Page 30 of The Dravenhearst Brides

“But here you are,” he continued. “Here you are, having no business wanting me or this twisted, miserable house…but somehow…somehow wanting us both nonetheless. Right?” Naked fear showed on his face now. “You do, don’t you?”

“I do.” She nodded. “I want you so much, Merrick. And you—”

This time when his lips closed over hers, they were positively aching. Tremoring with need. With hope and want. All of it and more.

“I want you,” she breathed. “Please, let me have you. I’m begging.”

His shoulders shuddered under her hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he murmured. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Please.” Her fingers moved to his shirt, began undoing buttons.

“You should be running,” he whispered against her lips. “Why aren’t you running?”

She shook her head, her hands continuing down his shirt, revealing the smooth muscle and dark hair underneath. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He groaned when she placed her palms flat on his broad chest.

“Your heart is racing.” It was thundering, pounding relentlessly beneath his hot skin.

He took a shaky breath. “It’s for you. It’s yours. Black and mangled and cynical…and yours. If you want it.”

She curled her fingers into a fist, nails gently scratching his chest. “I want it. I want all of it.” More than anything in this mortal world.

The third time their lips met, there was no desperation, no aching, no questions. There was nothing but steady surety, smooth molasses on the hottest summer day, pouring languidly into each other.

Slowly, indulgently, Margot pushed his shirt off his shoulders. Her hands drifted over the planes of his strong back, then slid around to his stomach. Her fingers fluttered over the trail of dark hair there. Followed it down, down, down until she latched onto his belt buckle. He inhaled sharply.

“Should we…” He brushed his nose along her jawline.

She tipped her head upward, guiding his lips to the soft space beneath her ear. The skin there was damp with sweat.

“The house?” he asked. “My bedroom?”

“No. Here.” Here in this rickhouse. In this place that brought him both the greatest love and deepest sorrow of his life. She wanted him right here, believing that together, they could bloom where he’d once bled.

She unbuckled his belt.

He lifted her, slamming her bottom onto a barrel. Her eyes floated to the rafters, sightline blurring, dizzy, with row after row of barrels. Her nose filled with cedar and oak. With the whisper of his sweet bourbon breath.

She closed her eyes.

He hitched up her skirts.

She spread her legs.

He was there, finally there, and she suddenly knew. The realization came from a distance—the hard, rigid pressure between his legs was meant for her. The barrel put them at the perfect height, his tip notching in her entrance.

Her eyes popped open.

“If it’s too much…” His gaze flicked to her, watching every micromovement of her face as he pressed himself inside her. Deeper than deep, slower than slow.

“It’s not,” she breathed. But it almost was. There was just so much of him.

And that was what she told him, over and over again, when he began to move. That he was so much. Enough. Too much. Everything.

That she wanted him. Needed him. Now. Harder. More. With her. Deeper. Closer. Please. Now. Please. Please. Please.

Merrick let out an agonized, tortured moan. Began to move faster. With greater surety, losing himself within her. The intensity of his every thrust reached unbearable peaks, hitting a secret spot inside her every time…deep and true…

“Merrick, I…I’m…” He reduced her to impulse. Stole her words. Her rationality. Her sanity. He took it all. Robbed her blind.

A whiskey thief, indeed.

She couldn’t fight it, wouldn’t try. She surrendered herself, tipping over the edge.

Spinning and reeling and clinging to his shoulders, digging in, crying out.

She jolted when he found his release, emptying himself deep inside her with a groan.

Collapsing onto her when it was over, his chest slick with sweat, melting into hers.

Hotter than hot in this hot as hell rickhouse.

Margot slowly regained her breath. She opened her eyes to a new world.

Merrick was there, waiting for her. Drinking her in.

“In case I haven’t made it abundantly clear,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against hers, “you are simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

Her paranoid brain registered only one word. “The worst?”

“Yes. You’ve ruined me. Quintessentially and thoroughly.”

She smiled, not the slightest bit displeased by his answer.

They stole back to the manor in the dark of night, exchanging secret, shy smiles, her hand clutched in his. A gentle breeze ruffled their hair, fanned their flushed cheeks.

The ebony stairs creaked under their feet. The hinges of his bedroom door whined. Springs groaned when he pulled her down onto his bed.

With him.

“Again,” he told her, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the mattress.

“Greedy,” she murmured, lips fusing to his. Losing herself already.

Truthfully, she didn’t think him greedy at all. Merrick didn’t take anything from her she wasn’t willing to give. She gave to him freely, by her own volition. Because she wanted to, wanted him.

He was her choice. An all-consuming fever dream of a choice, but hers nonetheless. And she would give herself to him again and again. A thousand times over in a thousand different ways. She’d give herself away.

For him.