Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

The truth is that I want safe harbor, too. I’m shaken by the sight of him in here. The inn itself can’t give me that safe harbor. All of my antiques and all of my routines can’t give that to me.

It’s not enough for this moment.

The only safe harbor I want is in another person. In Sam.

I tilt my face up to his. It’s a test. If he can kiss me like he’s safe, maybe I can settle down. Stop being so fucking afraid.

Sam hesitates, his dark eyes searching mine. They glint with how much he wants this. The smallest tension in his muscles gives him away. Prove it, I’m saying with my invitation. Prove you won’t hurt me. Prove you were telling the truth.

He bends his head to mine with a frustrated groan. In that sound, I hear how he’s been holding himself back. Maybe for as long as I have. Since he first walked in the door of the inn.

Sam’s mouth meets mine in a rough, possessive crash. It’s the kiss of a man who’s finished resisting. Who’s constantly having to restrain himself, and now he can’t anymore. He makes a low noise and pulls back. He takes a sharp breath, but that’s all the control he has.

He kisses me again. Hard. I can’t help but like this about him. He might have given me a fake name, but this is his real kiss. This is the real man.

I want more of him.

It’s against every instinct that’s kept me safe all these years, but it’s so powerful that it feels like a storm off the ocean. It’s ready to shake down the walls of the inn. Only it’s me shaking, not the foundation.

I press my body harder into his, throw my arms around his neck, and beg him silently to take me upstairs. If Sam pushes me away, if he turns his back—

He doesn’t.

He takes me into his arms, lifting me from the floor without a hint of effort, and goes up the stairs. In his guest room, he puts me on my feet and strips off my clothes. Sam’s matter-of-fact about it. He does the same to his own clothes, tossing them to the floor in a pile that somehow remains neat.

Then he’s all motion and muscle, taking me to the bed and spreading me out. His body folds over mine. Sam crushes more rough kisses to my lips. More and more and more until I feel like I’m part of the bedspread. Until I’m melted electricity, waiting for him. He eases my thighs apart with his body, kissing me with the same kind of thorough concentration he was using to go through my things.

He kisses me like he’s discovering me.

Like I’m all the information he could ever need.

Like his last job is to kiss me in a way I’ll never forget.

Sam runs callused palms over every inch of my body. Testing my skin. Exploring it. Finding something there. I’m not sure there’s anything to find. I’ve never been a very interesting person. And now I’m Marjorie Dunn. A boring, safe name for a boring, safe life. A life where nothing ever gets dark. A life where nothing ever comes to the door and sends you fleeing to the attic.

There’s no mystery here, but Sam acts like I’m the greatest mystery of his life. Of anyone’s life. He’s thick and hard between my legs, and I want him inside me.

No more waiting.

I angle myself up toward him, and he pushes inside with a shudder. It forces a relieved breath out of my lungs. It’s been so long since I had a man in my bed. The moment he seats himself, I know. This is what I’ve needed. I wanted this the second I saw him. He stretches me, but our bodies fit together like they’re part of a set. I’m wet for him.

We move together. It’s a dark, thoughtless movement, but he doesn’t seem like a stranger. This doesn’t feel like hiding.

Sam needs this from me as much as I need it from him.

He buries his face in my neck and fucks me like he’ll never have another chance. If this is his last assignment, he’s going to drink it in. His lips trail over my skin. He inhales and grunts with a feral abandon while he strokes, again and again and again, using my body for his pleasure.

I’m lost in him when he pulls back, gritting his teeth. His hand works between us. This is hard, hot sex, but he doesn’t want me to be without pleasure. His knuckles graze my clit. They keep moving. Keep circling.

“Come on,” he urges. “Come on, Marjorie. Let me make you feel good.”

The sensation he coaxes out of my oversensitive nerves feels so good that it sends me flying. Away from the inn. Away from my past. Away from the fear I felt. Everything melts away except the movement of his fingers over my body.