“A bad dream?” I spat. “That’s what you call it?”
He winced. “Wasn’t right, the way I left. I should’ve—”
I slammed the cup down. “You should’ve let them have the damn hill. None of them remembers who died there, Sully. Only me.”
He looked up, fierce. “I remember.”
We glared at each other, the old fight roaring back. I wanted to slap him and kiss him in the same breath. Instead, I said, “Why are you dressed like a dock rat?”
He looked at himself—pants black and stiff, leather jacket torn and filthy, his shirt demonic. “Didn’t have time to fetch Sunday best.”
I grunted. “You never did.”
He wiped his hands on the pants, then reached across the table and caught my wrist. His fingers were so cold they burned. “I missed you,” he said. “I had to come back. No matter the cost.”
Something crumbled in me. I yanked him up, nearly tipping the bench, and hugged him so hard the air left us both. His arms crushed around my ribs, breath hot on my shoulder. He smelled alive, the way I remembered—sweat and peat and a whiff of whiskey.
I buried my face in his neck. “Don’t you ever do this to me again, do you hear?”
“I promise,” he whispered. “I promise, Catherine.”
He started to shake, and I realized it wasn’t crying this time, but cold. He was trembling so hard I thought he’d come apart.
I got him to the hearth, half-carrying, and knelt beside him on the flagstones. I peeled the jacket off him, careful with the left arm. The cut there was shallow, but it had bled plenty. I fetched the linen and pressed it to the wound. He sucked in a breath, but kept still, watching me work.
“You’ve a knack for this,” he said.
I set my jaw. “Too much practice.”
He smiled, softer this time. “Did you ever think of another?”
I stared at him. “Don’t be thick. There’s no man alive who would put up with me.”
He grinned. “I did.”
I dabbed the blood away and folded the cloth. “And look what it got you.”
His smile faded. “Catherine. What if this isn’t real?”
I met his eyes. “Then we’ll both wake together, and that’s enough.”
He reached for me. His hands were rough, fingers stained and nicked. He cupped my jaw, tracing the bone as if mapping it from memory.
I leaned in, pressed my lips to his. They were warm now, and the taste of him—smoke and salt and something electric—sent a jolt all the way down. He kissed like he fought, all teeth and desperation, but I wanted it rough. I wanted to leave a mark.
He pushed back, gentle at first, but soon he was pawing at my hips, greedy as a starving man. I straddled his lap, the hem of my dress riding up, and ground down until I felt him stir beneath. I laughed, not soft or girlish, but wild, because I could. Because I wanted to see the hunger in his eyes.
He gripped my ass, hard, and pulled me closer. “You sure?” he murmured, but the question was a dare.
“Always,” I said. “Now shut up and take what’s yours.”
He did. He hoisted me up, turned, and laid me back on the sheepskin by the fire. The heat from the turf seeped into my bones. I clawed at his shirt, ripping it open. He shivered, but not from cold now.
He kissed down my throat, rough stubble scraping the skin. I arched up, letting him taste every inch. His hands were everywhere, pressing, squeezing, kneading. I bit his shoulder, hard enough to taste blood. He gasped, then laughed, a ragged sound, and kissed me harder.
He slid my dress up, hands slipping under. My thighs were slick with sweat and want. He pressed his face between and breathed deep, then ran his tongue up the inside, slow and hot. I shivered and gripped his hair, dragging him closer.
He licked and sucked, gentle at first, then rough, just the way I liked. My breath hitched, then broke, and I dug my nails into his scalp, grinding against his mouth. I came so fast I nearly blacked out, the rush flooding my veins.