Page 32 of Bargaining with the Devil

She didn’t want to have this conversation, but he was refusing to drop it, breaking the slight truce they’d come to as they reached the isle.

Of course he is. He’d been a splinter under her nail for days now. What he’d said before as she stomped away from him was still pricking her, a thorn beneath her skin.

“I’m not your responsibility.” She’d told him that earlier too.

“’Tisn’t only responsibility, and you know it.”

“What else is it then?” she demanded.

He exhaled. “I don’t know, a mhuirnín, but ’tis more than that between us. And you know it, same as I do. Whether you want it that way or whether I do, well, ’tis another story altogether.”

Yes. There was more, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it. It left her vulnerable, and she never wanted to be vulnerable again. Or without power because a man overrode her good sense and enchanted her. Or had her in unwelcome thrall later, as Compton had.

How pathetic, though, that she’d let a kiss—a kiss she’d wanted, wholly—so upset her. And she was dragging him down with her, this man who was decent despite himself and despite the fact that she wasn’t easy, as he’d said. Not easy to be around. She hadn’t been easy with herself for so long she’d forgotten how to be so with others.

Quinn gripped his shirt hem, pulled it upwards, and just like that, it was off. She tried and failed not to stare.

He glanced at her, lips curving. “Wet as they are, I’ll be leaving my trousers on. Won’t scandalize you that far, a stór.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, only half facetiously. She wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t wish to be scandalized. I’m still a fool. Why can’t I decide what I want from him?

It’s because I don’t know what I want from myself.

He knelt and patted along the pallet’s length. “No mice here, at least not yet.” He looked back towards her. “I’ll not be forcing the issue of your own clothing. But you ought to take yours off too. The outer layers, at least. ’Twill steal the warmth right out of yourself, the wet clothing with the wind blowing in.” He reclined on the pallet, propping himself up on one elbow. He’d carried the blanket with him but wasn’t covering himself at all, at least not the unclad parts. He must be cold. Likely he was doing it on purpose, knowing he’d get a reaction from her.

Well, she wouldn’t show it. Externally. The heat in the pit of her stomach and her racing heart were beyond her control.

His suggestion about her clothing was sensible, of course. But it was many other things as well, unwise topping the list.

There was also what she didn’t want him to see on her skin that went well beyond mere modesty.

“Blow out the candle, and I will.” Let him think it was entirely to do with shyness—not that there wasn’t some of that too. They were totally alone. Not that they hadn’t been alone in her cottage most of the time these past two weeks, but there was an extra layer to it here on Heston with the isle separated by the sea from any other humans, at least until dawn.

“Not arguing with me about your clothes, a mhuirnín? You might be taking sick already.”

She stuck out her tongue at him but he didn’t see it; he’d already blown out the candle.

Out of the dress she was colder, not warmer. The heavy dress fabric might be soaked through, but it was a thick layer, at least, and now she had nothing but the thin shift, which was also damp.

“Come here to me, a stór.” Quinn’s voice was soft, guiding her through the darkness. “There’s only the one blanket, and we both need its warmth.”

“Yes.” She could just make out his shape without the candle. She reached hands out, trying not to bump into him, and he caught her forearm, guiding her down. His touch was . . . respectful, if that was a word that even applied in a moment like this, both of them half nude and about to share a straw pallet.

Respectful is definitely a word that applies. I’ve been on the other side of it.

Quinn arranged the blanket to cover both of them as best he could; it was not an overly large blanket. It already held warmth from his body. “I’ll not do a single thing to you but share the blanket,” he said, his mouth somewhere behind her ear. It raised a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “Do you believe me that?”

For how earthy and direct he was, at ease with his sexuality—and hers, apparently—he’d never once come close to making her fear him or that he’d take advantage of her. Her reaction to the kiss had been all her own, nothing to do with him specifically.

He’d had her lock the door the other night. No, it’s more than that. He hadn’t made her the instrument of his own pleasure, even with the door between them when he could have said anything at all. She’d been picturing him, what all that skin and muscle looked like, bare in the firelight. What his hands were doing, the expressions passing across his face as pleasure ratcheted. Surely he’d been doing the same with her. But she’d realized afterwards, he’d never once infringed on her mental space. Oh, he’d narrated a lot of it, explicitly: what he was feeling and doing. And he’d asked for the same in return if she wanted to reciprocate. But it had still been him seeking his pleasure without making it contingent upon her. And he’d given her that gift in return. Shared pleasure in a way, yes, but without expectation or assumption.

A fine line, perhaps, but it matters—considerably.

“Yes,” she said. “I believe you won’t.”

And if she regretted, just a little, that he wouldn’t try . . . Well, that was her own contradiction to puzzle out. She’d given him nothing but mixed messages these past few days.

I’ll puzzle it out later. Right now I’m chilled.