Page 35 of Bargaining with the Devil

She nodded, hair scrubbing his cheek. He thought she was going to leave it at that because she said nothing else for a good half minute, until she whispered, “Then I’m glad.”

And he was trying to figure out how to respond to that when her arse nestled right up against his cock, distracting him. He sucked in a breath. Right now he was trying, with every ounce of self-control he’d ever possessed, to be nothing at all but respectful towards her. She’d just bared her soul to him about a man who’d used her like she was nothing. Less than nothing.

He tried shifting his pelvis back a bit to open some distance without moving his arm.

She wiggled a little, trying to get comfortable on the pallet, which brought her back into contact with his cock with the added torment of friction. Blessed Jesus, how much was a man meant to endure?

She’d hurled words at him about not being broken. And truly, she wasn’t. But ’twas a narrow thing between not caring about living and choosing to die. And she’d not yet made up her mind which side she fell on that line because she’d been hurt bad enough she couldn’t even see the line. And he’d wager anything ’twasn’t only Garnewood.

He wouldn’t add to her pain. Wouldn’t be another man who used her for his own ends and discarded her after. ’Twas torture, holding her like this, but endure it he would. Because she’d gone soft in his arms. Because for some inexplicable reason, she trusted him. He’d not ask a goddamned thing of her except for her to find her way back to herself.

And to go on living.

Chapter 13

The pallet wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, not that she’d expected it to be. She was grateful just to have something to sleep on besides the bare dirt floor. Not that she’d done any sleeping yet.

Outside the wind howled its fury, the crash of the sea nearly drowned out by the driving rain.

She felt . . . buoyant. Lighter for having confided in Quinn. It had been difficult to tell him about Teddy, but she’d wanted him to understand that it wasn’t his kiss that caused her to come apart earlier. She didn’t want him thinking it was anything he’d done. She was the damaged one. She’d dragged him into it when all he’d done was kiss her when she invited it.

She squirmed, trying to get comfortable, and inadvertently pushed backwards against his cock. Which was hard. Of course it was.

Except he wasn’t trying to use it. Quinn had never once demanded anything from her. Not sexually anyway. He’d aggravated her to no small end, but he’d never taken anything from her. He’d only offered.

He wasn’t like Teddy. He wasn’t like Compton. He wasn’t like the man whose name she hadn’t known. He wasn’t like Cuvelier. The four men whose cocks she’d handled: one for what she’d thought was love; the second two for survival, however illusory; the last for the chance to continue living on something resembling her own terms.

Quinn shifted backwards, keeping his arm around her but decreasing the contact between their bodies.

She wriggled the tiniest bit more. Just getting comfortable. That was all. No other motive; certainly not to see what he’d do. Certainly not because evidence of his arousal was igniting an answering response.

His groan sent liquid heat through her. He muttered something it was probably best she didn’t catch and kept his arm around her, shifting his weight back again.

He’d followed her onto this isle at risk to himself. He’d yelled at her for the risks she’d taken, both in doing that and for drinking more than she ought—he was right—and walking too close to the cliff’s edge. He was right about that too. He’d nearly provoked her into saying fucking for the first time in her life. None of those were intelligent reasons to go to bed with a man.

She trusted his peculiar integrity and his personal version of honesty. She desired him. Those were intelligent reasons to go to bed with a man.

And then there were the reasons that had nothing to do with intellect and everything to do with instinct. The ones that had every nerve in her body stretching outwards towards her skin, seeking contact with his.

She wanted. Wanted his hands on her. Wanted to touch him. Wanted to kiss him again and this time to not run away from herself afterwards but keep moving towards him.

Blood rushing in her temples, heart leaping, she pressed back against him again. Slowly and very deliberately this time, so he couldn’t mistake what she was doing.

“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!” His voice, colored by humor, was strangled. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, a mhuirnín. In conduct only, mind. But ’tis growing ever more difficult with you moving around like that.” He didn’t scoot back this time though.

Quinn was no gentleman, but she’d had her fill of so-called gentlemen. And she would likely never have an opportunity like this again, to go to bed with a man with enough darkness in his soul to not judge hers but unwilling to use his darkness against her.

She drew a deep breath and took his hand from where it rested lightly on her waist, bringing it up to mold his fingers over the damp lawn of her shift, fitting it exactly to the curve of her breast.

His breath stuttered. His fingers flexed over her nipple, and her own breath came out in a rush.

“You’re certain what you want from me right now, a stór?” he asked, the rasp in his voice sending a new shiver through her.

And that—him asking her that, still having care enough to make sure it was her choice, her desire—was what decided her fully, if she’d still had any doubts at all. This was what she wanted: him, here, now.

She ran her fingers back down his arm, the taut muscle there. “Yes.”

He brushed fingertips across her nipple, slow and purposeful. The involuntary hum low in her throat took her by surprise.