Page 32 of When He Protects

“There are two bedrooms upstairs,” she informed him. “But one is completely empty. No furniture at all. Just a big, empty space.”

What? His brows shot up.

“So, I regret to inform you, Mr. U.S. Marshal…” Her fingers bit lightly into his shoulders through the t-shirt that he wore. “We are, in fact, in a one-bed situation.”

Fuck.

“I really hope you don’t snore,” she added sweetly.

Chapter Seven

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Her bright voice had his eyes flaring open. She beamed down at him, her hair falling forward because she was bent very close to stare at him.

“Was the floor as uncomfortable as it looks?” Esme continued in a slightly sing-song voice. Damn if she didn’t look perky and well-rested and just the faintest bit evil as she motioned toward his body and the hardwood floor. “I get that the couch was too small for your very large form. But there was a perfectly good bed upstairs that I was willing to share with you.”

He sat up. Growled.

“There it is,” she enthused. “The sound I live for. Guess that means the floor is, indeed, as uncomfortable as it looks.”

He opened his mouth to reply.Fuck yes, it was uncomfortable.But not just because the floor had been unyielding and stupid hard, but because he’d spent way too much time thinking about her during the night. Realizing that she was just up the stairs. That she’d left the bedroom door unlocked. That she’dinvitedhim into her bed.

And he’d so wanted to take her up on that invitation. But not because he wanted to sleep. He wanted in the bed with her because he wanted to fuck Esme until neither one of them could move.

But he didn’t get the chance to actually say anything because Esme thrust a cup of coffee into his hand. “Made this for you. It’s probably horrible, full disclosure, because the stuff in the kitchen looked ancient, but I like to start my day with a good deed.”

He took the mug of steaming coffee from her. Their fingers brushed. Yep. There it was. The spark of awareness that ignited each time they touched. How long would that last?

“Good to know you feel it, too,” she nodded, as if satisfied. “Even if you apparently aren’t going to do jack about the situation.”

His brows rose.

“Hope you like your coffee black. There was no milk or sugar in the kitchen. We should probably go shopping soon.” She put a hand to her heart. “Our first grocery trip as man and wife.”

“Why do you start each day with a good deed?” Time for him to cut through her BS and get to know the real woman.

Her lashes flickered. “Because if I try to do good, it balances out the bad that is sure to follow later on. After all, I’m incredibly bad, right?” She stood, and he realized that she was wearing faded jeans. A light blue top. The jeans hugged her hips and thighs, and the top flowed over her chest like some kind of soft, silky waterfall. “You think I’m bad. You think I’m a thief.”

“Youarea thief.” He sipped the coffee. It was—surprisingly—damn good. “I caught you red-handed, remember?”Which brought up a point he wanted to discuss. “How the hell did you make that walk on the ledge? Weren’t you terrified? And, dammit, Esme, it was raining and slippery. You could have fallen to your death. For what? Diamonds? Your family is already rich as sin.”

“So are you. You pretend to be the poor, former Marine, but I know different.” Her gaze wasn’t on his face. It was on his chest. His bare chest. He’d ditched his shirt, socks, and shoes, and slept in his jeans. Her hand flew out and touched a scar near his shoulder. “From a bullet?”

Her touch electrified him. “Yes,” he hissed.

Her fingers trailed lower. Close to his right side. “This look likes the slash from a knife.” She caressed him.

He put the mug down, fast. Not like he wanted to singe himself because she was making him twitchy with her touches. “Itwasfrom a knife.”

Her hand dipped down?—

His hand flew out and curled around her fingers. “I think that’s enough exploration, don’t you?”

Her long lashes lifted. “You have a lot of scars.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they are a real turnoff to someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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