Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (12 page)

I continued measuring, photographing, sketching, and Lauren didn’t look up from her phone. Reciting numbers aloud and noisily retracting my tape measure didn’t draw her attention, and when I had more data than necessary, I said, “I’m good. We can probably—”

She whirled around, her hands on her hips and forehead wrinkled. “What’s your middle initial stand for?”

“What?” I heard the question; I really didn’t want to answer it. Lauren stared at me, and somehow this one inquiry was the test. I groaned and crossed my arms over my chest. “Listen. I don’t let this out much but you’re nice. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“What are you? Eleven?”

“Thirty,” I said. “Now, you first.”

“Olivia. Your turn.” She gestured, urging me to answer.

“Antrim.”

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “What was that?”

“Antrim. My mother, she came here alone from Ireland when she was fifteen, and gave all six of us ridiculous Irish middle names, all starting with A. I got stuck with Antrim. I frequently draw the short straw.”

Lauren nodded, her eyes cast downward at the dingy concrete flooring. She was carrying on a full conversation with herself, complete with raised eyebrows and head shaking.

“So like I said, I’ve got everything I need, and—”

“Don’t you want a night off? Maybe some time away from me?”

My gaze swept over the mill’s interior, as if I’d find something in the empty space to diffuse my exasperation. Why the fuck would she think that?

“No. Definitely not.” I scratched my chin, not wanting to ask the question but knowing it was necessary. “Do you?”

She studied her scarf, the fabric twisting around her fingers and then unfurling. “It’s a thing, a big thing, actually. Tonight. My friends, Amanda and Stephanie, they’re both moving in the next few weeks, and we’re having a party for them. And…” She sighed and tore her eyes away from her scarf. “And you could come. With me, that is. For a drink.”

I didn’t know what to make of meeting her friends when she barely agreed to see me today, and I didn’t know whether drinks meant
drinks
, but I knew Lauren was predictably unpredictable. No rational order to be found.

But at least I knew she wasn’t seeing some random guy tonight.

“I think I will come with you.”

*

Fifteen miles of
pavement always did me good, and tonight was no exception. As usual, it tied off my lingering annoyance with Angus over the Bunker Hill properties and other stresses from the week. It helped that Patrick’s ass was parked in a British pub in Cambridge that broadcast his favorite soccer leagues, and not bitching about my route choice.

Back inside my loft, I grabbed a beer before stepping into the shower and spent a few minutes drinking under the water. It would have driven my mother crazy, and if she had lived to see me drinking in the shower, I’m certain she would have taken one of her wooden spoons to my ass because of it.

The places where my mother should have been were everywhere, but it wasn’t the big moments—graduations, birthdays, holidays—that haunted me. It was the everyday moments, when I craved her spaghetti or needed to know the right gift to send for the birth of an old friend’s baby, when I felt it the most.

The thought lodged in my throat, and I choked down the remnants of the beer. I dried off and headed for the den, knowing I owed Erin a response.

Her emails flashed across my phone all day, along with a torrent of calls and texts from Shannon about getting my shit together on the Bunker Hill properties before Angus went postal. Patrick wanted status reports on the brownstones, Sam needed me looking at a foundational decay issue, and Riley was very concerned about getting my take on his Fantasy Football league. All said, I had nineteen missed calls, thirty-two texts, and fifty-one emails from my siblings.

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: September 25 at 17:03 CEST

Subject: RE: Matt’s mental breakdown

Since you haven’t updated me on chica, I presume you’ve decided to climb Mount Washington together, or swim to Quincy Bay, or whatever you athletic types do, and you’re living happily ever after.

(have I mentioned that I find that bizarre—isn’t life difficult enough without choosing to climb things?)

Or chica kicked you in the balls and you’re lying in a gutter somewhere and she wasn’t as incredible you thought she was. BTW—In Italia now.

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: September 25 at 18:31 EDT

Subject: Not climbing Mt Washington

E –

Everything’s awesome.

M

I pulled another beer from the refrigerator when I heard my phone ringing, and answered without looking at the screen. Odds were high Lauren was calling to cancel or a sibling was in need of something completely unessential. “Hello?”

“Everything’s awesome? That’s all I get? It’s been ten hours, and I get a one-line response with zero descriptive details? Really, Matt?”

“But at least I know what it takes to get you on the phone.” Smiling at Erin’s ever-present piss and vinegar, I edged my hip on the counter and sipped my beer. “What would you like to know?”

“What does she look like? Give me a point of reference.”

I ran my hand through my damp hair, thinking. “She’s blonde, green eyes, twenty-eight, a little shorter than you, wears a lot of scarves—”

“Okay, scarves, that tells me everything. So you’re
with
her now? You’re dating?”

“Do people still use that term?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Erin muttered. “Matt, you’re making it hard for me to tolerate you right now.”

“Why are you being such a bitch about this?”

“I’m not! I just think you’re getting a little carried away with chica—”

“Her name is Lauren,” I snapped.

“Okay, great, you’re getting a little carried away with
Lauren.
I mean, come on, you hooked up with her and then went into meltdown mode this morning. Do you even know her birthday? Her favorite citrus fruit? These are the important things, Matt, and it would suck to realize after a few months that she loves pomelos and you’re all about tangerines. Take your pussy goggles off.”

I wanted—no, needed—Erin on my side. “I don’t ask you for much, E, and right now, I’m asking you not to analyze it. We’re just hanging out. That’s it.”

“All right,” Erin sighed. “But you better not—”

“I gotta go, E,” I interrupted as the doorbell rang. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“I want proof of this in the form of pictures! You and chica, ASAP!”

