...“Kiss me, please, Malachi.” The request, like almost everything she said, was just a hint of sound. He wasn’t even sure he heard it, but he did feel it. Each word winding through him, down into his chest, burrowing into his flesh.

He cupped the back of her head, his fingers splaying across her skull. Her eyes were dark stars, and they tracked his movement as he found her mouth again. Her lips parted almost before he was ready, and the tip of her tongue electrified him—his spine tingled, his cheeks prickled, his cock hardened. She tasted like the candy she had bought earlier that day, and the coffee she drank after dinner. She tasted familiar.

Christian steadied herself by gripping his shoulders, and her fingers were like steel bands in his flesh. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to keep herself from falling, or trying to keep him from leaving. Either way, she had nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t let her go, and he wasn’t about to try to get away from her. He had only known her for a few days, but it felt like he had been waiting his entire life for this kiss.

Careful not to disturb the lantern, Mal laid back until he was flat, and she straddled his hips. The floorboards were uncomfortably hard, and sharp leafs of hay pressed into his spine and bare neck. She lifted his hat from his head without breaking the kiss, allowing herself easier access to his mouth, cheek, and brow.

She buried her face in his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her, locking her in his embrace. Her curves were soft against his harder muscles, but he could still feel her strength.

“I want to be yours, Malachi.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good for you, Christian. I’m just a poor cowboy. I don’t even have a home to call my own.”

“I’m not looking for a home.”

What are you looking for? Mal didn’t ask the question. He didn’t need to. She was looking for what they all sought, ultimately—love, trust, a connection. They already had a connection. He’d felt it the moment he looked at her, and he could feel it now, as her heart pounded in her thin chest, hammering against his.

“I’ll be anything I can,” Mal promised, before their lips touched a third time. She made the lowest sound in the back of her throat—like a whimper or a moan. He didn’t know how to define it, but it went straight into the center of him.

Mal put his hands on her hips, holding her in place as he pulled her dress up with his fingers. He thought she would stop him from taking such liberties with her, but instead of slapping his hands away, she straightened and tugged the threadbare garment over her head. She wore nothing beneath the dress, and she didn’t turn away from his stare. She let him study her body, from her small but rounded breasts, to the skin stretched tight over her ribs, to the dark patch of hair between her thighs.

There were also winding, white scars, covering her skin like a map. He traced a scar with his fingertips, a question in his touch.

“What was used? A horsewhip?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Christian didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t have an explanation, or maybe she didn’t believe he needed to hear it. Mal didn’t push. It wasn’t his business, and if she wanted him to know, she would tell him in time. But that didn’t stop him from following the marks and welts with his fingers, delicately acknowledging each unjust hit.

Christian slid back until she straddled his legs, her bottom resting just above his knees. She could reach his belt in her new position and she pulled it free with little effort. He didn’t stop touching her while she worked on his pants. His fingers roamed over her arms, her neck, her jaw. A part of him was convinced he needed to indulge in as much contact as he could, and hoard every caress, for fear he would never get another chance. Anything could keep them apart from each other, and in the morning, this could seem like nothing more than a dream. Mal didn’t want to risk that. He didn’t want to risk getting caught with nothing but a memory, and regret he didn’t touch her enough or show her how he felt.

Mal shuddered as Christian reached into his pants to grip his length. He had never noticed just how rough her fingers were until they were caressing his smooth shaft. She touched him boldly, without any sense of hesitation or fear.

“I’m not your first, am I?”

“No.” She crossed her arms in a plainly defensive gesture. “Does this mean you don’t want me?”

Mal took her wrists and gently forced her to uncross her arms. “Of course not.” He caressed her pounding pulse with his thumb. “I want you, Christian. You.”

“I’m not a…”

“I know you’re not.”