Now that the talking was done and the truth told, she wanted the pleasure. Lots of it. All he could give her and more than she could handle. ’Twas only fair. He belonged to her now, but not for long. So forget tomorrow. Never mind the worry. Ignore the impending doom. She needed to stay rooted in the present. In the here and now. With him. Far away from thoughts of heartbreak and the threat of loss. The future would look after itself. It always did . . . without any help from her.
***
Crouched in front of the hearth, Henrik laid another log on the fire. Not that the conflagration needed it. Already ablaze, flames licked upward, throwing heat into the room. ’Twas busywork more than anything else. A way to distract himself, something to keep him occupied while Cosmina dressed. Looking at her wasn’t a good idea. Every time he did, need reared its ugly head, making him want her again. Ravenous gluttony. Unquenchable thirst. Wicked, delicious desire. He couldn’t get enough . . . of her lithe curves, of her soft skin, of the slick heat between her thighs and his mouth on hers.
Christ, her taste . . .
The goddamned taste of her.
A tremor rippled through him. Muscles tightened across his abdomen, pulling at his hip bones, awakening the traitor inside his trews. Henrik sighed and, staring at the flames, shook his head. Stupid prick. He needed to get a handle on it . . . and his reaction to her. ’Twas becoming embarrassing. He was a grown man, for the love of God, not some green lad. Yet everything she did aroused him. His fixation was absurd. A real eye-opener considering he’d never experienced it before. Women didn’t hold his interest for long. Sure, any number caught his eye, and he enjoyed each one’s company while it lasted. But he never stayed. He gave the pleasure expected of him, took some in return, and then got the hell out.
Every single time.
Cosmina didn’t fall into that category. She wasn’t the usual—a fast lay followed by a quick getaway. Why? Henrik didn’t have a clue. All he knew was that he wanted her more with every breath he took. Disconcerting to say the least. Dangerous to say the most. Particularly since duty and honor dictated that he let her go.
She deserved better than him. He kept hammering that truth home, repeating it over and over, telling himself she was his for now, but not forever. But even as decency urged him to do the right thing—push to his feet, turn, gather the others waiting outside, and leave—his senses remained riveted to her. Each rustle of clothing. Every move she made. Her sighs of contentment behind him. He cataloged it all from his position in front of the fire. Without looking, he knew she drew on her trews, dragging the leather up her beautiful thighs, over her gorgeous bottom and . . . ah, there it was. The rasp and tug of lacing against the sweet stretch of skin below her navel.
Henrik swallowed a groan.
Goddamn, he loved that spot. She was so sensitive there, always raised her hips, spread her legs, undulated against him while he kissed his way—
“Henrik?”
Low and husky, her voice stroked over him. A tingle raced along his spine, raising goose bumps on his skin, sending pleasure spinning through him. Bracing for impact, he glanced over his shoulder. Jewel-green eyes met his. His heart kicked, stealing his breath as his gaze clung to hers. Shirtsleeves bunched along each arm, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she drew the collar over her head. He clenched his teeth, mouthwatering as he watched her pretty pink nipples disappear behind the linen.
Exhaling in a rush, he pushed to his feet. “Aye?”
“Do you swim?”
“Like a fish.”
“There is a hot spring not far from here,” she said, tucking her shirttail into her trews. Which—goddamn it to hell and back—made him want to close the distance between them and rip it back out again. “Will you come swimming with me?”
Unable to find his voice, he nodded.
“Good.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “I’m looking forward to washing your back.”
Jesus help him, Lord knew he couldn’t help himself. “Turnabout is fair play, Cosmina.”
Grabbing the satchel hanging from the bedpost, she grinned at him. “I’m counting on it.”
Infected by her playfulness, he shook his head. “Insatiable.”
“I have to be,” she said, bypassing the table in the middle of the room. Boots scraping over the dirt floor, she stopped in front of a tall armoire. With a tug, she opened a door that had seen better days. Old, rickety, way past its prime, the cabinet listed to one side, its frame bent by weather and time. His gaze drifted over sagging wooden shelves. Not much to speak of piled atop each: a couple of linen towels, three or four bars of soap, an extra pair of trews neatly folded beside a stack of shirts. Reaching up, she snagged two drying clothes off the top shelf. After stuffing the stash into her satchel, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “I only have you so long. I need to make the most of it.”
So long. Translation . . . limited time, not long enough.
The reminder should’ve backed him up a step. Made him retreat and seek distance. Thankfulness rose to infect him instead. God, she was incredible. A woman of rare fortitude and unequaled glory. Her beauty surpassed the physical. It went soul deep, shaming him with the knowledge that his carried the stink of death. Was stained, blackened by his crimes, all those he’d killed, maimed, and hurt over the years. Yet, she wanted him anyway—despite the circumstances, regardless of reality. Even knowing he couldn’t stay hadn’t deterred her. She wasn’t angry. Didn’t expect anything she did or said to change his mind. Wouldn’t be bitter in the aftermath either. He could see it in her eyes when she looked at him. Cosmina accepted him for who and what he was . . . an assassin on a mission that didn’t include her.
’Twas a magnificent gift. One he longed to return.
In another life, he would’ve plunged in without hesitation. Taken what he wanted and committed to Cosmina, heart and soul. But he wasn’t that man. He was a killer—ruined, disgraced, unfit for love, and unworthy of her. That he wanted something long lasting with her didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. He knew it with a clarity that startled him. Holding on to her would be a mistake rooted in the worst kind of selfishness. And yet, temptation rolled, urging him to set aside his scruples, close his fist around what fate handed him like a greedy two-year-old, and hang on tight.
Henrik shook his head even as his chest went tight. He refused to let it happen. Or allow himself such leeway. No matter how painful—or how much his heart yearned for her—he’d collect the moments, soak up every minute he spent with her, then do the honorable thing and let her go.
“Uh-oh.”
A death grip on the need to claim her, he cleared his throat. “What?”
“You’ve that look about you.”
“Which one is that?”
“The remorse-filled one, but . . .” Stuffing a bar of soap inside, she flipped the satchel closed. Rusty hinges creaked as she swung the lopsided door shut. Soft, yet startling in the silence, the gentle bang made him flinch. Facing him now, she leveled him with a no-nonsense look. “We agreed, Henrik. No regrets, remember?”
“I remember,” he said, regrets already circling . . . the kind that whispered: take a chance, stay for once, tell her how you feel.
“All right, then,” she said, tone quiet yet somehow all business. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she stepped around the edge of the table and stopped in front of him. Unable to stop himself, his hands found her waist. Her mouth curved a second before she popped onto her tiptoes and kissed him. “Let’s go.”
“Cosmina . . .” he murmured, drawing her closer, his mouth brushing hers. “You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met.”