The Good Chase (18 page)

“There might be some . . . stuff . . . going on,” she told him. “It may help me get closer to the distillery thing. Or I may be right back where I started. I don't know. It's still too early to say.”

She turned her face to the lake, into the brilliant light.

The sunset had reached its peak of gorgeousness, half below the water and half above, huge and glowing, its gold and orange diminishing by the second. All sorts of romantic. Around them, cameras were going off, families posing at various points on the dock, kids running around, oblivious to the miracle right in front of them.

She and Byrne sat there, watching the sun disappear in silence.

Then she felt something on her hand. A gentle brush against her right pinky. She looked down to see Byrne had edged closer. He slid his palm over the back of her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.

“I think I get it now,” he said quietly. The words carried like a breeze, wrapping around her.

She flipped over her hand, curling her fingers up into his, and it might have been the most lovely, most peaceful moment she'd had since returning to the States after that final Scottish summer.

“I dream of the distillery,” she said, “because I dream of having something of my own. It's my idea, my thing. It's what
I
want. Not something someone else brought to me or gave me or wants to be a part of. My own. My dream that I can work on every day. I don't want to answer to anyone else. I want to be responsible for my own failures, my own triumphs.”

Byrne's hand tightened around hers, slowly and lightly at first, then ending with a hard squeeze. He tugged at her until she looked up into his face. Those incredible eyes, all pale against his sunburned skin and the darkening sky, searched hers.

“Sometimes I look at you,” he said, “and I think I know everything that I want to say. And then I open my mouth and nothing comes out.”

“And then everything you thought you wanted to say sounds dumb? Yeah, I know that feel—”

He kissed her. Shut her right up with the soft, soft pressure of his lips against hers. It felt like it had been forever since they'd done this. And never exactly like this, because every time with him had been distinct.

He tasted . . . beyond description. Those words he mentioned before just flitted away on wings of utter bliss. She loved this kiss, the undulation of their mouths, the wetness of it, how they barely touched.

Then he swiveled toward her. Wrapping one hand around the back of her neck, he deepened the kiss. She let him, even though there were people still mingling around. Which said something about him right there.

She told herself it was because they weren't anywhere near New York City or the Amber or a bottle of whiskey, but really it was him. Him. Byrne. The way he looked, the way he listened, the way he touched her and, God yes, the way he kissed.

She was getting dizzy, buzzy . . . and impossibly turned on. Maybe even embarrassingly so, considering they were still in public, sitting on the dock of the town in which she'd grown up. When he let out that deep groan in the back of his throat, she lost it. Became this puddle of boneless desire that he could form to whatever shape he wanted.

Somehow she got her head straight and pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him away. It took some strength, too, to stop the kiss that neither of them wanted to end. But it did end, as they peeled themselves apart and breathed heavily.

He blinked down at her, then dragged a slow thumb across her bottom lip. They smiled at the same time, and as she started to laugh, she buried her face in the warm, smooth, incredible-smelling crook of his neck, the bristles of the short hairs along his nape tickling her nose. She inhaled and tried to get herself to cool down.

Wasn't working. She was gripping his clothing now, wanting it off.

“Nothing to see here, folks,” he told no one in particular. “Go about your business.”

“Can we go about ours now, too?” she whispered in his ear.

He stilled. Tilted his head. “Which is?”

“Lamb. And then naked, remember?”

“The sunset detour is over?”

She pulled back, took his face in her hands, and kissed him soundly. “The detour is definitely over.”

He was on his feet so fast she barely saw him move.

14

“A
nother hotel room.” He sighed as she pulled her car into the parking lot of the Bluebird Inn, a remodeled old chain motel that was trying to be a quaint little bed-and-breakfast but really only looked like some grandparents had barfed all over a Motel 6. But it was on the opposite side of town from her parents' house and she was with Byrne, and really those were the only two things that mattered at this point.

“Someday,” he added, dramatically shaking his head. “Someday.”

“Sorry. I know you were holding out for a tent again.” She shifted the car into park and turned off the engine.

He was peering into the brightly lit lobby. “No outside access rooms this time. And I'm on the third floor with the rest of my team. You can take the elevator while I take the stairs, if you want. I'll meet you up there.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” she said, and leaned across the handbrake to kiss him.

A big kiss. One with really good pressure and lots and lots of tongue.

“Ah, stop.” Though he shoved her away, the lopsided grin was all
come here
. “I need to get you inside.”

He all but pulled her across the parking lot and through the lobby, their hands twined so much they were just a ball of fingers. He was practically running, and still she found the pace lacking. Wasn't anywhere near fast enough.

The short elevator ride was interminable. The hurry down the baby-powder-smelling hallway a marathon. The blood that surged and pounded through her body was saturated with desire. All she could think was:
now now now I must have you NOW
.

