Page 42 of Bargaining with the Devil

What would it have been like if Quinn had been the man she’d gone to bed with for the first time? The first man she’d woken beside after a night of pleasure? There was a pang of regret there. Not worth wondering though because the past was the past. Her past. She had only whatever was left after that.

And a man like Quinn would have scared the living daylights out of that naïve girl she’d been. He was too rough around the edges, too dangerous, too little the gentleman and too much the rogue. She wouldn’t have known what to do with a man like him.

And she hadn’t known yet to look beneath the surface of a man. She hadn’t known yet that the men with the truly blackest of souls never showed their hands until it was too late.

She’d never met a man like Quinn. She had no doubt whatsoever that he was the deadliest man she’d ever met with some of the coldest blood running in his veins if he could do the assigned work of killing others without pangs of conscience.

But he wasn’t a cold man. Far from it. Whatever he was in the work he did was not him. And she was unsure what she thought of that. Except he was . . . She felt safe with him. Was safe with him. When she thought back to that ride out of Paris—because she was thinking about it now these days; he wasn’t giving her a choice. The reasons he was here weren’t giving her a choice. But when she thought back, she’d believed she was safe with him right from the beginning.

He’d never pretended to be anything he wasn’t. He hadn’t hidden who he was or what he was. He didn’t now either. Forthright about why he was here. Why he didn’t want to be, for that matter. Forthright about his sexuality. Offering but not demanding.

And honest to his core in his own way.

She was still slightly apprehensive anyway of what she’d find on his face. Foolish, really. Consenting adults did this all the time: went to bed together and woke up together afterwards. Although by the light of dawn, embarrassment was creeping in about how some of it had happened. His mouth on her, sucking and tasting . . . The way he’d told her to ride his fingers . . . And oh God, she had, breaking into a million pieces with his tongue in her mouth.

She might be embarrassed, but she didn’t have any regrets.

Quinn opened his eyes. Whatever she was expecting after last night, it was not softness in them nor the tender smile on his lips. “And a fine morning to you, a mhuirnín.” His voice was husky with sleep.

The tenderness was there and gone so quickly it almost didn’t register, replaced by the cockier smile she’d half expected. Only, the tender one had come first. And it eased some of the nerves she’d had anticipating the second.

She wasn’t a fool for having chosen him. He wasn’t using her. And it was for just a night anyway. Here on Heston Isle the real world was far away. She could be a different woman, if only till they returned to the mainland.

He set one hand to cup her jaw, fingers smoothing over her cheek. He brought the other up, brushing back a few errant strands of hair, before that hand too framed her face.

She nearly had to look away from his eyes. They were too much. This was too much. She hadn’t asked for his presence in her life—he’d fallen into it. No, not fallen in—barged his way in. She hadn’t asked for someone to look at her and see below the surface. But Quinn did.

And it was both liberating and terrifying.

She cupped his jaw in return and ran a thumb along his lower lip.

He smiled, that smile that would tempt angels to sin, and the bottom of her stomach dropped out. “Are you thinking about kissing me again, a mhuirnín?”

She let her lips answer that and speak for her. His hand slid to cup the underside of her breast and the nipple pulled tight, heat flooding her and setting off a tightening of her core.

“I have some ideas of my own,” he murmured, “but ’tis entirely up to you, a stór, how we go from here.”

His fingers brushed her nipple, and she squeaked, arching into him. His cock jutted into her belly, making it clear where he stood on matters. Perhaps just one more⁠—

Her stomach growled. Loudly.

“’Tis the truth though that I’m a tad hungry as well,” he said drily. “And not just for this.” He pressed his hips forward slightly. “Mayhap finding food should be the priority. Plenty of time later for more if you’re wanting that from me since I suspect we’ll be here till the next time the tide goes fully out.”

Her cheeks burned, embarrassment both from having squeaked—squeaked!—and her stomach’s intrusion. To say nothing of the casual manner in which he offered himself for future use. And she’d only just realized that in broad daylight, Quinn might notice the unwanted mark if she didn’t dress. Surreptitiously she tugged the blanket up over that shoulder.

“The tide should be partially out given when it came in last night,” she managed. Good; her voice sounded unfazed. Mostly unfazed. “The storm has died down somewhat, or at least it sounds like the rain has passed. I can collect some shellfish,” she offered. “We can roast them if you start a fire going.”

“Then I’ll get to it.” He pushed himself up. It was a sight to warm the heart—and other parts: Ciarán Quinn padding naked across the hut. One of the finer views she’d seen first thing in the morning, if she was being honest.

That and the tender smile after his eyes opened, when she was the first thing he’d seen in the morning.

The wind was still up, water knocking small stones against one another. Gulls were wheeling and screeching, taking advantage of the lull in the weather and the lower tide.

She caught herself humming and was surprised at the realization.

They’d been a musical family, the four of them. Her throat tightened now, remembering. It still hurt, badly, to think of Maman and Da if she allowed the emotions purchase. Maman had hummed constantly, and she’d sung beautifully. Isobel was a vocalist too, as gifted as Maman and talented on the clàrsach, the lap harp, besides.

She had no real talent for singing. She’d played the fiddle. And she’d been very good at it; it wasn’t false modesty, acknowledging that. She’d had a gift for it from the moment she’d first picked up a violin as a child. Growing up in Glasgow and Kirkcudbright, she’d learned by ear from listening to other musicians or played melodies from the well within her from which tunes seemed to spring the moment she set the bow on the strings. And when they’d moved to London, Da had engaged an excellent instructor for her to further her technical abilities.