He was hot.

  As if her hand had a mind of its own, she reached out and touched the top of the newly earned pectoralis, and ran her fingers over his smooth, hairless skin there. Her brain yammered and made her mouth do the same.

  A long, slow stride drew him in close to her, and she watched him as he watched her. “You’re…gorgeous, Marcy. Did you know that?”

  “I’m not…”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He put his hand on her cheek.

  She tore across the room out of his reach, a screaming ripping through the air.

  * * *

  Tate froze in place.

  Had he hurt her? He didn’t mean to. Had he pushed too far? He didn’t want to do that after the barn incident. He genuinely thought she was absolutely gorgeous.

  She seemed like a terrified little bird all of sudden, backed all the way into the corner.

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “I’m not doing this. I’m not going to fall for this.”

  His hand hovering there seemed threatening, so Tate dropped it and watched her. He was good at watching now; something he’d learned in the hospital. Always watch. Just because you were crazy didn’t mean someone else wasn’t sociopathic.

  But Marcy’s body language was different. She was leaning in, withdrawing, trying to protect herself. Everything about the gorgeous, smart woman pulled him toward her, but she didn’t want that.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Her fingers splayed out, and he could see a look of terrorized pain on her face. Haunted and frightened, she shook and trembled and clearly didn’t want to be seen.

  “Marcia. Please, did I hurt you?” Some baser instinct in him wanted to grab her and hold her and protect her, but that would be nothing but bad. “The barn—"

  “No, it’s not that…not you. You didn’t hurt me.”

  The rest of that thought was unspoken, but echoed through the space between them. Someone had hurt her. Sometime, somewhere, she’s been hurt, and badly.

  “I should have warned you. I’ve been around so many people who just know. I can’t…I can’t handle being touched. Not too much. A touch on the hand, the shoulder, that’s fine. But full contact is…disastrous.”

  “So I did hurt you in the barn.” He hung his head.

  “No, you didn’t. The barn is a moot point.” Her breath heaved in panic.

  “Does it hurt? Did you hurt yourself?”

  Daring to lower her hand, she stared at him. “My ex used to beat me.”

  That was news. That was a big piece of news.

  “Your ex-boyfriend?”

  The small shake of her head was almost imperceptible.

  Tate felt his eyes grow wide. “Your ex-husband.”

  Marcy had been married.

  “I’m sorry, Marcy. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have…”

  “I don’t talk about it. To anyone. So how could you know?” She shrugged her shoulders. “My family knows, and that’s all I’ve ever needed.”

  “You’re trembling. Please sit down.” Tate didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to help her sit, and knew that it would be a bad idea.

  Marcy, however, realized she couldn’t keep cowering in the corner, and to his relief she made her way to the bed and sank down.

  Spinning the chair around, Tate pulled it over and lowered himself into it. His hand stretched out to grab hers and he managed to only brush it before stopping himself.

  A second later he found Marcy’s hands twined with his, but her grip was dangerous, strong. Tears shone in her eyes, quivering in the corners, threatening to fall. Tate found himself wanting to wipe them, but he wouldn’t risk it.

  “Talk to me, Marcy. I fear that I hurt you...”

  “You didn’t hurt me. I got…scared. Carl’s beatings would start with a good hard slap or two to my face. Later he’d punch me. They grew so bad and so frequent, and after he beat me down, he’d have his way with me. Which was usually why he slapped me in the first place. I wasn’t in the mood for martial relations.”

  “He raped you?”

  “I guess you could call it that. I didn’t care what he did after he beat me like that. I just left my body. Usually about halfway through him turning me into a walking bruise.”

  Tate gave her hand a gentle squeeze. No wonder she had jumped back and run away. Even something as innocent as his touch had triggered her PTSD.

  “You know, you’ve been living here nearly four months, and I know nothing about you. No one does. You’ve helped me immensely, turning my life almost a hundred and eighty, and I know nothing. Who are you, Marcia da Silva?”

