Page 82 of Kings of Sherwood

“You don’t need to explain,” I interrupt him. “You don’t need to now, and you didn’t before.”

“Damn. You trust me that much?” Rob grins. “Bad idea.”

“Iknowyou thatwell,” I correct. “And yes, it probably is.”

My words hang in the air, and for a second, it’s like time stops.

Then everything flies forward in fast motion and—

He’s seizing my face. Kissing me. Hard, rough, urgent.

Teeth scraping. Stubble burning my cheek.

And I kiss him back, deep, my body going liquid as he takes me by the waist, pulls me around the corner, pushes me to where we’re out of sight enough, maybe, I don’t know or care. I’m tripping over my feet, I’m fumbling—both our hands are fumbling—his belt, my shorts, zippers and buckles and buttons—and he’s breathing hard into my neck and kissing me, kissing me, lifting me up against the wall and pinning my legs open and plunging into me, skin against hot skin.

I breathe as he enters, fingers tense on his shoulders. Breathe him in.

“You’re all I ever wanted, Maren,” he mumbles against my throat. “You’re everything.”

I can barely draw the breath to speak, but the words come anyway. “So take me.”

He does. Aching, desperate, messy and fast, clamping a hand over my mouth when I climax and then following himself, hissing through clenched teeth as he floods me.

Gently, he sets me down, so my back’s still pressed against the cool side of the VFW building, legs shaking, lips swollen from kissing him like I was trying to climb inside his skin.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against mine.

“We better get out of here,” he murmurs at last. “Public indecency—” He pauses, catches his breath. “Not a crime I want on my record.”

He pulls back, and his fingers tighten around my waist. Just enough. I lean forward and kiss him, nodding.

Then stoop to pick up the keys that tumbled out of his pocket. “Can I drive?”

He grins. “Sure.”

We collect ourselves, more or less, round the corner again, and I’m about to make some wiseass remark when—

The skid of brakes. Slam of a car door.

Rob’s head snaps to the road.

“Found ‘em!”

Voices—male. Close.

“Got a visual. Matches the photo.”

“Go!”

Someone’s seen us.

Or seenhim.

Rob looks at me, jaw tight.

“Take the truck,” he says. “Get back home.”

“What? No, you’ll—”

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