Love and Mistletoe

by Zara Keane

  “You have gorgeous breasts,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “I’ve imagined what they’d feel like for so long.”

  “Is that so?” she teased, tracing the freckles on his nose. “If you’ve been imagining them, maybe you’d like to see them.” She sat up and pulled her top over her head, revealing her favorite red and black lacy bra. He sucked in a breath, and his pupils dilated. The sight of his obvious desire was a major turn-on. “Do you like what you see?” She toyed with the straps. “Do you want to see more?”

  “Yeah,” he croaked. “Definitely.”

  She unhooked the strap at the back and eased the bra over her breasts.

  “Whoa. They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  She laughed. “I’m not, and you know it. But if I do say so myself, I lucked out in the boob department.”

  He cupped her chin in his palms. “You’re beautiful to me.”

  He said the words with such conviction that she believed him. She blinked back unexpected tears. Had anyone called her beautiful before? Doubtful. “Who knew you were such a charmer, Garda Glenn?” she said, determined to diffuse the warm tenderness that was threatening to unravel the barbed wire guarding her heart.

  Taking his hand, she guided him over her breasts, remaining in charge at first but soon giving way to his need to explore. The sensation of his hands on her skin was electric. He teased one of her nipples, making her moan, then trailed his other hand down her stomach. For once, she was too preoccupied with the sensations rolling over her to feel self-conscious over her fleshy abdomen. She wasn’t fat, but she definitely wasn’t thin, and her natural build didn’t lend itself to washboard abs. Brian didn’t seem to care.

  “Gorgeous,” he murmured, kissing her belly and pulsing his tongue around her navel.

  Breath caught in her throat. She tugged impatiently at his shirt and began to unbutton it. She’d gotten halfway down his chest when he pulled the garment over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Now it was her turn to ogle him. As she’d suspected, he had well-defined muscles. A smattering of hair decorated his upper chest, but his torso was otherwise smooth and solid. She ran her palms all the way down his front and tugged at his belt. “Off.”

  He leaned forward to nibble her ear. “Ladies first.”

  That made her laugh. “I’ve been accused of many things in my time. Being a lady is not one of them. But I’ll play along.”

  She eased her jeans over her hips and down her legs. While she was removing her socks, he was already removing her lacy knickers. “Very sexy,” he said, holding his prize aloft.

  “If you’re so fond of them, I’ll buy you a pair.”

  “Somehow I don’t think they’d look as good on me as they do off you,” he said with a rueful smile.

  She indicated his crotch, the telltale bulge in his underwear making her wet and achy with longing. “Now it’s your turn.”

  He slid off his underwear, revealing the hard smoothness of his erection.

  “Whoa.” Her hand reached out as if by its own volition. She stroked the silky skin of his shaft and heard his ragged breathing when she bent down to tease the tip with her tongue.

  “Careful,” he groaned. “It’s been a while. I don’t want to come too soon.”

  He pushed her back on the sofa and teased the sensitive skin on her inside thighs. When his tongue found her clit, she arched her back and gasped. Most men, in her not insubstantial experience, wouldn’t be able to find their way around the female genitalia with the aid of GPS. Clearly Brian was not “most men.” He teased her with circular movements, dancing his tongue forward and back. The friction combined with the sensation of his stubble tickling her thighs made her cry out with pleasure.

  “That feels so good,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “I don’t suppose your handcuffs are nearby?”

  “Handcuffs?” His head came up, and he spluttered with laughter. “Isn’t this the point where you ask me if I have a condom?”

  “Knowing your personality, I’d be shocked if you didn’t have one.” She arched forward. “Now about those handcuffs…”

  “All right. Wait a sec.” He staggered to his feet and went into the hall. A minute later, he returned, armed with his police handcuffs and a small key. “I’m not supposed to use these for—”

  “Sex play?” She pushed herself up on her elbows and watched his gaze fasten on her naked breasts.

  “Yeah.”

  “And how many of your colleagues disobey that order, I wonder?”