  “I’m not Marcia da Silva. My last name is Saalfeld. I was married to Prince Carl Saalfeld of the House of Saxe-Coburg Saalfeld. He wasn’t handsome, and he wasn’t kind. He hit me, he took what he wanted, got me pregnant, and then beat the child out of me. “

  The word hissed out between his teeth. “What.”

  A quiet pain and sense of resignation took over her features, and Tate didn’t like that at all. With a shrug she tried to dismiss the whole thing.

  “No, Marcy.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Tell me. I don’t know this story, and it’s completely shaped you.” Pausing, a smirk crossed his lips. “I get why you’re more bitch than Jersey Girl.”

  Snorting, Marcy couldn’t stop the smile from sliding on to her face as well. “How sweet of you to notice.”

  There was a quiet laugh between them, but Marcy let out a sigh. Tate waited.

  “I agreed to marry Carl Saalfeld because…well, as the middle child I’m not much good to my family. At least in royal circles. I thought that I could help remove some of the stains that my grandmother put on the house—which I know wasn’t a stain, but people saw it that way.

  “He was…not handsome. He had everything Hapsburg about him. The jaw, the nose, the bit of dimwittedness. The Hapsburgs liked to marry their own cousins, which made for massive inbreeding and huge genetic issues. He got the full dose of this.

  “Still when we very first met, he was kind to me. Kindness used to go a long way in my book. So we agreed to the marriage.

  “The very morning of our honeymoon, he slapped me. It was only a prelude to the awful beatings he made me endure. And he was utterly faithless. More than once I came home to orgies in the bedroom. I moved into a different room, and that made me suddenly an unwanted guest everywhere. An American-raised Portuguese princess who couldn’t sleep in the same room as her sex-mad husband. Didn’t fly.

  “The beatings kept up, and like I said, he’d have his way with me. This was all in the first six months of our marriage, by the way. Because in month seven I fell pregnant. He left me alone for a while, once I showed him the test. But the moment I wanted to start getting a room ready for the baby, he started slapping me around again.

  “It was the day the crib arrived that he went into his final rage, hit me so hard I hit the wall, stomach first. He kept going, even after I fell. Kick and punching and…he kept kicking my stomach. I passed out. He burned me with a cigarette and left me in the hall. My sister Lucy found me a few minutes later and got me in an ambulance. The baby was dead, Lucy told me. The doctors had done a D&C soon after because he was so beaten up there was a good chance for sepsis setting in.

  “My father-in-law made sure the divorce was no contest. He and my mother-in-law were kind to me, always. They did everything they could to help. But as soon as I was well enough get on a plane, I was home bound.”

  Tate could find no words for her. He just held her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles.

  “Now you know why I’m such a bitch.”

  His toes were never so interesting as they were then, while he tried to figure out how to answer her. “You were a bitch to me because I was an asshole to you. I have lived with everything being bad or awful or terrible, I forget that I’m not the only one out there with bad, awful, and terrible things happening to them.”

  “You’re not an asshole.”

  “Yeah, sure I am. I know I’ve been bitter about your sister choosing Tate, but…everyone has been right that I pushed her away. I knew I was doing it. I wanted her to go so I could hate her, and my brother. The less people I had around who cared about me, the fewer who would…”

  Marcy’s fingers pressed into his. “Who would miss you when you were gone.”

  Wordlessly, he nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Now?”

  Tate didn’t answer right away. His thoughts were scattered, but not as much as three weeks before, when they had released him. The voices were still there, still cruel, but now they didn’t shout at him. There were moments when he forgot they were even there. He also knew that they were only there because his brain chemistry was wrong now.

  Was that from the overdose? Or was there a chance that he was going to go insane anyway? Genetics. His mother hadn’t been one hundred percent either, though she had manifested as an addict. Maybe her brain wasn’t right either.