He jiggled the cardkey in the lock and flung open the door. They tumbled inside. The door clanged shut and she was diving for him, blinded by need.

He thrust out a hand between them. “Wait.”

Oh God, her clit was pulsing, her breathing all erratic, every stitch of clothing rubbing her skin raw. “What? Why?”

“Uh.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ways that shouldn't be as hot as it was.

“Oh no.” Her stomach sank as a realization hit her. “Don't tell me you didn't bring . . . stuff. Because I forgot, too.”

That same nervous laugh, that brain-scrambling glance at her under those lashes that really should be outlawed. “Oh, I brought stuff,” he said. “Lots of stuff. So much stuff you better prepare yourself for what's to come.”

“I'm prepared. Let me touch you. Or you touch me. I really don't care which at this point.”

“Yeah. Um.” He coughed out a shaky sound. “I'm really hopped up, Shea. Just barely holding on here.”

“So am I.”

“And I'm—” He dragged a hand over his face. “I'm really, really into you.”

She sucked in a breath. Stared deep into his eyes. “I really like you, too.”

Apparently they were both sixteen now.

His smile was brief but full. “I don't want it to be like last time, in Gleann. I mean, that was incredible and I loved it, but there's no rush tonight, is there? I don't have to get you back by a certain time? Your dad isn't going to be waiting up or anything?”

She grinned. “No.”

“So let's . . . take our time.”

She could have sworn he was saying something else entirely with those eyes. They were worlds in of themselves, and she was losing herself in them.

Taking their time sounded perfect. Taking their time sounded amazing. And even though they were standing in a darkened room, completely alone, less than three feet apart, with sex practically being fed into the room through the air-conditioning unit, the anticipation between them made the atmosphere sparkle.

Byrne blindly reached behind him and flipped over the security deadbolt. The sound shot loud through the room. The only thing louder was her breath, and then the quiet shush of his footsteps as he closed the space between them.

One step. Two. The final third. He seemed so tall to her just then, with his chin tucked into his chest and his eyes blue circles of fire. She stared up at him, her lips parting, begging without words. When he finally touched her, it was with both hands. They lifted slowly, sliding simultaneously across her cheeks. The light skim was electric, and when his fingers dug into her hair and he held her face and finally kissed her, the whole thing went from electric to combustible.

In terms of kisses, it skewed toward chaste. There wasn't even any tongue. Lips barely apart, a feather touch. But when it came to meaning, to promise, it was the dirtiest gesture in existence. He ended the kiss. Started another one. Nudged her mouth open, took just a little bit more.

But silly her, she gave him everything.

Then she was being walked backward toward the bed. Or maybe she was leading. She didn't even know. Did it matter?

When her calves hit the edge of the bed, it paused the kiss. Byrne's hands slid from her neck and face, skimming across her shoulders and down her arms. He pulled his mouth away at the same moment he drew her in for a tight embrace—a simultaneous abandonment and intimate enclosure that got her mind all mixed up. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck. It wasn't just a hug, but a hard, desperate clinging that distinctly felt like the beginning of something huge.

Byrne rubbed his cheek against her hair, and maybe he was saying her name, but she couldn't quite be sure. The whole world had been concentrated into this generic little hotel room.

It was so dangerous, to be feeling this much for one particular person. She knew this, had warned herself the same a million times. But there was absolutely no stopping this, no matter how she scolded herself now. She'd once, jokingly, thought of him as the source of all gravity, pulling the planet together with his force.

Now she knew it to be true.

With an easy push, she stepped away from him. Keeping her eyes lifted, she slowly lowered herself to the bed, sitting there with hands pressed to the edge like she'd done earlier on the dock. His eyes and forehead took on that pained expression again, as though she was too much for him, too. A single finger reached out to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.

As he bent over her, fingertips to the duvet, she pushed herself up and across the bed. He came over her, filling her vision with his wide chest. He settled his knees between her legs as she opened for him.

She could have counted to one hundred for all the time he took to fully lay her out on the bed, to align his body with hers, to come down on top of her and give her all his perfect weight.

It had never been like this between them before. That first kiss in the campground. Then another in the open field in front of her dream farm. Then up against her car. Then—
shiver
—from behind over a cheap dresser. They were all sexual actions and positions that didn't speak so much to intimacy or connection as much as rabid hunger. She'd done so well, playing off the Gleann motel night as something she could leave behind when the door closed and the cardkey was turned in. Who the hell was she kidding?

This
was what she'd wanted. What she'd been dying for. Because there was nothing like having the man who you wanted more than breathing to give you all his weight and then to actually take your air.

