Swiftcurrent Creek rattling your ground

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She moved toward him—lissome—inviting, without even trying to be, he knew. His eyes roved over her with a glint—surely, Silvertongue’s scent still clung to him from their little rendezvous only a little while ago.

He was about to talk—but she floored him with her admittance: ‘But, fuck, I want you.’ A straight forward notion, and again, something he assumed flared to life with the coming of her season.

“Eshe,” he murmured—his tone deep with a growing temptation, his muscles coiling with the tension that began to coil within him. Tension he had only released a day before, with another woman beneath him. Which in part stemmed from Wren’s now dwindling heat.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I’ve got a lot of baggage, sweetheart,” he began, eyes trailing over her, a sharp exhale given as he steeled himself. Sweetheart? As if placing an endearing term upon her would make this easier for her to hear. “I’m… I’m a widower. A father twice over—and my kids this year, well, their mom just disappeared… They see me so little as it is… I can’t take more time from them. I won’t.” He could feel the words dying in his throat—his eyes once more grazing the freckles along the gentle slope of her muzzle and cheeks, wondering what it would be like to kiss them.

“I can’t give you kids, Eshe. I can… I can help tide things over for you… Or you can seek someone else… But I can’t be that guy.”