Page 18 of Promised to the Heir

He’s right, though it annoys me. My thighs protest when I shift, muscles sore like I’ve been training for a marathon. There’s a deeper ache, too, a raw reminder of the night before. Still, I feel different, strong, and a little reckless. Maybe this is what womanhood really feels like?

“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I think I’ve finally found a workout I enjoy.”

He blinks, then laughs. The sound fills the room. It’s open, genuine, and the kind that comes from deep in the chest. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking until the last note breaks on a breath. It hits me low in the belly and opens something inside my chest. He has a great laugh.

When I stand, I pull the sheet with me, like he hasn’t seen, touched and kissed every part of my body last night. The stretch pulls on overworked muscles and I flinch. I lower my gaze, and the red stain catches my eye. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it still does. My cheeks heat. It’s not shame, exactly, more the strange awareness that everything about me feels new.

He follows my gaze. “Where’s your washer?”

I clutch the sheet a little higher. “You don’t have to deal with that.”

“I want to.”

He closes the distance in two strides, his skin still damp from the shower, his scent is a mixture of my soap, hot skin, and something distinctly him. His fingers find the back of my neck, and I melt into him.

His mouth lands on mine, before I can think. His lips are hot, demanding, yet soft. He doesn’t take; he consumes, coaxes and claims until my thoughts melt into sensation. His stubble scratches my chin, just enough to make me shiver. I press closer, hands sliding up the hard planes of his chest, velvet over steel.

When I pull away, we’re both breathless and my heartbeat is frantic. “You keep doing that,” I murmur, “and you’ll never get my laundry done.”

His smile curves against my mouth. “Worth it.”

He turns me in his arms, gives my backside a firm pat and nudges me toward the bathroom. “Go shower.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Washer’s downstairs, in the kitchen.”

“Got it,” he says, already stripping the bed.

The morning light catches along the line of his back as he bends to gather the sheets. Muscles shift under his skin in a display of controlled power and remind me of how he controlled my body last night. I can’t keep from staring as he tosses the sheets over one arm and turns toward the door.

“Get dressed, baby. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

My chest warms. I shake my head and laugh under my breath.

My legs feel like I rode a bucking Bronco for more than eight seconds. The man is hung like sin itself, or maybe it isn’t his size but his skill. What would I know?

I turn toward the bathroom with the grace of someone twice my age and stumble inside. My reflection meets me with wild hair and a faint hickey high on my collarbone. I don’t need a mirror to remember how it got there or to see the other marks he left.

Jeremy

The drive to my grandparents’ place takes fifteen minutes, but it feels longer with Clara beside me, sitting in silence. She’s staring out the window, pretending to admire the fields. I know better. Every time we hit a bump, she bites back a wince.

“Still sore?” I ask, trying for casual.

Her mouth twitches. “Your ego would love that answer, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

She finally looks at me, and despite the faint circles under her eyes, there’s color in her cheeks that wasn’t there yesterday. Pride and guilt wrestle somewhere in my chest. I should have been gentler, but hell, she didn’t exactly give me a chance. One second she was kissing me like her life depended on it, and the next she was clawing at my shoulders. If I’d known she was a virgin, I would have taken more time. Then again, she came apart in my arms, so maybe ripping off the proverbial band-aid was the right call.

When we pull up to the farmhouse, the sun’s already high enough to make the roof shimmer. Grandma’s roses spill over the porch railing, the scent of them carried on warm air. Somewhere down the road, a cicada starts its slow, steady buzz. The front door’s open to let in the breeze, and I can already smell coffee and bacon drifting out.

Clara straightens her jacket as we walk up the steps. “You realize I’ve had breakfast here a dozen times.”

“Not with me.”

Her glance slides my way. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.” I grab her hand and tug her closer.