  His smile widened. “Probably all.”

  “Throw them here.” She caught the handcuffs, then weighed the cold metal in her hands. “They’re heavier than I expected.”

  “That’s because they’re real handcuffs, not the fakes you buy in sex shops.”

  “I’m sure we could decorate these with fluffy pink material.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks,” he said dryly. “I don’t fancy clapping pink fluffy handcuffs on the likes of John-Joe Fitzgerald the next time I arrest him.”

  “Come here,” she murmured, reaching for him. He obeyed, kissing her, stroking her breasts, belly, thighs, and between her legs, driving her to distraction. “I want you inside me.”

  In one fluid movement, he caught her wrists above her head and handcuffed her.

  The hard restraints chafed against her skin, but the feeling was a turn-on, especially with Brian watching her with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You won’t be going anywhere fast, Ms. MacCarthy.”

  “Hey,” she protested, laughing. “I was going to handcuff you.”

  “I know. You can save that for Round Two.” He flashed her a smile tinged with naughtiness and raw sexual desire. Then he ripped open a condom foil and rolled it over his shaft. “For the moment,” he murmured against her neck, “you’re my prisoner.”

  “Well, you were always trying to lock me up, weren’t you?” She gasped when she felt the tip of his shaft tease her entrance. “Looks. Like. You. Succeeded.”

  “Looks. Like.” The soft aroma of his shampoo teased her senses as he buried his head into her neck.

  She helped him find her entrance, arranging the position of her hips to accommodate him. He was bigger than she’d expected. The first thrust was a shock, but her body soon adjusted to his size.

  “You’re fabulous,” he whispered into her ear as he moved inside her. “Absolutely perfect.”

  She looped her handcuffed arms around his neck and tried to answer, but the only sound she emitted was a moan of pleasure. The pressure in her groin built with each thrust, further enhanced by his hand tugging on her nipple.

  She pulled him closer, moving her hips to allow him deeper penetration. Lost to sensation, she let the feelings build until they came in a simultaneous explosion of ecstasy. When she cried out, he swallowed her scream with a kiss.

  Afterward they lay on the sofa, panting. He took her hand and squeezed it. “That was even better than my most X-rated fantasies. You are an amazing woman, Sharon MacCarthy.”

  “I’m also a restrained woman.” She jangled the handcuffs.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I’d forgotten about those.”

  Leaping off the sofa, he grabbed the key from the coffee table. He gently held her wrists as he unlocked her. This was the moment she’d been waiting for. As soon as the handcuffs slackened around her wrists, she removed them and clamped one of them around Brian’s left hand, lightning fast, and the other to the radiator beside the sofa. “Hey,” he protested. “Careful of the key.”

  A clinking sound of metal falling against metal rang from behind the radiator. Sharon’s eyes flew to his, and saw her frozen shock reflected. “Oh, feck.”

  Chapter Seven

  BRIAN REGARDED HIS WRIST WITH HORROR, then turned his attention to Sharon. She was naked, beautiful, and sexy as hell. And if he weren’t facing the prospect of ending his days chained to his living room radiator, he’d want to make love to her all over again. “The key was in the lock.
Please don’t tell me it fell behind the radiator.”

  “Maybe it hit the floor.” She got to her knees and scrambled round the carpet, affording him an excellent view of her shapely arse.

  “No luck?”

  “No,” she moaned and shoved a lock of wild hair out of her face. The sparkly eye shadow he’d admired earlier was now gloriously smudged. She looked fucked and fuckable. He was getting hard just looking at her.

  “Did you hear that clang of metal when I handcuffed you?” she asked. “Like something falling behind the radiator?”

  “I did, but I really didn’t want to believe it. If the key’s behind there”—he jerked his thumb at the wall-mounted radiator—“we’ll have a hell of a time getting it back out.”

  “Oh, no,” she said in a tone of despair, then caught his eye and dissolved into a fit of maniacal laughter. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m at the wrong angle to check behind the radiator. You’ll have to do it. There’s a flashlight on the mantelpiece.”

