She poured the boiling water into the teapot, set the tea to steep, and went in search of him.
She found him behind the house, at the woodshed. He sat on the bench, his larger sword on his lap, and he slowly, methodically drew a soft cloth along the blade.
Rose sat on a tree stump scarred with the strikes of countless wood axes and waited. He ignored her.
“My way is a good way, Declan. You know it is. My control is better than yours. I’m more precise.”
He glanced up. His eyes were pure white. Great, his brights were on, but nobody was driving. She had to make him see reason.
“Is this some sort of bluelood chivalry thing? Because I have news for you, you can’t exactly afford to be chivalrous, Declan. Right now, you’re an army of one with me as your National Guard volunteer unit. You have to let me help, and this is the best way to do it.”
He said nothing.
“At least talk to me, damn you!”
He set the sword aside and walked to her. The determination on his face shot a bolt of alarm down her spine. She backed away. He caught her and pushed her back lightly. Her back pressed against the wall of the house. She realized that for the first time they were truly alone, with no risk of interruptions. Well, if he thought he could bully her into backing down, he had another think coming.
“Rose.”
Rose jerked aside, but he barred her escape with his arm. “You’re stronger, I get it,” she ground out. She tried to push him aside, but she might as well have tried to push a train. He didn’t move an inch.
“Rose,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
She glared at him. Their stares connected, and there was something so arresting and possessive in his grass green eyes that words died on her lips. He looked at her like she was some great treasure. Like nothing else mattered.
He looked at her like he loved her.
Warmth touched her cheeks, and she knew she blushed. He looked her over, studying her neck, her eyes, her throat, slowly, taking his time. She was locked in his arms. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt. She smelled him, that very familiar scent of sandalwood, and clove oil he had used to clean his sword, and sweat. His chest pressed on her, the muscles hard but supple, and her nipples tightened. She was caught.
“I’m going on that dock instead of you,” she said.
“No.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
His big body braced hers. His hips kept her pinned. He raised his hand and slid his fingers up the side of her neck in a long caress, up her chin, and to her lips. She shivered. He brushed her lower lip with a calloused thumb.
“Kissing me won’t make me more agreeable,” she whispered.
“I’m not trying to make you more agreeable.” His voice was rough and low. “I just can’t help myself.”
The muscles on his arms flexed, and she realized Declan was fighting for control.
He swallowed, his eyes dark.
A million reasons to get away streaked through her head. He was a blueblood, and she was an Edge mongrel. He lied to her. He wanted to own her. They had no future together. He . . . If someone told her that right now in this very moment, trapped between the wall of her own house and Declan’s rigid body, that she could have one thing and one thing only before she died, she would choose to be with him.
Nothing good ever happened to people who didn’t take chances.
She kissed him, molding herself against his large frame, supple softness to his hardness.
His control snapped. He lunged for her, pushing her against the wall, and kissed her back, furious and passionate, drinking her in. The echo of the kiss rolled through her body, dragging a low moan from her. She slid against him, working her hands up the hard muscles of his back.
He pulled her to him and buried his face in her neck. His teeth and tongue played with her skin, rasping over the sensitive spot on her pulse, painting heat over her flesh. Warmth spread through her. Declan kissed her again and again. Her body tightened. He ground into her, and she slid up and down with him, giving soft resistance to the hard thrust of his erection.
His voice was a hot breath in her ear. “God, I want you.”
“I want you, too,” she whispered. She wanted him so badly that every time he touched her, she wanted to hold on to him to keep him from letting go. The thought of him standing on that dock, collapsing under the weight of hundreds of hounds, almost made her scream in frustration. He wasn’t going to die there. “I’m still going on that dock.”
His voice was low and so suffused with need, it was almost a snarl. “I know. I’m coming with you.”
“What?”
“We’ll do it together.”
He thrust his hand under hers, pushed her bra down, releasing her aching breast, and brushed the nipple. A jolt of pleasure, intense and unexpected, rippled through her.
“I can handle the hounds. You don’t have to . . .” she whispered.
“Yes, I do.”
He kissed her again, stealing her breath, and nipped her lip with his teeth. She pulled at his T-shirt. She wanted him naked, she wanted to feel his skin against hers.
He pulled away from her and swept her off her feet. “Bed.”
She wound herself about him, kissing his neck and the corner of his jaw. “Good idea.”
They tore through the house and into the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed, grasped the fabric of her T- shirt, pulled up, and the old worn-out cotton tore in his hands. “Sorry.”
“I have another one.” She pulled off his shirt and ran her hands down his body, from his chest over the hard ridges of his stomach, and then she was sliding him out of his jeans and rubbing her hand down the hard shaft of his erection. He made a raw animal sound in his throat and stripped the last shreds of clothing from her. For a moment she saw him towering above the bed, tall, golden, knitted with carved muscle.
She was too hot and too wet and too impatient.
He lunged for her, and she met him halfway, kissing, rubbing, stoking the fire inside both of them. His tongue played on her skin. He cupped her left breast, stroking the nipple with his fingers until it ached. She moaned. His hips slid between her legs. He dipped his head down and caught her nipple in his hot mouth, sending a wave of pure pleasure through her. She dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his back and arched herself, welcoming him. “Now,” she whispered. “Now, Declan, don’t wait.”
He heard her. His lips found hers. He thrust into her, and she gasped. Her body resonated with pleasure, wanting, demanding more. She ground against him.
He thrust again and again, deep, hard, building to a rapid fiery rhythm, his weight a steady sweet pressure on her. She was full, so wonderfully full of him, and she wanted more.
She kissed his jaw and his throat, and he thrust harder. She clawed at his back, taut with strain, and the aching need within her blossomed into a cascade of bliss. She felt herself rising higher and higher, propelled by his thrusts and lost in the hot glide of their bodies, until something within her snapped. Pleasure drowned her, smothering all thought. She screamed his name. Her body screamed with her, gripping him, pumping. He clenched and emptied himself into her with a hoarse growl. They lay together in a hot, sweaty tangle, and for a while, lost in the aftershocks, she couldn’t tell which limbs were hers and which were his.
“That was not the way it was supposed to go,” he said, his voice still raspy with echoes of lust.
“How was it supposed to go?”
He pulled her to him, closing his arms around her, and Rose sank into him, implausibly happy. He ran his fingers along her arm. “Slow and sensuous. Sophisticated.”
She turned on her side and kissed him. “How terribly inappropriate of you, Earl Declan Riel Martel Camarine.”
“You’ve remembered my name. I feel the need to celebrate this momentous occasion.”
“I thought we just did that,” she murmured, out of breath. “But if you insist on a do-over, I’m sure we can do this again in the near future.”
