Page 74 of Bargaining with the Devil

“Aye, I’ll let go of your hand.” And he did.

It took a few seconds, her numb fingers registering her command to release their death grip on the hilt. The knife fell from her hand, landing somewhere beside the table with a metallic thunk.

She had only a few seconds’ warning beyond that before Quinn backed her up against the table, pinning her with the weight of his body. “I’m not done with you yet, a rúnsearc.” His mouth crashed down on hers.

He kissed her like a man starved for air. Kissing him in return was like surfacing from cold water, taking the first desperate gulps of air after being submerged for too long.

She’d been drowning just now. Drowning for months, actually. She just hadn’t realized it.

And now she wasn’t, and it was because of Quinn. And she hated him for making her realize it because breathing hurt.

He gentled the kiss. Eased his body weight off her. And then pulled back altogether. “I’m sorry, a mhuirnín. I just proved your point about trust, a bit.”

“By kissing me like that?”

“Nay, with what came before. ’Twould be a wonder if you trust me even a little after that.” He turned away from her.

“You frightened me,” she said quietly.

“I know it. And I’m sorry for it. Sorry for what I did, for how I acted. For scaring you.” He kept his face turned down, stepping towards the door like he meant to leave the cottage.

He’d come back shortly if he left right now. Of course he would. But her nerves didn’t seem to believe that.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here with me. Come lie down with me.” He was still exhausted. They were both exhausted. And even though he’d scared her, she also wanted the comfort of his arms. A contradiction, perhaps. But it was what she wanted, and she didn’t have energy to fight it or puzzle it out.

“’Tisn’t going to make up for it.” He still wasn’t meeting her eyes.

“No. But it’s a start. And I think . . .” She searched for words. It was difficult when her mind was so jumbled by everything that had just happened. But she couldn’t find the words, so she stepped forward and put her arms around his neck instead, laying her head on his shoulder. His chest was heaving.

After a moment his arms came around her, firm.

She hadn’t liked what he’d done with the knife, not at all. He hadn’t liked what she’d said just before. The two didn’t cancel one another. But even though he’d scared her, she didn’t fear him. And even though she’d hurt him, he still cared for her.

“Come hold me,” she whispered. “I need that right now.”

“Aye.” He was still breathing too hard. “Aye, I do too.”

And they did just lie down . . . at first. But of course it turned to something else after a time. It seemed she was never capable of keeping her hands to herself around him, and it seemed he never minded.

In counterpoint to the frantic kisses, he didn’t rush anything. And she didn’t ask him to. It was sweet but also tinged with something almost melancholy. She hadn’t put from her mind what had just come before. And he hadn’t either.

As always, he tended her ahead of himself. He’d never once put himself first in seeking pleasure. But this time before he gave her release, when she was still wound tight, aching, wanting—and still strangely sad—he came back up over her body and gazed down into her eyes.

“I . . .” He braced himself on one arm, taking himself in hand and slicking the head of his cock between her legs. His cock slipped against her, nudging where they both wanted it. “Hold very, very still.” He was breathing heavily. “I mean it. Don’t move.” Hand on himself, he pushed forward until the thick head of his cock just started to breach her. And there he stopped, balanced on the precise, impossible moment of too much pressure and not nearly enough all at once. The slightest forward roll of her hips, and she’d take the rest of him, easily. She ached for it, craved it.

But that’s not what they were doing. She knew his boundary on it, so she wouldn’t move, no matter how much she wanted it.

She ran her hand up his forearm, the one braced beside her, corded with muscle and trembling, taut from the effort of holding himself still, of not thrusting forward.

“You have no idea how much I want you right now, a mhuirnín.” His voice was a rasp. “To follow through with this. It would be—” He moved abruptly backwards and off, turning onto his back beside her. “We can’t. But I had to, just for a moment. Had to feel what it would be like.” He took a great gulp of air. “But we can’t. We can’t do that ever again. ’Twas irresponsible of me.”

She was instantly cold without his warmth atop her. The word irresponsible stung more than it should have. More than he intended it, likely. But she didn’t want what they’d just done to be something regrettable. Didn’t want her to be something he regretted.

Right on the brink of intercourse, when she couldn’t imagine any other man on earth would stop, he’d hung on to control. She’d have vastly preferred he hadn’t. How had he maintained that much self-possession? That much control, for that matter? She’d maintained hers only because it was something that clearly ran so deep for him. And she knew his reasons.

Just like he knew hers.

So they wouldn’t do that, but perhaps there was still something else she could do for him. Her stomach rolled, sweat breaking out on her limbs. I’m so foolish. This is Quinn.