  Sharon leaped up and got the flashlight. She shone its thin beam of light behind the radiator. And swore.

  “Can you see it?”

  “No. It’s got to be there, though. How else are we going to get you free?”

  “I don’t suppose one of your family members taught you how to pick a lock?”

  “Alas, no. We MacCarthys aren’t that subtle. We’re more the smash-the-window or break-the-door-down types.” She tried to reach down the back of the radiator, but her hand wouldn’t fit. “Ouch.” She recoiled and clutched her hand. “That thing’s hot. So how are we going to get you free?”

  “By calling Seán Mackey,” he said gloomily. “He can get the spare key for these cuffs from the station.” At least Seán would be discreet and not tell the entire station about Brian’s predicament. Teasing him when they were alone was another story.

  “What’s his number?” Sharon had already retrieved her sparkly smart phone from her handbag.

  “My phone is in the back pocket of my jeans. It’s saved under my contacts.”

  Twenty minutes later, Seán strode into the living room, wearing a shit-eating grin and more respectable attire than the towel Sharon had draped around Brian’s waist. Sharon herself had gone on a mad clothes retrieval spree and was dressed—more or less.

  Seán’s gaze trailed over the post-coital chaos of the living room before settling on Brian’s restrained wrist. “This has got to be the best emergency call out of my career.”

  Brian shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, angling his wrist away from the heat of the radiator. “Go on, have a good laugh. But could you please unlock me between bursts of hysteria?”

  Seán rocked back on his heels, prolonging his partner’s agony. “Well, well. So you two finally got it on.”

  “So we did,” Sharon said, folding her arms across her chest and fixing the police sergeant with a fulminating glare. “Now are you going to unlock him so we can ‘get it on’ again?”

  “Sharon!” Embarrassment burned a path to Brian’s scalp. “Do you have to be so—”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Direct? You knew what you were getting when you asked me out, Garda Glenn. Want to back out now?”

  “Hell, no.” He turned to his partner. “Hop with those keys, man.”

  “Gladly,” Seán said in mock alarm. “I need to get out of here before I witness a porn scene.” He flipped a key out of his pocket and slid it into the handcuff’s narrow lock.

  The cuff loosened around Brian’s wrist. He wriggled free and stood, clutching the inadequately small towel around his waist. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

  Seán’s grin slid back into place. “No thanks are needed. This rescue mission was the highlight of my evening.” He spun on his heel and headed for the living room door, then paused in the doorframe and saluted them. “Have fun, kids.”

  After the front door slammed behind Seán, they looked at one another. Sharon gave a sly half smile and pulled off her top to reveal… absolutely nothing… underneath. The sight of her naked breasts made him rock hard and wild with longing. “You’re torturing me,” he growled. “Come here.”

  She obeyed, standing demurely in front of him. Then her lips curved, and she sank to her knees. “Would you like me to spend the night with you, Garda Glenn?”

  “I’d like you to spend every night with me if it means sex this hot.”

  Her deep laugh reverberated against his thigh. Then she put her mouth over his shaft, and then he ceased to think until morning.

  ***

  Sharon adjusted her witch’s hat and slid a pint across the counter to a thirsty customer. It was Halloween and her turn to help out in the family pub. Her brother Ruairí’s pub to be precise, since he’d bought it from their parents a couple of years ago. He’d spent time and money restoring the place to its former glory. She appreciated his insistence that MacCarthy’s retain its old-fashioned look combined with modern comforts. Tonight the pub was festooned with fake cobwebs, pumpkins, and skeletons. Most of the patrons had embraced the spirit of the holiday and donned costumes—some scary, some risqué, some utterly absurd.

  “All right?” Ruairí reached underneath the counter for a fresh pint glass and sent his pirate hat askew in the process.

  “I’m grand. Yourself?”

  “Fine.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “More than fine.”

  She gave him a bear hug. “You’ll make a great daddy, bro. Jayme’s lucky to have you.”