  None of that, not even his rheumatoid arthritis, was worth throwing everything away. Pain could be managed; psychosis and depression could be managed. Even, as the doctor suspected, the bipolar could be managed. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to ride horses or bikes, ever. Maybe he couldn’t climb a mountain, but he could walk down the street and wander in a forest and swim in a lake or stream. He could enjoy good wine and stand in the sun.

  And maybe not everything would bring him immutable joy again, but he would have the experience and that was what really mattered to him. To feel the sun, or the shade or the water or the wind. To be, when others had that taken away, or took it away themselves.

  “Now?’ His voice was quiet and steady, even to his own ears. “Now I know better. Now I want to be here. Fatima did what she had to do, I don’t blame her. Caldwell was there to catch her when I pushed. They’re a good couple, and I have to apologize to him. Now, maybe…maybe this isn’t such a terrible place to be.”

  He saw Marcy studying him out of the corner of her eye, and in the next instant he found himself flat on his back. Marcy hovered over him and her lips had found his.

  Warm and soft, she kissed him slow, tasting him as if he were a fine wine. Tate couldn’t help but return the kiss, just as slow and deep.

  Marcy drew back slowly and hovered her lips over his. “This is wrong. Isn’t it? I think it’s wrong.”

  “I don’t think it is. Kinda feels really right to me.”

  “You…aren’t mad?”

  “Marcia, I’ve been watching you swing those hips since I got out of the nuthouse. You’ve been tempting me with those eyes since I first saw you being a bitch at the kitchen table.”

  A giggle tripped from her lips, and she dropped a sweet kiss on the tip of his nose. “I haven’t ever wanted someone the way I want you right now.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  The tiniest sigh escaped her. “I’m not my sister, Tate.”

  “Who?”

  This time Marcy laughed aloud, and held her weight off him. “I think that’s why I like you. You have timing.”

  “And a hard-on.” He put his hands behind his head, striking a relaxed pose. “What should we do about that? I can’t walk through house like that.”

  An easy move took Marcy off the bed and over to the still open bedroom door. Popping her head out to survey the hall, she closed it behind her. Taking advantage of the moment, Tate swung himself fully up onto the bed, stretching out.

  Marcy climbed on the bed and straddled his knees, her hand grazing the obvious erection in his sweatpants. “Be patient with me?”

  “Everything at your pace, Your Highness. If I do something that upsets you, please tell me. I…think I like you too much to cause you pain.”

  “Does that mean this isn’t an F and F?”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “A what?”

  “Fuck and flee.”

  Deadpan, he asked, “Do I look like someone who can flee?”

  Dancing her fingers over his skin, down his pecs, up his sides, there was a pleased grin spreading on her lips. “Mm. I don’t know. All these new muscles…”

  “Oh, you like those, do you?” With the slightest, lightest touch he could manage, he dropped his hands to her hips.

  “Mm-hm.”

  The light chill of her fingers danced over his nipples, puckering them. Her fingers were curious but trepidatious and he had to remember that her first experiences with sex were probably beyond horrible, never mind what came after.

  “I’m going to have work on the whole body, then, because I’d like to pin you to the wall.”

  “Wow.” Her breath hissed out and she shuddered a little. “Apparently I’d like that.”

  Dusting his fingers over her sides, Tate delighted in the slow, erotic grind of her hips on his. “If you keep doing that…”

  “Mm? What? There’s no threat there, Tate.”

  “Damn, Marcia. I like seeing you there.”

  A devilish grin took the place of the sweet one, and in a single move, she had her sweatshirt up and over her head—and she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “It’s true then,” Tate said. His hands crept slowly from her waist up her sides, heading for the marvelous prizes she had just revealed to him. “Women wear sweatshirts to avoid bras.”

  “Some of us can. I don’t have much that’s worth—“

  When his finger pinched her nipple, Marcy cut herself off, and Tate was pleased with that.

  “Never ever sell these magnificent tits short. Maybe you’re not as large as other women, but these, right here”—he ran his hands over her prickled skin—“are just the right size for you. And me.”

