Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

With no time to make it onto the back porch, I duck into the supply closet, where I press my back against the door and sink slowly to my haunches. With my forehead against my knees, I cross myself and let the tears flow.

Stone the cows!

I push my hands into my hair the way he does and curl over, letting out a muffled sob. I messed it all up! Every shred of…everything.

I think of Declan coming through the door with Dot and Holly, and I want to rage. For what my life is. For the mockery I only now can see. I think of Mum and Hudson, Mum and my father. I think of the village’s elderly—often a widow or a widower, though sometimes a couple. I think of how they squabble. How they smile together. I think of the ones alone—widowed or never wed—and how we bury them alone and they have small, square, solitary grave stones. I think of my grave stone.

“Finley.”

My body freezes and I start to tremble, shaken as if I’d heard a phantom speak. I lift my head slowly, half expecting that. But there he is, so tall and strong and handsome, leaned against the closet’s back wall with his arms folded in front of his chest.

His face is grave. His face is flawless. His eyes hold to mine until I lose my self-control, and my gaze rushes up and down him. Declan! He looks taller, broader than I recall from in the burrow. Clad in a long-sleeved gray tee shirt that clings to his chest, chino-style pants that hang from his hips, and black boots, he looks like the worldly man he really is. He blinks, and my heart gallops with such force I feel it behind my eyes.

How is he here? Something like panic grips me as I rise to my feet. One look at him and I feel blown wide open. So much so, I can’t bear it.

As I turn toward the door, I feel him step to my side.

“What’s the matter, Finny?”

My heart pounds fast and hard, and I can scarcely keep my voice steady as I whisper, “Nothing of significance.”

What a liar I’ve become. I can’t look at him, have even shut my eyes. “You never showed up at the clinic,” I whisper.

In the ensuing silence, my blood crashes between my ears.

“You didn’t come and find me either.” The rumble of his low voice makes me shiver, and I think dimly, this is what they speak of. He’s standing so close now, I feel the heat of him.

“I never said I would.” I wrap my hand around the doorknob.

Declan’s hand touches my elbow. “Hey…why won’t you look at me?”

I do, then. I look at his face, and I’m arrested. It’s illogical. Insensible. It shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t feel he’s air and water.

His gaze is searing, as if he hears my thoughts. I tear my greedy eyes away from the vortex of his. I’d like to not look at him, but I can’t stop myself from taking in his dark brows and his predatory eyes, the feline-high cheekbones and sultry mouth. He’s got no business with a mouth like that—a woman’s lush lips. I note the prickle of his shadow…the dark smudges beneath his eyes. And then my belly clenches as I realize he looks ill.

My hand goes to his cheek, the pad of my thumb brushing the sharp stubble there at his jaw. His eyes shut, as if it pains him. As I lower my hand, he seals his long fingers around my wrist. His grip loosens, feather-light. His jaw clenches.

When he speaks, the words are whisper-soft, nearly inaudible. “You should go.”

I’ve never touched a man so tenderly, never felt the urge except with him. So I’m holding my breath as I lift my hand, letting my fingers brush his dark hair. His fevered eyes meet mine again, and I feel the closet tilt around us as my fingers stroke his forehead.

His eyes shut. I watch his jaw flicker with tension. And then he wraps an arm around me, pulls me to him. With my body pressed to his, he steps toward the door, bracing one big palm against the doorframe as his hips push against mine. I feel a prodding thickness at the curve of my hip for a mere instant before he shifts himself away.

“Finley—go.” The words are ragged. He looks tired and strained, his blue eyes barely open as he stands there with his fists at his sides, his erection jutting at the fabric of his pants.

I turn to go, but I can’t open the door. I feel my legs tremble the merest bit, weakness vibrating from the knees. And then he steps behind me. His chest brushes my shoulder blades, and I feel the stiffness of his sex against my backside.

“Tell me to stop.”

When I don’t, his arm slides around my waist. His hand spreads over my ribs as his mouth moves in my hair, his warm breath making something pulse between my legs. His cheek presses atop my head as his hand delves under my blouse, his rough palm moving over my bare belly.

“Tell me no,” he rasps, rocking his forehead against my hair.

When I don’t—I can’t—he presses my backside against his sex.

“Finley…”

His hand on my belly trembles. My head spins. I understand it now—the power other women speak of. Declan’s breaths are ragged pants at my ear. I don’t know why he didn’t come to me; he sought me out not once since we spoke outside the café the day after arriving back. And suddenly it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter that it’s sinful and beyond forbidden, doesn’t matter that I mustn’t.