Page 37 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"Matthew."

"I need the distance." He looked back at her. A mistake, because she was still bare, still flushed, still looking at him with those violet eyes that saw too much. The sight of her nearly broke his resolve. He grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and forced himself to stand, adjusting himself in his trousers with a wince. "Get some sleep. We leave at first light."

She didn't argue. He heard her shift on the mattress, pulling the remaining blankets around herself. The rustle of fabric. A long, slow exhale.

Matthew wedged himself into the narrow space between the bed and the trunk. The floor was cold and hard and did absolutely nothing to ease the ache between his legs. He could still taste her on his lips. Could still hear the sounds she'd made, feel the way she'd clenched around his fingers.

He was going to die if he didn't find some relief.

"Matthew." Her voice came soft through the darkness.

"Aye."

"Thank you."

"Goodnight, Mrs Archer," he said.

A beat of silence. Then, softly: "Goodnight, Mr Collins."

Back to formality. Back to distance. As if the last hour had been a dream.

He waited. Listened to her breathing slow and deepen. Counted the minutes until he was certain she was asleep.

Then he rose silently and crossed to the washstand.

His hands shook as he unfastened his trousers. He was so hard it was almost painful, his cock flushed and leaking, straining towards his stomach. He took himself in his fist and had to bite down on his forearm to keep from groaning aloud.

He stroked himself roughly, without finesse. There was no build up; just desperate, punishing friction, his hips jerking into his own grip. He thought about her taste. Her sounds. The way she'd said his name when she shattered.

He came within a minute, spending himself into the washbasin, her name trapped behind his clenched teeth. The release tore through him. Violent, almost painful in its intensity. It left him shaking, bracing against the washstand with both hands.

It wasn't enough. His cock was already stirring again, unsatisfied, wanting more than his own hand could give.

Wanting her.

He cleaned himself up with hands that still trembled. Tucked himself back into his trousers. Returned to the cold floor and lay there, staring at the ceiling, his body still thrumming with need that had nowhere to go.

The taste of her lingered on his tongue.

He didn't sleep.

Chapter eleven

The Morning After

Matthew

Grey light seeped through the rain-streaked window. Dawn, or close to it.

Matthew had barely slept. He'd sat on the cold floor for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe. Every time she shifted in her sleep, his body responded. A twitch of awareness, a pulse of heat he couldn't suppress.

He was exhausted. Wrung out. And still half hard, his cock refusing to accept that it wasn't getting what it wanted.

He rose before she woke. Quietly. His joints protested the cold floor, his old wounds throbbing. He welcomed the pain. It gave him something to focus on besides the woman in the bed.

He crossed to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face. The basin was clean. He'd emptied it last night, scrubbed away the evidence of his lust. But he remembered. Could still feel her cunny against his mouth, the taste of her release that had been sweeter than any other chit.

Pathetic, he told himself. You're supposed to protect her, not…