Page 5 of Kings of Sherwood

It’s Maren.

She looks half-asleep, her hair tousled, wearing just a loose black T-shirt I’m fairly certain is LJ’s and barely reaches the tops of her thighs.

My mouth goes dry.

“What’s with all the arguing?” she says. Her voice is raspy with sleep in a way that has no right sounding as sexy as it does.

“Scarlet had a bad dream,” Rob says, flashing a grin. “Might need you to rock him back to sleep.

Maren rolls her eyes, God bless her.

“Did not,” I say, realizing too late how petulant I sound. I can feel every thrum of my pulse in my neck, looking at her. My fingers tense lightly with the itch to reach for her, grab her and sweep her onto the mattress, but I resist. “But you’re welcome to—”

Maren doesn’t let me finish, just sweeps past me and burrows into the bed. “Tired,” she says.

I look at Rob, who gives a small shrug:welp, there you go.

I throw him a small grin.Lucky me.

“Get out of here,” I say out loud, and Rob obeys, ducking out with exaggerated deference as he pulls the door shut.

“Come here?” Maren mumbles from the bed. “And kill that light.”

Don’t have to tell me fucking twice, I think.

I click off the lamp and slide in next to her, wrapping my arms around her form, all soft skin and curves, the sweet cedarscent of her enveloping me and lighting my senses aflame. My cock stirs in earnest, but her eyes are already fluttering shut, so I bite my lip and resist, again, even though my whole body is straining for her, clenching with need.

Deep breaths, Will.

I settle for curling around her, my arm draped over her waist, pulling her close, as close as I can, cradling her hips against mine and hoping she doesn’t care I’m hard as iron under my boxers.

Rob might be wrong about a lot of things, but he’s right about this.

We’re safe.She’ssafe.

At least for now.

Chapter Two

Maren

“No, no, no. It’s all in the wrist.”

Tuck tosses a towel over his shoulder and smiles generously at me.

“Here.” He steps behind me and guides my hand. “Like this.”

“I’m going to hurt myself,” I say, but allow him to position me for another try. “Or you. Or both of us.”

“Maren.” Tuck tips his head to the side, his hair falling into his eyes, and between that and the warm press of his forearm against mine I briefly forget my own name.

“Mm?” I say.

“It’s only an omelette.”

“Right.” I bite my lip and look down at the stovetop. The eggs—inexpertly cracked and whisked by me, with Tuck’s supervision—are sizzling in a pool of butter, and our entwined hands are gripping the pan handle—Tuck’s strong, easy, confident one clasped over my jittery one.

It’s about a quarter to ten, and we’re the only ones awake—as far as I can tell. Morning light filters in through the windows, and a soft breeze is blowing in through the French doors that Tuck cracked open. After crawling into bed with Will, I passed out so hard that only my favorite scent in the world—coffee brewing—could rouse me, and when I extracted myself from Will’s arms and padded down to the kitchen I found Tuck already at work.

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