“I’ve thought about this.” Her hands slide from my shoulders to my face, framing my jaw with a shocking tenderness. “About you.” Calla Mercer doesn’t blush, but a flush spreads high on her cheekbones, visible even in the lamplight. “In my bed. Under me. Over me.”
A primal surge of possession blinds me for a second. My next thrust loses its coordination, driven by pure emotion. “And here I thought you were innocent.”
A breathy laugh, almost a sob, escapes her. “You have no idea. Those long, quiet afternoons you’d be scowling over papers, pushing your hair out of your eyes—” She moans, her head tipping back as I increase my pace. “I’d picture you pushing into me instead.”
I drop my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling. The air smells of sweat and sex and the faint, lingering scent of rosemary. I’m fucking a mess into her, and she’s asking for more.
“Show me.”
She stills beneath me, her dark eyes searching mine.
“Show me what you pictured,” I clarify, slowing my movements to a deliberate, controlled roll of my hips. “Tell me.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair. “I pictured you just like this,” she whispers, her voice raspy with need. “Holding me down, taking what you wanted. Making me unable to think about anything else.”
Her words are a match to dry tinder. My control snaps.
My hands slide down to grip her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh as I drive into her with renewed force. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the small room, underscored by the rhythmic creak of the bedframe.
“I’m close,” she gasps, her nails scoring my back. “Don’t stop.”
It’s the last clear thought either of us has. Sensation takes over—the slick friction, the tight clench of her around me, the broken sounds she makes at the back of her throat. My control disintegrates, the last thread snapping. I fuck her with a raw, ragged intensity, chasing my own release with each punishing stroke. Distantly, I feel her shake apart, her body convulsing around mine as a strangled cry tears from her throat.
A deep, rolling shudder wracks my frame, and I bury myself inside her one final time as I fill her with my come. My hips jerk through the last pulses of it, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, my breath sawing harsh and loud in the quiet room.
CHAPTER 17
CALLA
The first pale threads of dawn slip through the linen curtains, painting golden stripes across the wooden floor. I stretch beneath the quilted coverlet, muscles pleasantly sore, warmth radiating from every inch of my skin. The cottage feels wrapped in morning magic—soft light, the distant chirping of early birds, the lingering scent of rosemary and something uniquely Brakkor clinging to the sheets.
My hand reaches across the mattress, seeking the solid warmth of his body.
Empty space greets my fingertips.
I blink fully awake, propping myself up on one elbow. Brakkor sits on the edge of the bed, his back to me, pulling on his worn leather boots. His shoulders carry a tension that wasn't there last night, rigid lines replacing the relaxed curve I fell asleep against.
"What's wrong?"
He doesn't turn around. His fingers work the laces with mechanical efficiency, each movement deliberate and distant.
"Nothing's wrong. I must get back to the inn."
The words land flat, stripped of any warmth or recognition of what passed between us. No trace of the man who whispered my name like a prayer, who held me like I mattered.
I sit up fully, the coverlet pooling around my waist. Cool air hits my bare shoulders, raising goosebumps along my arms.
"Brakkor."
"I want to get an early start on following up with Selwyn." He stands, reaching for his shirt where it lies crumpled on the floor. "There's a lot of ground to cover today."
His voice maintains that same monotone quality—professional, detached, completely void of the intimacy we shared last night. He could be discussing supply chain logistics with a stranger.
"Look at me."
He freezes for a moment, shirt halfway over his head, then continues dressing without acknowledging my request. The fabric settles across his broad shoulders, hiding the scratch marks my nails left along his back.
"This is about work." The statement comes out more controlled than I feel. "The investigation."
