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“Slowly,” he said.

“Faster,” she demanded instead. “More.”

She wriggled under him, but he was bigger, stronger, even more determined. His jaw clenched on a low groan. “Patience.”

She glowered at him, her blood on fire. “No.”

He chuckled, dark and tender. “I don’t want to hurt you, little thorn.”

He slid in a little deeper. There was an ache as her body strove to accommodate him. It wasn’t pain, exactly. She angled her hips and squeezed around him. More. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. But he was merciless, even in his care for her.

“You’re taking me so well,” he said, and she gasped, his words a spark that lit fires deep in her belly. He kissed her deeply, still taking his time, still torturing them both. His tongue touched hers and she felt it everywhere. Her nipples tightened and he bent his head to suck one into his hot mouth. A deep pull, the swirl of his tongue. Her quim fluttered. He kissed her again, and she lifted her knees to take him deeper; every inch he slid into her made her gasp and whimper. “You are perfect,” he said, breath ragged.

She dragged her fingers through his hair, gently. And that gentleness seemed to be his undoing. He stilled, eyes flaring. She stroked her thumb along his jawline, finding a new scar. He turned his head slightly, dangerously close to nuzzling her palm.

And then he drove into her like she was everything. Like she was home.

When he came, their gazes tangled and held.

She came again. And again.

When Briar woke the next morning, Ethan was gone and there was a man in her kitchen.

Singing a sea shanty.

Badly.

Briar blinked at him. “Matthias?”

Matthias, with his tousled blond hair and shining smile, sang like a wet, thoroughly disgruntled cat. “Good morning!”

“Is Petal all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” he assured her, and the instinctual panic receded. “Some of the crew have taken to bringing her flowers.”

“Of course they have.” She nodded through a yawn, thoroughly unsurprised. He had a towel over one shoulder, jam on his shirt, and he was stirring batter in a heavy ceramic bowl. Something delicious bubbled in a pot over the fire. Rows of freshly baked eclairs watched her from the windowsill where they cooled. She had only ever attempted them once. They took ages and were so fussy. “Matthias?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Your kitchen is enormous!” He beamed.

It really, really wasn’t. It was a cramped and smoky cottage kitchen with a single worktable, a long bench, and a cupboard for supplies, which was mostly stacked with canisters of dried flowers for tea. The whitewashed walls were streaked with soot. There was a stone by the hearth that stood up at an odd angle, just enough to stub a toe. Repeatedly.

“I’m used to a galley kitchen,” Matthia added when he caught her dubious expression. “Barely room enough for me, and it always smells like onions, no matter what I do.”

“Oh.” She really did not know what else to say. Except… “Matthias?”

“Yes, Miss Foxglove?”

“Why are you in my enormous kitchen baking… Is that a croquembouche? And raspberry-rose flummery?”

“It is. My specialty.” He grinned, tossing a blond curl off his forehead. His cheeks were flushed with the heat. Ethan was right—he did not look like an Iron Crow. “Dragon sent for me.”

“Because he wanted a pink flummery?”

He laughed. “No, he prefers the madeleines.”