Page 73 of Beneath the Quiet

Pride swells in my chest knowing I’m the only one who’s made her act like this. “As much as I’d like to stay right where we are, we need to move. Work around the farm starts soon.”

She straightens so quickly that she almost topples off my lap, and I brace my legs and arms around her to hold her in place.

“Steady now.”

She tucks a stray lock of her hair behind her ear and looks down between us. When her eyes widen at my lap, I grin up at her.

“Oh, my,” she breathes.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You did so well.”

Her eyes glint with mischief, and I glance at her mouth and notice a freckle shaped almost like a heart near the top left of her lower lip. I want to kiss those lips, make them swollen and wet, but I’ll have to wait until next time. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that I still haven’t kissed her, but if I do, I won’t be able to stop, and I can’t risk anyone catching us here.

She rubs her chin, and a slow smile tugs at her lips. “I…”

“What is it?”

“I liked that you called me a good girl.”

I squeeze around her middle in silent approval. “I’m glad.”

“I think you call me that sometimes in my dreams.”

“Sounds like your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

I move closer and place a last kiss above the gold locket around her chest while pulling the straps up to cover her breasts. I try not to dwell on the rosy glow now covering her usually pale skin, but it’s fucking impossible to ignore the evidence of my beard all over her chest.

Marking her. I did that.

It’s the biggest turn-on and highest privilege that she let me do that to her. It makes me wonder what else she’d let me do if we weren’t short of time.

I pull her in for a hug and put my lips close to her cheek. I shouldn’t delay leaving, but I can’t seem to help myself when I’m around her.

“I need to get going,” she whispers.

I nod. “Are you okay, Mae?”

She slides off my lap and tugs at her tracksuit. I zero in on the wetness coating her crotch but force my gaze up to level her with a stare. I let her consider my question in her own time, needing to hear her words before we go our separate ways.

She squares her shoulders. “Yes. I’m feeling much better, actually.”

I grin and finally get up. The heavy air around us smells like sex, and she rubs her still-heated cheeks. I scrub a hand through my beard, searching for something, anything, to say. Then it clicks.

“What were you doing when I first came in?”

Her brows lift. “I don’t think I was doing anything.”

I nod towards the spot where I found her. “I watched you for about a minute. Your eyes were closed,” I explain, “but your mouth was moving. Were you talking to yourself?”

Her chin dips. “Oh. That.”

I rest my hands on her shoulders and bend my knees, lowering myself to her level. “You can trust me.”

She keeps her eyes averted, but her lips pull up in a crooked smile. “I know. I was counting.”

“Counting?”

She hesitates, wetting her lips. “Sometimes, I get anxiety attacks. When I feel an attack coming, I start counting to myself. It helps me calm down again.” She lifts her shoulders in a light shrug like it’s nothing, like she hasn’t just handed me something fragile.