  Sitting up, rather proud that he could so easily with his new core muscles, he found the beaded nipple that had been teasing him and wrapped his lips around it, sucking it lightly, teasing it with just the soft tip of his tongue.

  “Ohhh…”

  The sound that whispered out of Marcy was intoxicating. All around her breast, the smooth skin puckered into to gooseflesh again—this time from pleasure and not the cold.

  “I want you, Marcy,” he breathed around the peak that held his interest. “I want you to ride me.”

  Chapter Nine

  A bolt of desire like none Marcy’d ever felt before shot from her nipples, under Tate’s careful attention, straight down to her sex.

  It frightened her a bit, but more, it excited her.

  It had been, well, a long time since she’d had sex. Since before the baby.

  Was that even sex?

  Wasn’t that the problem? She didn’t know what sex was supposed to be like. Not between two people who at least liked each other, had a desire to have some fun in bed. She might not be a virgin, but she wasn’t sure how to enjoy herself.

  She found Tate’s eyes locked on her as he waited and occupied himself at her breast. God, that felt good.

  He nuzzled the silky skin. “You okay?”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “Whatever feels right,” he answered. The broad stroke of his tongue over the bead of her tit made her tremble again. “That feels right?”

  “Yessss.”

  “Good. Your pace, Princess. I like the view here and I’m quite content.”

  She could feel his erection between them, pressing against her mound through the sweats she was still, regretfully, wearing.

  How had sweats and messy hair turned him on so much?

  The tips of his fingers trailed around to her back and worked their way lower and lower until they breached the waist of her pants and started patterning little circles just above her ass. She didn’t move. She just felt his skin searing hers as he contented his mouth at her breast.

  The urge to sink down on his cock came fast and sudden. She’d been hot and bothered up to that point, but the heat raced to boiling and she need him.

  Now.

  Slipping back on the bed, pulling herself from his mouth with a little whimper from both of them, Marcy snagged his pants at his hips and dragged them down his legs, his more-than-impressive erection tenting his boxers. Tossing his bottoms on the floor, she yanked her own pants down and let them puddle there, stepping out of them.

  “Oh, Jesus, Marcy…” Tate’s words were heavy, and the smoke was back in his voice again. “Black lace.”

  Feeling very much the seductress for a moment, she slipped her fingers under the panties at her hip and flicked them down her legs to the ground.

  She felt so sexy doing that.

  It made her feel even better when a moan escaped Tate’s lips.

  “You’re bare…”

  “I like the way it feels.”

  He grunted. Marcy knew she was toying with him, just a bit. But this was fun. Standing closer to the bed, she ran a curious hand over his erection—another moan—and then lifted the band of his boxers, moving it down over him. Using just that one bit of cloth that she caught, she dragged the shorts all the way down his legs and off, tossing them on the piles there.

  Sliding over his legs again, she slid bit by bit up his body until she was pressed against his cock. His hand rose to fondle her breasts again, and there was a look of welcome and delight in his eyes. His fingers alone telegraphed that through her skin.

  Tate’s broad tongue lapped over her nipple. He paused and caught her eyes.

  “Princess, do you want me to find a condom?”

  “No, it’s fine. I don’t want to wait.”

  His hand stilled on her. “Marcy. It’s not fine. I don’t want to…”

  “To what?” Her ire rose, and her skin flushed hot and angry. Did he have a disease? He picked the wrong damn time to address this problem.

  A hand meant to keep her there snaked up her back. She could feel panic rising in her throat, and—

  “Stop, Princess.” Tate’s voice was soft, nonthreatening. “I don’t want you pregnant before you’re really ready for a child. I won’t do that to you.”

  A few deep breaths calmed her down. “Please don’t hold me here if I need to move.”

  With a smirk, Tate’s hands repositioned down to her ass, and he traced the wonderful little circles on her skin again. “Gotcha. No restraint when we’re talking.” He leaned into her ear. “How about when we’re fucking?”

 

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