But first there are more pressing concerns. Like the fact that she’s kissed my cock before she’s kissed my lips.

“Gwen.” I cradle the sides of her face, careful with my rough hands. “Listen to me. That was everything. I’ll be thinking about what you just did until the day I die.” Even now, I still lower my face slowly. Give her a chance to shake her head or move away.

Our lips touch so gently. Her fingertips graze my beard, and when she sucks in a sharp breath, I groan and crowd closer, the flames dancing in the furnace at our sides.

I kiss her long and hard, like I should have done days ago. I can taste myself on her tongue. And if there’s a countdown ticking now in the back of my skull… well.

This has to end some time.

I can’t run from it forever.

Seven

Gwen

I take Rhys Evans blackberry picking. I suppose it was inevitable, really—my attempts at flirting are ever so clumsy, so I’ve landed on ‘any excuse to spend time with the man’. And my need to be around him is even worse than before now that I’ve tasted him, now that I’ve licked the sweat from his skin and felt his spend flood my tongue, so when I decide to go picking in the late afternoon, I drag him along with me.

He doesn’t really put up a fight. The blacksmith downs his tools with an audible sigh of relief, and he doesn’t even change before we leave. He simply washes his hands and wipes his face and neck with a cloth.

And god, he must be sweaty under that shirt. That fresh kind of sweat, that smells like man and primal strength. The sweat I tasted.

“I’ve sent off ten job applications. And asked about three rooms.”

“That’s good,” Rhys murmurs, trailing me along the hedgerows. We’re taking a different route than my usual one, climbing the hillside to walk along the ridge of the valley, and it’s hard going, making me puff and pant, but it’s better this way. We’re less likely to bump into anyone, and in the meanwhile I can burn off some of this excess energy.

I shouldn’t have told Rhys ‘no’ when he offered to return the favor earlier. Don’t know what I was thinking. Well I do, I was thinking I wanted it to stand alone, to be my gift to him, but now I’m wound tighter than a bowstring. Every stride sends a pulse between my legs.

“No one has replied yet, but they probably will tomorrow.”

Rhys says nothing.

It’s cool out this afternoon, the wind whipping at the long grass and sending gray clouds skidding across the sky. Gold and red leaves dance on the breeze, proof that the season’s really turning, and my rescued wicker basket swings wildly on my arm.

It’s dented and damaged, but still good to go. A bit like me.