Page 78 of Our Rogue Fates

Mal tipped Griff’s face back up toward his own, and his answering kiss was deep and inviting in so many new ways. An open door. And a warm hearth beyond it, one where the fire had never fully died, and now was blazing brightly.

Griff had built many walls, put up solid doors and roofs, learned how to make a place safe and sound far more effectively than he had ever learned how to cure a fever; he had been building things for so many years now that he was practically an expert. But with Mal’s eyes gazing into his, he somehow found he was just as adept at kicking open doors to invite Mal all the way in, as safe with this man he chose as he had ever been on his own. More than ready to let that solid roof and those sturdy walls shelter two against the shadows as capably as one. In his professional opinion, with the foundation they had here, they were well on their way to building a good castle already—even if the Widow Isabel’s land wasn’t theirs yet.

He kissed Mal until their lips were swollen and they were both breathless, teasing Mal’s tongue with his own to remind him of all the things his mouth could do, running his hands over the short, rough ends of Mal’s hair to show him the kind of care he could expect all night.

Pants joined shirts in the tent corner, along with a belt that Griff didn’t really care if the dogs ate or not. Inside the close, hot world of their tent, there was no armor, no knives, no treasure. It was clear as Mal climbed into Griff’s lap that what he was offering, for once, wasn’t his skills or a lie but simply himself. Nothing mattered to Griff but the man in his arms. He had never known a love like this before, one he wouldn’t run from but toward, for the rest of his days. After so many long and bitter years away, he was home.

And they stayed the rest of the night in each other’s arms.

And the night after that. And again.

Because it was real.