Page 112 of Beneath the Quiet

“Just not, what?” I murmur.

She releases a long breath. “I’m just not used to it. You keep surprising me, Aidan.”

I chuckle, the warmth spreading in my chest too hard to ignore. “Well, you deserve to be spoiled when you’re being such a good girl to me.” I bend and take her mouth in one final, searing kiss. She melts into my embrace. Her teeth tugging on my lower lip are all it takes to make my cock twitch.

“Fuck, I need you again,” I whisper against her mouth. Every molecule and cell in my being screams at me to ask her to come home with me, and I jolt at the realisation that I don’t want our night to end.

“But it’s late.” She sighs and unwraps her arms from around my neck. “I’ll leave first.”

I remove the condom and tie it, putting it in my pocket, and take a step away to sort my clothes. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Oh, but…”

“Don’t finish that sentence. You already know how I feel about letting a woman walk home alone, so spare me the argument and just admit defeat, Maeve. I’m taking you home.”

“You don’t have to be so bossy about it.”

I shrug even though she can’t see me, and wrap my hand around hers. I pull our linked hands up to my mouth and scrape my teeth across her knuckles. Her gasp sends another ripple of need through me.

“It seems that with you, I have to be, or you won’t do as you’re told.”

“You could’ve said please, and I wouldn’t have put up a fight,” she grumbles.

I kiss her hand and chuckle darkly. “I could have, but riling you up is much more fun.”

I wait for her retort, but it seems I’ve managed to shut her up this time. I scan the street, and when I don’t see any familiar faces around the town square, I keep her hand in mine on the entire walk to her cottage. I keep telling myself that I should let go of her hand, but I can’t.

Tonight, she’s my anchor.

Tomorrow, we’ll go back to normal.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Aidan

The gravel on the pathway leading to Maeve’s cottage crunches underneath my boots, the sound mingling with the chirping notes from the birds on this mild evening in June. I’ve started looking forward to our Tuesday afternoons way too much, but I can’t seem to stop them, even though the rope she has wrapped around me grows tighter the longer we keep doing this.

Sometimes, I feel as if I’m a character from a romance novel set in the Middle Ages when the hero climbs through the window of his betrothed, or the woman he can’t seem to stop wanting, to have his wicked way with her.

Or maybe he’s the villain of the story instead of the hero.

Either way, I’m not done with being wicked with her.

I raise my hand to knock on her door, but just as I have the other times, I hesitate. The thrumming in my blood urges me to take the last step, and I knock on the heavy door.

You’re so fucked.

I ignore the gentle breeze whispering in my ear.

Then I wait.

But this time, there’s no Maeve opening, inviting me inside. No maiden that welcomes me with her soft smile and rosy cheeks.

I frown and knock again, this time louder.

I’m not worried that anyone is going to find me up here. The cottage is so far away from the main road that only someone visiting would take the road here. When Maeve still doesn’t open the door for me, I take a step back and look underneath the doormat for a key but there isn’t one.

I should’ve known Maeve would be the only person in Cloonmara who won’t leave a key under her doormat.