POPPY
“If you can stand still…just for a moment longer.”
Frowning at the top of Naill’s head, I bit my lower lip instead of pointing out that he’d been saying that for the last ten minutes—maybe even twenty. I stood on a stool, doing my best to keep from fidgeting while he made what he’d described asquick adjustmentsto the smock tunic. I didn’t think I was fidgeting that much. I shifted—
“Poppy.” Naill sighed, his amber eyes flicking up as he held a needle between two long fingers.
A deep, smoky chuckle came from the general vicinity of the couch.
“If you keep moving,” Naill said, carefully piercing the fabric with steady hands, “you’ll have one hem longer than the other.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. His frustration was better than the sadness radiating from him when he first arrived. It had only just started to ease up. I knew what he’d seen in Stonehill was getting to him.
As he bowed his head, his lips quirked. “It’s okay. We’re almost done.”
Figuring that distracting myself would keep me from moving, I asked, “How long have you been doing this?”
“Sewing?”
“From what I can see, you do more than just sew.” Ialmostgestured at the elaborate embroidery across the tunic’s bodice and along the shoulders.
“At the end of the day, it’s just sewing.” His brows furrowed as he leaned to the side, tucking the hem. “But my mother taught me when I was young.”
I tried to imagine Naill as a young boy, staying seated long enough to learn the art of sewing. And to me, itwasan art—one I was admittedly terrible at.
“I found it sort of relaxing.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I was a bit of a…nervous child.”
“Really?” I had an even harder time picturing that since the Naill I knew was as calm and collected as a cat napping in the sun.
He nodded. “I don’t think I do well with idleness.” He rocked back and then rose. “All right. I just need you to get down so I can see what it looks like.”
Thank the gods.
Hopping down, I winced at the twinge I felt between my thighs.
Naill’s head jerked up. “I didn’t prick you, did I?”
My cheeks heated as I shook my head. “I…just stepped down wrong.”
His brows furrowed as he knelt again, revealing Casteel. My husband was seated in an arrogant sprawl on the couch—a smug, pleased sprawl. He smirked. He hadn’t needed any adjustments to his clothing when Naill arrived with an armful of garments. The sleeved and sleeveless, charcoal-gray tunics that now hung in the walk-in closet—Casteel had reminded me earlier that it wasn’t a walk-in wardrobe—had fit him so well they appeared to practically mold to him.
“Stepped down wrong?” he questioned.
“Yes.” I narrowed my eyes at him.
That smirk of his deepened until his stupid dimple appeared.
Rolling my eyes, I looked away, my mind wandering to the source of the tenderness between my thighs as Naill made a few more adjustments. Last night was…
I didn’t even know what it was.
I had flashes of memory, like Casteel and I in front of the windows. I remembered waking, though I didn’t remember how or why I’d walked to the windows. I did recall…fondling Casteel and that he’d resisted at first. But that had changed quickly—the vague memory of me asking him to fuck me had changed his mind.
And he most certainly had fucked me.
Everything was a bit of a blur, but I remembered the feeling of him as he held me against the window and took me from behind. And then in the bed, his body caging mine, pushing me over the edge again and again until exhaustion claimed us both.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw between the gap in the curtains was the Cliffs. I remembered staring at them last night. I remembered—
