Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
He runs his palms up my thighs, strong fingertips digging into my flesh, and stares up at me through his dark lashes, his gaze electric.
“You are so very lovely, Iris. Worth waiting all this time for.”
I should probably press him on that, the whole waiting all this time for thing, because that’s not the first time he’s said something like that. But honestly, his fingers fucked the brain cells out of me and I have like, two left, and they aren’t doing much of anything but bumping into each other like a bunch of drunken buffoons.
He slowly brings his hand up higher, under the skirt, and I’m about to ask him to wait a moment so I can desensitize myself before he goes down on me, or whatever he has planned from that angle, when suddenly he goes still.
His head turns toward the driveway. He’s looking down it, toward the main road, the direction I came from. His mouth has gone into a flat line and from the tilt of his head, the way his eyes are scanning, I can tell he’s listening.
“Alasdair—”
“Hush, Iris.”
I hush.
I don’t hear anything for a second. Then I do. The sound of tires on gravel. The low growl of an engine taking the access road at a careful pace.
His hand is on my elbow before I have time to react. He pulls me, with speed that surprises me, around the trunk of the birch, into the deeper cover behind it. He has me against the back of the tree now, the side facing the woods, and his body is between me and the road. He puts one hand on the trunk beside my head and the other at my waist and he holds me there, still, his face above mine, his breathing controlled in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.
The engine gets closer.
It comes up the access road at maybe fifteen miles an hour. It rolls past us slowly, past the birch and wet bracken, and I can’t see it from where I’m pinned, but I can see Alasdair’s eyes following it. I see the second his eyes settle on whatever vehicle it is, because his face hardens, the look in his eyes becoming sinister.
It’s enough that I get a chill down my spine.
The car continues down the road toward the castle. The engine recedes. The sound of tires on gravel goes quieter, then faint, then is gone.
After a long beat, Alasdair steps back from the trunk. He looks at me. His face has smoothed out somewhat, but the concern is evident on his brow.
“Who was it?” I ask.
“Inspector Sinclair.”
The name lands sharply in my stomach.
“He’s going to the castle,” I say, feeling panicked. “To see you. Did he see us?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“He was watching the road. He didn’t look at the trees.”
I’m suddenly very cold, in the place between my shoulder blades that was warm against him a minute ago. The me that was proud of herself for getting fingered in the forest at long last is suddenly at odds with the part of me who just heard a police inspector’s car drive past her on its way to her lover’s house.
Lover.
The reality of what has just happened between us comes crashing down. I push it away, to deal with later tonight with a vat of wine.
“He’s probably come for you.”
“Aye, probably,” he agrees, running a hand through his thick hair.
“You can’t go, then.”
He gives me a sharp look. “I’m going, Iris. It’s my home.”
But is it, though?
“Alasdair…”
“He’s not coming to arrest me. If he were, he wouldn’t have come alone. He’s come to ask me things, to follow up on what he talked to you about. He’ll ask, and I’ll say what I say.”
“And what will you say?”
“What I have to.”
And what the fuck does that mean?
He searches my face, perhaps seeing the question there. “Go home, Iris.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Please.”
The please is what does it. I have a feeling it’s a word he rarely dispenses.
“Go home,” he urges, gentler now as he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze that’s harder than it is comforting. “Walk a different way back to the road if you can. Stay off the access road. Stay out of his sight. He doesn’t know about you.”
“Of course he does. He just came to see me.”
“He knows you’re a woman in a cottage who lied to him about a man. He doesn’t know about us. Go.”
I want to protest again because I think he’s making a huge mistake, but he puts his hand to my face and cups my jaw the way he cupped my face at the door of the castle three days ago. He holds me there. His thumb moves once across my cheekbone.
“Iris.”
“Yes,” I whisper, feeling all gooey at his touch again.
“I’ll come and find you tonight. After he’s gone. Sunset. I won’t come into the cottage. I’ll be on the rocks. If you want to know what was said, you can come down.”