And he was more than ready for her to go.
A book. He would read until sleep claimed him. Mitch shoved away from his study of the fire, turning toward the door—
Just as she stepped into the room.
They both stopped in their tracks, going perfectly still. Blue eyes studied him, and saw too much.
They spoke at once.
“You were very kind to—”
“Don’t—”
The long braid shifted across the shoulder of her pale yellow sweater, and suddenly all he could see was the fall of blonde silk that haunted his dreams.
His voice too harsh, he gestured to her. “Ladies first.”
She flipped the braid over her back and straightened, drawing a deep breath. Her fingers tightened around one another. “I hope Davey didn’t impose on you. He thinks that bear is wonderful, but if you meant to keep it…”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean. I made it for him.”
Her eyes filled with warmth. “He’s already very attached.” A faint smile flitted across her lips. “I hope you can get it back to do whatever’s left. He tends to get possessive of things he loves. He doesn’t have—” She glanced away. “His life hasn’t been all that I’d planned.”
Mitch saw the shadow descend over her face, and he wanted to bring back the light that had sparkled while she spun her tale.
“That’s some story you’re telling him. You do that often?”
Her gaze lifted to his, studying him to see what he meant. Then her dark lashes swept down, color dusting her cheeks. For the first time, he noticed that faint golden freckles sprinkled her nose. That her hair had strands of red and brown tossed in with the honey.
That one step would bring him close enough to touch.
Close enough to kiss.
The fire crackled, and it sounded like gunshots, so intense was his focus on her. He took one quick step back.
Her lashes swept upward, a tiny smile playing around her lips. Oblivious to his thoughts, she looked to the side while she explained. “I guess I’ve always had quite an imagination. I used to tell Grandpa stories at night, and he seemed to enjoy them. He even told me I should write them down, but I…” She shrugged. “I do them for my own enjoyment. They’re only simple stories.”
“A princess trout? Not so simple. And Davey sure likes it.”
Her smile was fond. “I haven’t been able to give him everything I’d hoped, but the stories are something I can give him anytime. Anyplace.” For a moment, she looked very sad. Very weary.
He wanted to ask. To make her tell him what was wrong. Even if it was none of his concern.
Then she glanced up. “Sometimes he makes up his own to tell me.” This time her smile was broad. “His tend toward epic battles, with lots of bams and pows.”
He was caught in the warmth of her smile. “Not much kissing.”
She laughed then, shaking her head. “Never.”
Then there it was, bursting into life between them again. Something he couldn’t name—didn’t want to. Something rich and dark and tempting—but with a bite to it, a hint of spice.
Her pupils went wide, turning blue into navy, her nostrils flaring slightly as if she caught the scent, too, of whatever it was that swirled thick as woodsmoke between them. To his surprise, she didn’t move away, though her body held the wariness of a doe poised for flight.
One step, that’s all it would take to have them breast to belly, mouth touching mouth. He could taste that fragile skin, lap up the ruby sweetness inside. He could bare her flesh once more, but this time slowly…privately… Savoring every inch that he’d struggled not to notice before.
And she’d let him. He could feel it pouring over him, the languid warmth of her desire. She might regret it later—absolutely would—but she wanted him now.
As he wanted her.
He should do it—take that step, reach out and grasp what he wanted. Forget the questions, forget that it was temporary, only a shadow of what would fill this damned hunger of the heart.
He would have, for however long it lasted, the blessed surcease of oblivion that only this woman’s warm, willing body could provide. He wouldn’t hurt her, he would make it good for her, no matter how sharp the edges of his wanting. And she wasn’t as fragile as she looked. Though she was small, she was strong in spirit.
And that, of course, was why he wouldn’t. Why he would leave her alone.
Because her valor humbled him. She was strong enough to be gentle, brave enough to reject pity. Something weighed heavily on her, but she asked no quarter, had not wanted to be treated like porcelain, had pitched in and done more than she should.
So when Perrie’s lids drifted downward and she swayed toward him the slightest inch, Mitch did what he should, instead of what he wanted.