Iyisha pushed the door with her shoulder. The knob was cold, the wood catching before it gave way. Warmth spilled over her face. The air smelled of wood smoke, soap, and the sharp bite of gun oil.
Malcolm stood in the center of the room. His jacket was folded on the back of a chair, his boots set neatly beneath it. His shirt was buttoned to the throat, sleeves rolled with clean, exact lines.
He looked composed. Too composed, as if the last two nights of silence had erased everything they had done.
Her cheeks warmed at the thought, the memory flashing quick and hot. The way his chest had heaved under her, the feel of his release pulsing in her hand. She pressed her lips together, shame chasing heat across her skin. He had not touched her since, had not even looked at her in a way that admitted it happened.
"Where did you come from."
"The greenhouse." Her throat scraped.
He gave one short nod. She stepped inside and closed the door, the latch clicking too loud in the stillness.