Gently, slowly, he pressed her body into the mattress. Instinctually, her thighs closed around his hips, and when one of his hands came around to wedge underneath her knee and pull her leg higher, she tilted up her hips and gave him even more.

His chest felt rock hard beneath her palms, and she realized it was because he was still holding back. Still hadn't given
everything
, every pound and every sigh, to her. Dragging her hands down his arms, she pulled away his support system.

When he sank into her, burying her in his delicious weight and surrounding her with his scent and feel, he groaned and finally—finally—kissed her.

To take her mouth in that way, laid out like lovers, slow and steady and wet and open, cemented her sole desire. The way he clung to her hands, pulling them above her shoulders and pinning her down, made her high. Higher than an addict. The lick of his tongue sent her crashing back to earth. Sent her back a changed woman. She'd never be the same. Would never be able to attain again the current soar of her mind and the hypersensitivity of her skin.

He released her mouth with a groan and a ragged breath. Lying there, still pinning her down with hips and chest and hands, he stared into her face. He looked as hopped up as he'd claimed.

The word
no
had absolutely no meaning for her now. Only
yes
. Yes yes yes.

So she said it. Whispered it to him as she stared at his slack lips. “Yes.”

He just kept looking down at her, and in that moment she didn't know which unasked question she was responding to.

Yes, I am yours.

Yes, you can do anything you want to me, at any pace you like.

Yes, I want you.

Yes, I want more of you.

Yes, I want it all.

And when he lowered his mouth to hers again, he whispered that word as well.

The kiss that followed was filled with
yes
, and it was the most luscious word in existence.

For someone who'd been so insistent at keeping Byrne at a careful arm's distance, she couldn't get close enough to him now. The pressure of his kiss wasn't enough, the entirety of his weight wasn't enough, her hands weren't full enough.

He rolled off her, holding a fistful of her dress on her belly. Forget what she'd thought about going at whatever pace he wanted. He was
killing
her. She conveyed her frustration with a little nip of her teeth on his bottom lip.

“Patience, patience,” he murmured.

“Don't have any anymore. For the love of God, please touch me.”

He grinned against her lips, and then nipped back. “Slowing things down, remember?”

But just as she rolled her eyes and moaned in disappointment, he yanked her dress up higher, skimming a hand over her breast. Fingernails scraped lightly over the nipple that pushed against her bra, sharp as a blade.

“I want to know you,” he whispered, moving his mouth to her neck, her ear. “I want to test you. To figure you out.”

Peeling back her bra, he pinched her nipple. Light and teasing, and she sucked in a shaking breath.

“Yes.” And this time it was Byrne who said it. The one word, full of satisfaction and longing, slithered into her ear and down her spine.

“I want to know you, Shea. What makes you crazy. What makes you wet. What makes you beg.”

This.
This
was what made her crazy. His deep voice in her ear, the length of him pressed against her body, the feel of his hands on her, and the absolute, desperate need for
more
.

But what she said was, “It's you.”

He went completely still the same second in which she realized what she'd admitted.

It was a key in his engine, though, because when he moved again, it was like she'd revved him up and released him on a free track.

With a low, feral groan he pressed even closer, consuming her mouth with his. Grabbing her hip, he rolled her to her side so they were face-to-face, mouth to mouth, and then, with complete skill, silent and stealthy like a ninja, he had her bra undone.

She was a doll in his arms, letting him bend her and move her as he pushed her dress over her head and peeled the bra down her arms. The arch in her back was involuntary, an offering for him.

“Figured something out,” he murmured as he bent his mouth to her nipple and licked it, “that we both love this.”

She loved it so much she thought she might be able to come just from that.

“Harder,” she said, the syllables spread out.

He bit her, lightly closing his teeth. It bowed her off the bed, and he held her down. Did it to the other nipple. And again.

“Okay, okay,” she panted.

He looked up at her between her breasts, and maybe she'd been expecting a look of the devil, of mischief, because the intense focus and dreamlike desire on his face almost undid her.

“Okay what?” His voice was like campfire smoke.

“Okay.” She licked her lips, felt the quiver in her thighs as she spoke the words he wanted to hear. And that she wanted to say. “I'm wet.”

Just a slight tic of his eyebrow. Just the gentle roll of his lower lip as he briefly gnawed on it. And then he moved, nudging his body up higher on the bed. One hand found the top elastic of her underwear, a wonderful threat.

His tongue dipped in her ear. “I need to make sure.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Achingly slowly, he slipped his fingers beneath the satin. The wait for him to touch her, for him to finally feel the proof of her arousal, to know what he did to her, made her shake beyond any measure of control. Still, he didn't touch her.

Pushing up to kneel, he held her eyes with his as he drew off her underwear. She lifted her hips to help him.