Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
“Doesn’t it?” she whispers, her voice barely audible but devastating nonetheless.
The air between us is too thick, too charged. I take a deliberate step back, and the edge of the counter presses into my spine as I force myself to put distance between us.
“You’re tired.” I force my voice steady. “You’ve had a long night. You need sleep.”
Her head tilts slightly, her damp hair catching the light as she studies me with those piercing green eyes. “What if I don’t want to sleep?” she asks, her tone feather-light but laced with meaning.
Fuck her. She’s begging for it, you self-righteous asshole. You can make it good for her before you choke her on your cock.
I close my eyes briefly, my hands gripping the counter behind me as though it’s the only thing keeping me upright. When I open them, she’s still there, her expression unreadable but undeniably... vulnerable.
“Moira,” I say again, her name a prayer, a plea. “This isn’t...” I trail off, the words refusing to come.
She takes another step forward, so close now I can feel the faint warmth radiating from her breasts—not touching the cloth of my shirt, but so, so close. She’s still flushed from the bath, not that I dare let myself look down.
“This isn’t what?” she asks softly.
My breath catches as she reaches up, her hand brushing against my arm, tentative but deliberate. The touch is electric, setting every nerve in my body alight.
“Moira,” I growl, the sound barely human. I step away from the counter, towering over her now, though it does nothing to lessen her defiance—or her proximity. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” she whispers, her hand still hovering near my arm but not touching. “I’m not some wounded thing. And I’m not afraid of you.”
The words hit me harder than they should. She doesn’t know about all the things I’m envisioning in my head.
“You should be,” I rasp.
Her brows furrow slightly, but she doesn’t move away. “I don’t think you’d ever hurt me.” She sounds so sure.
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? The thing that keeps me rooted here, torn between the need to protect her and the gnawing temptation to give in, to take what she’s offering even if it damns me completely.
“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” I say, my voice deep and gruff.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I know enough.”
I look again at the bruise darkening her eye, and it’s enough to reaffirm my resolve even as my teeth clench. “Tell me who did that to you.”
Her eyes harden. “A man who’s nothing like you. A man I’ll never see again.”
For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us, the air humming with tension and something far more dangerous. But then she shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to shatter the fragile balance I’m clinging to.
I reach for her, my hands gripping her shoulders, and I can’t help but tighten my fingers the same way I would, as if I was about to pull her into a passionate embrace.
Her eyes widen, and for the first time, I see the flicker of uncertainty in her gaze.
“You need to rest,” I say, my voice low but unyielding. “This isn’t... This can’t happen. Not tonight.”
Her lips part, but no words come. She looks up at me, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, I think she might argue.
But then she nods, the movement small but enough to ease some of the tension coiled in my chest.
I release her shoulders and step back, the loss of her warmth almost unbearable. “Come on,” I say, finally able to make the words come out gentle and soft. “Let’s get you to bed.”
ELEVEN
MOIRA
I wake up with the kind of regret that clings like a cheap polyester dress in the middle of a Texas summer. Sticky. Unforgiving. And making me deeply, deeply question my life choices.
Oh, Moira, what have you done this time?
I groan, rolling over, and—yep, there it is. The crushing weight of last night slamming into me like a ton of bricks.
Bane is Father Blackwood. Father Blackwood is Bane.
Of course. Of freaking course. The one man I’ve actually fantasized about worshipping is technically already married to the Church. And I tried to seduce him with a black eye.
Goddamnit, the room is too bright. I wince as I pry my working eye open. And I’m too fuckin’ sober. This is all just too painful without the haze of gummies to soften the memory of me throwing myself at him like a runaway rollercoaster with no brakes.
Nope. Time to dip out like the hot mess coward I am.
I roll out of bed—correction, I roll out of his bed—and get to work. I straighten the sheets like a polite little house guest, smooth down my dress that he washed and dried like the infuriatingly thoughtful man he is, and tiptoe toward the bedroom door.