Page 46 of The King's Man 4

I nod, and busy myself pulling off his boots. “When you’re done for the day, have a hot bath, stretch and massage.”

“Massage?”

I kneel on the bed beside him, peeling off the cloak that covers his thigh. The muscle is tight, taut beneath my touch, and he twitches involuntarily. His gaze snaps to me, and I can feel the weight of it, burning into my cheek.

I keep my head down, focused, methodical. I tell myself this is just another wound to treat, but the steady heat of his skin under my fingertips...

My hands slide shakily up his leg, working the muscle from the knee upward—

I freeze as my fingers brush the sensitive inner thigh. My pulse trips. Quin shifts, and when I look up, there’s something darkening in his eyes.

I swallow and quickly lift my fingers.

He’s still watching me.

I slap his good leg. “Stop it. I’m trying to help you.”

Quin’s laugh rumbles through his chest as he grabs my wrist and tugs, sending me tumbling beside him. I scowl, but my face is inches from his, and the smirk tugging at his lips roots me there.

He tilts his head. “I had a hard day.” His voice drops, low and coaxing. “Hold me?”

My breath hitches. For a moment, I consider snapping something witty, pushing him away—but I can’t. His words are soft, his expression rarely open. Vulnerable. I settle against him, my head resting on his shoulder.

“Don’t get used to this,” I warn.

He hums, the sound vibrating through me. “Too late.”

I slam my eyes shut.

He strokes a hand over the side of my head, cupping the chin I’ve dropped and lifting it again, urging me to look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

The softness of your touch. The look in your eye.

The butterflies in my chest.

I lurch over him and grab the bottle next to the bed. Half sprawled on his body, I take deep swigs. Quin laughs under me and I throw him a sharp look. “This is your fault.”

His hands slide up to my waist, pulling me squarely onto his chest. My balance falters, and I catch myself with a hand against his shoulder, but the way his eyes glint up at me steals my breath. He whispers, his voice low and daring. “What’s my fault?”

Asoft groan escapes me as I open my eyes to a sharp pounding in my head. I wince at a ray of dawn streaming into my eyes, curl my face to the side, and freeze. I’m not alone. Quin must have drunk a lot too, or for certain he’d have cast me to the floor.

My gaze drops to his open shirt, the flutette that’s fallen beside his exposed shoulder. His cloak has become my blanket.

My pulse quirks as I try to piece together the night . . . but this throbbing . . .

What’s my fault?

I flush and quietly smack my forehead. How did I respond?

I close my eyes briefly. It doesn’t matter. It can’t. I’ve had my goodbye.

I quietly ease myself out of Quin’s embrace. I want him to notice I’m gone and wake. I want to hear his voice one last time. I want to see the dark eyes that have a way of fishing inside me, hooking those weirdly volatile feelings and demanding I squirm.

I want those things.

Ineedhim to stay sleeping.

---