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She finally sagged backward, falling to her elbows. He stroked himself through the vestiges of his climax, the last of his seed coating her thigh. A sharp red flush dotted his cheeks, traveling down to warm his neck and chest.

Magnificent.

“Well, that was quite diverting,” she said between pants as she desperately tried to catch her breath.

Light sparked to life in his grey eyes. She was starting to recognize it as amusement.

“Perhaps we should do it again some time.”

His heated stare skimmed over every inch of her, pausing for a moment on where his release coated her, before resuming a lazy path back up her body until his gaze locked on hers.

“A very sensible suggestion, Miss Dawson.”

She grinned.

11

Rafe

Rafe had almost broken his rule. And that thought terrified him. Because Rafe didn’t know what he would have done in that situation. What if he’d panicked? Worse. What if he’d accidentally hurt her? His fingers trembled, and he tightened them on the reins of his mount as they galloped back to the castle. The storm had passed—thank the bloody gods. Because Rafe needed a moment to himself. He needed to get away. Even if Ironcrest wasn’t his location of choice.

That had to have been the most agonizing orgasm of his life. The best. And the worst. She’d been right there. Inviting. Teasing.

Provoking.

He could almost forget what life had taught him.

He could almost trust her.

But that was his cock talking, and now logic was slowly drifting back into place. He’d almost made himself exceedingly vulnerable.

Did he think Miss Dawson was like her? No.

Could he be sure? No.

She was awfully close with Lord Sebastian…

Rafe’s gut twisted, his lungs seizing. No. His mind was creating fallacies. That’s what the hauntings of one’s past did. It stole all capacity for rational thought. For rational action. And that’s what scared Rafe the most. If she touched him wrong… If his mind interpreted something innocent as an attack… What would he do?

He passed off his horse to a groom and made his way to the castle in a haze. He needed a change of clothes, and he needed some food. He was starving. Visions of Miss Dawson falling apart flashed through his brain. She’d been mere inches from him. Less.

Fuck. He was starving in so many ways.

He prayed she’d be amenable to his terms. He had a feeling today’s incident might have been more on a point of principle. He bloody hoped that was the case. She’d said the possibility was there. And he had to have her. Where she was safe. Where he was safe.

He stormed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, gaze locked on his boots. Almost to his chambers. The walls’ mocking whispers curled around him. They trailed over his skin, a light scrape of talons.

Pathetic.

He balled his fists.

Weak.

Soft.

He flinched, his body still remembering the blows that followed each word.

Can’t even bed a woman.