A towel knotted on my hips and a half-empty beer bottle in my hand, I swung open the door to find Lauren in a blue sequined dress that barely covered her ass. “Holy fuck,” I groaned.

Her eyes landed on my chest and then traveled lower, staring at the towel as she shut the door behind her. “Uh-huh.”

I leaned against the wall and polished off my beer, somewhat surprised she chose to show up at all. “Where are your pants, sweetness?”

“Where are yours?”

That bossy little mouth. I wanted to hate it, I wanted to shove my cock in it, but more than anything, I loved it.

Locking a hand on her elbow, I pulled her to me, and lifted the loaded tote and silver gift bags from her. We watched each other for a heavy minute, the air between us shifting, heating. And then we attacked each other. Our lips crashed together, urgent and hungry, as if we spent three years apart instead of three hours.

Lauren’s back against the wall, I dropped to my knees and hiked that blood-quickening excuse for a dress over her waist, and I found pale pink panties waiting for me. “Are these for my benefit, Miss Halsted?”

Her shoulders squared, she gazed down at me with a solemn expression. “I can’t imagine why you’d think that, Mr. Walsh.”

“Filthy, filthy girl,” I said. The silky fabric slipped to her ankles and I hooked her leg over my shoulder, her laughter ringing around us. Her fingers dug into my hair when my tongue swiped her bare folds, and it was everything I craved about her—her taste, her sounds, her shivers.

“We should go-
ooo
,” Lauren moaned. I glanced up at her from my knees but kept my tongue fused to her clit. “You really need to get dressed.”

Lauren halfheartedly pushed away from the wall, and I tightened my grip on her ass. I growled against her before looking up again. “Is this not working for you? Your pussy seems to be enjoying it.”

The conflict was clear in her eyes, and I wondered whether I should feel the same, but I didn’t understand what she found so problematical. I didn’t see what could be wrong with this when we both wanted it, and we knew the rules of the game.

Her fingers curled around my hair, pulling me closer, directing me where she needed me, all while she shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

“That’s bullshit. Now stay right here,” I said. “I know what you need.”

“And what’s that?” Her fingers attacked a knot in my shoulder while I returned to her folds, nipping and licking until we were both breathing hard.

I wanted her obscene words, but I knew if I asked for them they’d take over, and there were a few things I wanted to know before that happened.

“You need to be fucked properly, and I sincerely doubt anyone’s ever done that for you.” Two fingers pushed inside her, and her body immediately found its rhythm. “At least not before last night.”

“Oh really?”

I nodded, my tongue teasing her. Last night with Lauren was indescribable. It redefined everything I knew about sex, adding layers of complexity and connection I never thought possible. And then there was her quietly obvious inexperience, and the unrestricted trust she placed in my hands. She was far from pure, but fuck, she was innocent.

“I knew last night. Either no one’s ever gone down on you before, or you’ve never come from it. Which one is it?”

Lauren’s head fell against the wall and her eyes closed, and for several minutes, the only sounds were her frantic murmurs and pleas for more. Then she ran her hands through my hair, canted my head to meet her eyes, and said, “You were my first.”

“I like that.” My tongue pressed against Lauren’s clit, and I felt her orgasm pulsating around my fingers. In the distance I could hear her speaking, feel her clawing at my shoulders, but all I could hear was
mine, mine, mine.
It was the only thing I heard when Miss Halsted was around.

“Get up here,” she demanded, her hand twisted tight around my hair.

That bossy girl.

As I stood, she tore the towel from my waist, closed her hand around me, and scraped her teeth over my earlobe. She whispered, “Why do you like it?”

Her grip tightened and I groaned against her neck, my hips pumping into her hand. The sequined dress bunched under her breasts, and I wanted it gone, out of sight. Once the zipper was down, I yanked it over her head and it joined my towel and her panties on the floor. “I don’t want anyone else tasting your sweet pussy. It’s just for me.”

“You’re such a caveman,” she hissed. “Why do I like that so fucking much?”

“It doesn’t have to make sense, sweetness. Just enjoy it.”

Lauren’s knees tightened around my hips, and she dragged me through her slit. I shuddered, and bucked into her hand with a sharp grunt.

“How many other girls do you have drinks with?”

My teeth pressed against her collarbone, and I growled. “How many times have I told you there are no others?”

She smiled, offering a small shrug. “I’m on the pill. Are you going to give me herpes or anything gross like that?”

“What? No, no, definitely not—”

Her fist tightened around me, drawing me into her heat. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure, Laur—” Before I could say anything else, she aimed my cock at her entrance, pressed her heels into my ass, and I was inside her.

Bare.

“Fuck, Lauren,” I bellowed.

I didn’t move. I wanted to remember every hot, clenching ounce of her. Thinking about baseball would buy me a few more minutes. It always worked under the condom regime. The wearing a raincoat in the shower regime. “Goddamn it, sweetness, you feel so tight and hot and wet, and perfect, and unbelievable, and if you behave, I might let you come soon.”

She drove her fingers through my hair, scraping her nails along my scalp until I shivered under her hands. I wasn’t ready for this. I didn’t know how to handle the dizzy sensation wrapping around my brain. I wasn’t even sure I could stay standing.

“I don’t think I can behave, Mr. Walsh.”

I heard everything she wasn’t saying—her desire for something raw and real, something that didn’t require definition—and I swallowed it all. I pulled all the way out before spearing into her, her breath catching as I filled her. Our eyes met, and I repeated the motion, wanting her gasps and moans, wanting to own them.

“You’re right,” I said, my teeth clenched and jaw rigid. “And you’d rather have it this way, wouldn’t you?”