared?”

“It’s nothing.”

He studies me for another moment, then lets me have the lie.

Eventually he turns onto his side, still smiling faintly. His breathing deepens beside me as he falls asleep.