ONE
Claire Wiche walked down the alley that led from her shop to home, every step slower than the last. She didn’t want to open the door to an empty house. Again. Six months without Zach left her with a constant ache, a need to fill the emptiness.
Nothing did, though, no matter how she tried to distract herself. But there was one thing that would give her temporary relief. More specifically, someone.
She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her wool jacket, tapped in a phone number.
“Good evening, Claire.”
The sound of his deep, sand rough voice eased the ache.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight, Marcus.” She flinched at the desperate edge to her voice.
“Then I will be happy to keep you company.” He paused, and she braced herself for the inevitable question. Marcus surprised her by making it a statement. “We need to talk about what happens beyond tonight.”
“Marcus—”
“I am not a convenience, Claire. And I have less patience than you credit me with. I will be there in an hour.”
He hung up before she could answer him, or argue, or tell him she’d changed her mind. With a sigh, she put her phone away, leaned against the back of the art shop next to her house, her legs shaking from the short walk.
She hid it well from everyone else, but the spell that nearly killed her caused more damage than she let on. After long, stressful days what strength she had simply deserted her without warning. Now she regretted calling Marcus; there wasn’t time to recover, or a way to hide it from his scrutiny.
Taking in a deep breath, she pushed off the wall, moved to the house, and used the railing to help her climb the two steps to her back door. She had an hour before he saw her, and she intended to distract him so much with what she was wearing, he wouldn’t notice how worn down she looked.
He wouldn’t have time to notice.
*
Claire waited in the candlelit living room, ready to ambush Marcus the moment he walked in the front door. Only part of her seduction was an act; she missed him when he was gone, desperately, and felt like part of her heart went with him every time he left. Pride kept her from telling him how she felt.
Instead, she showed him.
“Claire?” Marcus opened the door. He looked devastating in his usual black, backlit by the porch light. Closing the door, he lifted a large white bag. “I brought dinner, from Billie’s—”
His voice choked off when she moved out of the shadows. She hoped it was because of the white silk nightgown that barely covered, well, anything, and not that she looked as exhausted as she felt. “Thank you.” She eased the takeaway bag out of his limp fingers, set it on the coffee table. “I am hungry—but not for food.”
“Claire—gods—” He swallowed as she ran both hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his wild black curls. They wrapped around her fingers, thick and silky. She touched the silver hamsa hanging from his ear, then gently removed it, tucking it in the pocket of his black shirt. He let out his breath. “Am I in danger of losing it?”
“Mmm.” She kissed the sensitive spot just under his ear, smiled when she felt him hum against her lips. “Maybe, if you ask nice.”
Marcus leaned in, his breath warm on her cheek. “Will this do?”
She opened her mouth to make an Annie-smart remark; he covered it with his own, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe.
Strong arms gathered her up, and still kissing her, he carried her to the bedroom. Grief stung her when he moved past Zach’s empty room. As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, Marcus deepened the kiss and kept going until he reached her bedroom, lowering her to the bed. She arched against him as his weight pressed her into the soft mattress, his heat seeping into the cold that hounded her.
With a low moan, he rolled, taking her with him until she lay on top of him. “You are leading the way tonight, sweet. Tell me what you want.”
“Just you, Marcus.” She kissed her way down his throat, felt his breath catch. “I want you.”
His fingers dug into her hips. She slid back up to his mouth, and sank into another kiss, welcomed the oblivion he offered. Anything to keep from thinking. From grieving.
With desperate need that made her hands shake, she tugged at the hem of his shirt. He obliged, lifting his arms so she could yank the black fabric over his head and off. Pulling her up to her knees, Marcus slid his hands up her thighs, under the barely there silk nightgown, and paused on her bare butt.
“Gods, woman. Are you trying to kill me?”
She answered by kissing him until they were both gasping for breath. Marcus kept sliding his hands up, his fingers teasing out wave after wave of heat as he slowly eased the whisper thin gown up her body.