Page 75 of Between Heart and Stone

Now, when she was looking at him.

He’d never wanted to taste a mouth so badly in his life. To swallow down her sighs, to run the backs of his knuckles down the length of her spine. To learn exactly what would make her shiver and shake against him.

“It’s because you care,” he said thickly. “Anyone would be nervous.”

“What if they didn’t like the book?” She twisted a small pink tube in her hand, leaning over the vanity to apply her lipstick.

He commanded himself not to look, not to map the curve in her waist or the way her legs looked in those goddamn pants. Perhaps death was a gift, in a way. It forced him to have patience, to watch, to learn restraint. Had he been alive, he would have been shaking hands and desperate pleas, a man on his knees.

“You know they did,” he said easily.

“I don’t know,” she countered. Avery rolled her lips together, now covered in a glossy sheen that made him think obscene and wicked things. “They could just be being nice.”

Wolfe scoffed. “You need to start believing in yourself, grá. In your voice. In all the wonderful things you have to say.”

She studied his reflection, a smear of wet paint beside the vibrancy of her own.

It was another reminder just how far apart they were.

“What does that word mean? Grá? You’ve called me that before.”

Wolfe leaned close, letting his lips brush against the shell of her ear. Avery went still, an uneven breath escaping her.

“Be a brave girl for me tonight,” he murmured, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

She went scarlet, darkening the blush already painted on her cheeks.

“That’s blackmail,” she managed, eyes a little too wide.

A silent laugh rolled through him. “Aye.”

“You’re a lord,” she said, like that explained everything. “Aren’t you supposed to be”—she waved her hand around in a gesture that was clearly meant to mean something—“lord-like? Congenial? Reasonable?”

He snorted. “I think I’m being quite reasonable.” He moved closer, until his chest nearly brushed against her back. “You go to your book club.” He set his hands down on either side of the sink, effectively trapping her against it. “And you’ll get what you want. See? Reasonable.”

He leaned closer and his face formed in the mirror.

It’d been so long since he’d seen his own reflection. The freckles, the pale skin the color of fresh cream, the red threaded through the brown in his eyes, the light brown of his hair that reminded him of dry soil.

“I think it would just be more reasonable of you to tell me now,” she said haughtily, chin lifted.

He wanted to grip it, turn her jaw and claim her mouth until both of them were changed and wrecked forever.

“I have something you want.” His lips brushed her temple. “You play by my rules.”

“Fine.” Something like challenge flickered in her eyes. “You want to play, Royan? Let’s play.”

As always, the sound of his first name splitting the air brought a wave of strength to him. He thought he might have just put himself deep into a pot of hot water, but he didn’t mind.

He’d welcome any sting, any burn, so long as it came from her.

As he predicted, the women of Moira’s book club were beside themselves to see Avery. Tommy opened the door, a look of apology and fear across his weathered face, and was nearly bulldozed out of the way by his wife.

Wolfe laughed, enjoying his front row seat to the spectacle inside.

The kitchen table was covered in dishes—a long board with cut up meats, cheeses, and fruit. Bowls of dip with chunks of toasted bread and crackers. Something covered in chocolate that made his mouth water. Four open bottles of wine sat directly in the middle of it all, pours missing from each of them.

This was to be a night then.