  “I’m lucky to have her.” He beamed and disentangled himself from her fake witchy talons. “This pregnancy seems to be dragging, though. Seems forever until March.”

  “I’ll remind you of this conversation when you’re haggard from lack of sleep. Will it be a St. Patrick’s Day baby?”

  “He or she is due on the nineteenth of March, so it’s a possibility.”

  “Fingers crossed. We have no little Paddy in our family.”

  Her brother grimaced. “If Jayme has her way, we won’t have one in March, either.”

  “What names does she like?” Sharon was fond of her American sister-in-law, but their disparate backgrounds caused the occasional difference of opinion or culture clash.

  Her brother wrinkled his slightly crooked nose. “If the baby is a girl, Jayme wants to call her Lucrezia.”

  “As in Borgia?” Sharon roared with laughter. “Ah, no. I can’t see that name flying in Ballybeg. You’ll have to talk her down.”

  “I’m doing my best.” Ruairí’s smile turned sly. “Speaking of romance, I hear you’re spending a lot of time with a certain policeman.”

  Sharon felt her cheeks turn pink. “Would you have a problem if I were?”

  “Not at all. Just surprised. Glenn’s not your usual type.”

  “No, he certainly isn’t.” And thank goodness for that. In the fortnight since they’d first slept together, Sharon had spent at least a couple of nights a week at Brian’s house. It served a number of purposes—apart from the obvious benefit of the amazing sex. First, it got her off the farm and away from Da. Second, Brian had no problem with her staying on at his place to study when he headed out to work in the morning. And last but definitely not least, Brian himself. She’d never been short of men to date, but she’d gravitated toward the reckless bad-boy type and had never expected—or wanted—the relationships to last.

  Until now.

  And that was the part that scared the bejaysus out of her. Brian was different. He listened when she talked. Really listened. He made her hot milky coffee when she had a crying jag about her mother. He let her rant about Da and never once said a word about the number of times he’d had to deal with the man in his role as cop. And he treated her with respect. None of her previous boyfriends had done that, and the difference in how it made her feel about him, about herself, and about their relationship was a revelation.

  “I like Brian,” she admitted. “I like him a lot.”

  The corners of Ruairí’s
warm brown eyes creased in concern. “I know you do, kiddo. And that’s what worries me. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you the hypocrite. You were always complaining about my boyfriends. Now I find a fella with a steady job, and you’re still bellyaching.”

  He held up his palms in surrender. “Calm down, sis. I had no time for those other eejits because they were likely to lead you into trouble. Brian Glenn is a decent bloke.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  He patted her on the head just as he’d done when she was a little girl. “I don’t want to see you with a broken heart.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “When he dumps me for someone more suitable, you mean?”

  Her brother shook his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of when you screw it up and he ends the relationship.”

  His words burned like acid on her skin. She drew back, wounded. “Why does everyone in this town have such a low opinion of me?”

  “They don’t.” Ruairí took her shoulders. “I don’t.”

  “And I certainly don’t,” said a very familiar Donegal-accented voice.

  Sharon jerked round to see Brian standing at the counter, looking both ridiculous and ridiculously sexy in a glam rock vampire costume. “It was all Nora Fitzgerald had left at her suit-rental shop,” he said by way of explanation. “I left it a little late to book my costume.”

  Beside Brian stood her sister Marcella, resplendent in a leprechaun outfit, complete with a pot of gold around her already substantial waist. She’d even dyed the tips of her spiky peroxide hair green for the occasion. “Hey, Sharon. I promised lover boy here”—a jerk of a thumb in Brian’s direction—“that I’d release you from your duties.”

  Brian gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. “What can I say? We met in Nora’s costume section. I persuaded Marcella to work your shift and let me spirit you into the night.”

  “In other words, he bribed me,” Marcella said cheerily, maneuvering her wide costume behind the counter. “He’s doubling my wage for the night. More moolah for my Christmas trip away with Máire. How could I refuse?”