Free Wild Burn by Edie Harris Page B

Otherwise—”
    “Otherwise, I know where to fetch it from.” She was glad to be spurred into action again. It would have been all too easy to just stand there in the middle of their shared room and ponder the seeming import of that sharing. She rolled up her sleeves as she checked the contents of the pitcher and basin, and indeed, the water was clear and fresh. Mrs. Yates had also provided him with two clean hand towels, draped over the edge of the vanity, and Moira appropriated those as well. After pouring some of the cold water into the basin, she wet one of the towels and wrung it out, then carried it and the basin the few steps to the bed. “Hold this.” She thrust the bowl into Crawford’s hands.
    The blood cleaned away quickly under the damp corner of the towel and her scrubbing. She made a concerted effort to be gentle, to not tug at the split skin next to his left eye and cause him more pain, yet he didn’t even flinch when she began probing the edges of the gash. In fact, she didn’t think he was breathing. “Are you all right?”
    “Yeah,” he grated, his eyes locked on a spot somewhere over her shoulder.
    “Try to remember to breathe.”
    He laughed, but it wasn’t an amused sound. “Harder than you’d think, Miss Tully.”
    She combed her fingers through his hair, attempting to remain as clinical as possible as she revealed his brow. “You should call me Moira.” It was the second time she’d said as much to a man that day, and she wondered briefly why the familiarity mattered to her.
    “I really shouldn’t.” He sighed, and his striking jade eyes met hers before returning to her shoulder. “And I shouldn’t have brought you to my room.”
    She tsk ed with false lightness. “I didn’t give you much choice.”
    “I could’ve said no.”
    “So why didn’t you?” she asked softly as she tilted his face toward the lamplight, so as to better examine the bruise forming above his cheekbone. Gingerly, she pressed two fingertips to the spot. “Does that hurt?”
    “No.”
    “Liar. It’s a bruise. Of course it hurts.”
    He shifted his head out of her grasp and stared up at her. “There is nothing truly painful about this…” he gestured to his face with one hand before returning it to the basin in his lap, “…except the knowledge that, eventually, you’ll stop touching me.” His eyes trapped her. “That’s what hurts. Moira.”
    She sucked in a breath, her hands hovering on either side of his face. “Why didn’t you say no?” She was desperate to know, to have her suspicions confirmed. Daringly, she inched forward until she stood between his legs, settling one hand on his shoulder as the other, the one still gripping the wet towel, fell to her side.
    His jaw clenched. “Because I guess it turns out I like pain,” he muttered darkly, and slid a big hand up to cup the back of her neck.
    But she was already bending to him, her eyelids fluttering closed as his warm breath fanned across her lips. He paused, halting her scant millimeters from where she wanted to be, and then his tongue, wet and oh so perfect, traced the curve of her top lip.
    Her lungs ceased inflating. Her heart halted its pumping rhythm. Her throat closed, and her lips parted, and her toes curled inside her shoes. And then a whimper, soft and high and needy, escaped her, and he took pity on her and pulled her mouth to his.
    All at once, every one of her organs began to function again, and she became dizzy beneath the hunger of his lips. Because even though she stood taller than him at the moment, he owned the kiss, and her mouth, and her entire being. He was hot, thorough, generous and dangerous with his nipping teeth and his seeking tongue. She shuddered when his beard rasped over her chin. His fingers speared into the braid above her nape, loosening the pins even as he fisted his hand there, much as she had earlier done to him.
    The tingling, shocking sensation his firm grip elicited was incredible. It stroked