Page 133 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“You were right,” I stalk forward. “You’re not a robin.” His eyes follow me. “Nor a lark. You’re not a bird at all.” I see it now. In the way he watches and waits. Always controlled, until he isn’t, waiting to pounce until his animal instincts demand he make the kill. A predator through and through. “You’re a wolf.” I unlace the front of my dress, pulling the collar down over one shoulder, then the other.

Brennen’s eyes darken, and I lift off my dress and shift, tossing them to the ground. I am bare before him, wearing nothing but moonlight.

This time, there’s anything but disgust in his expression. His gaze slowly rakes across my skin, so intense it almost feels like the rough scrape of his fingertips.

“Keep going,” I whisper, slowly pushing my hair behind my shoulders so he can see all of me.

There’s a single moment where I once again see the war inside him. The battle between what he perceives as right and wrong.

And then he glides his hand up and down. I do not shy away from watching as he increases the speed of his strokes. His length is impressive, and he’s so hard, I think it must be painful. The swollen tip glistens, and my stomach clenches, something stirring deep in my chest. Not at the way he slowly begins to stroke himself, but how he’s looking at me. The way his body is reacting to me.

My lips part as my breasts grow heavy, heat curling in my core once again. He pauses, as if afraid he’ll frighten me, chest rising and falling like he cannot get enough air.

“Don’t stop,” I say, running a hand along my breast, then slowly trailing it down my own body.

He hesitates before moving his hand again, but not for long. Tentatively at first, he slides his palm up and down, his eyes never leaving the trail of my own fingers. I move them back to my breasts, squeezing.

“Yes. Touch yourself, Bea,” he says, his voice gruff, and this time, I don’t feel shame or embarrassment. I hold his stare as I lower my hand to my center, groaning when I touch the sensitive bundle of nerves. I swirl my fingers, then push one inside myself. I imagine it’s Brennen, matching his pace, and his mouth drops open on a near growl.

“Brennen,” I groan as pressure begins to build inside me once again.

“No. It’s no enough. I need to touch you,” he rasps. The primal tone of the words sends shivers down my spine, and I look around, my eyes landing on my shift. I lift it from the ground, then hold it out to him.

He lets go of the tree, sliding his hand inside the thin fabric, and then, he takes his wish. He pulls me against him, rubbing his fabric-covered palm across one breast, then another. He twists me so I am pressed against his hip, his other hand still sliding up and down his length almost violently, and I lean against him, bringing my fingers back to find my own release. The pressure builds, overwhelming, almost unbearable.

He pinches my nipple, thrusting into his own hand until he stiffens, but this time, I am not his ruin.

“Mo chridhe,” he whispers. My heart.

I explode into millions of shiny pieces, my knees nearly buckling as my release slams through me, his words amplifying the pleasure still pulsing inside me.

I don’t think he said them on purpose. Not when his breaths are still ragged, and his eyes are hazy with pleasure.

But I hold onto them anyway. Even if he didn’t mean it, I can still pretend.

59

BRENNEN

Shame burns in my chest, my palm on fire as I lie next to a sleeping Bea. I hadn’t technically touched her at all. I think it’s the only reason I’m able to live with myself, and yet, I’d still felt her. Experienced her in a way that was wholly inappropriate.

She’s the woman who killed my geallta, and even knowing that down to my bones, I’d fucked her anyway. Not in the way my body had demanded, but she’d still come against my fingers, and I’d held her as if she was my deepest desire, pretending the hand around my cock was her, wet and hot and mine.

And now I cannae stop hearing the sounds she made. The sharp breaths she’d taken.

I shouldn't know these things. I shouldn't know what the Bean-Nighe looks like when she comes undone. I'd thought it when I slid my hand between her legs, but even knowing it, I hadn’t been able to stop myself. I’d ached to touch her since the moment I'd seen her bathing in the river. Before, even.

I’d thought that maybe, if I could bring her pleasure just once, I could put the need to feel her body behind me.

But it’s the complete opposite. I want to wake her. To touch her again, this time without anything between us. Dàn be damned. I dinnae care if she takes them.

But I do care about continuing to betray Marsaili.

I shake my head, the tent suddenly suffocating. I can still smell her desire in the air. On my fingers.

“Bea,” I say, shaking her.

“Hmm?” she says sleepily. Sated.