by Cara McKenna
“What’s your last name?”
“Kelleher. What’s yours?”
“Webb.”
“Right. Jamie Webb,” he said softly, as though he didn’t wish to share the knowledge of her name with any eavesdroppers. Another of those delightfully untrustworthy grins, and he clacked her pint glass with his highball. “I’m Connor Kelleher. So very fine to make your acquaintance.”
* * *
Jamie wasn’t sure when bars officially closed for the night in Ireland, but Connor locked the door to the Crossroads just after ten, when the final regular bade him a good evening and shuffled out into the night. He flipped the dead bolt and the sign in the window, then turned expectantly to Jamie.
“Ready to redeem yourself?” she asked.
They’d been making flirtatious small talk for the past couple hours, but she still felt a ripple of nerves. Thrilling nerves—an endorsement from her intuition, not a warning.
“I’ll do my best,” Connor said, cracking his knuckles. “Though sadly you’ve already seen my best. I can only pray that whiskey’s left me with a fighting chance.”
“Sorry. I actually play better after a drink.” She fed the coin tray, setting unseen balls tumbling.
Connor flipped off all the lights save for the one above the table, seeming to close them in an intimate, dramatic little set.
He let her arrange the balls, and he broke.
Feeling cruel, Jamie took to disturbing him just before he could take his next shot, peppering him with inane questions. The fourth time she pulled the stunt, he stayed as he was, leveling her with his eyes. He looked deliciously dangerous in the stark overhead light, still poised to take his thwarted turn—brow furrowed, shoulder blades cocked, gorgeous forearms tensed and his fingers curled around the cue.
Trounce me.
He didn’t. He merely smiled some mysterious Connor smile, then finally took his turn. Her ploy worked, though—he didn’t sink a thing.
He sighed his annoyance, standing aside as Jamie got her own shot strategized. He tapped the table with the tip of his cue. “Aim about here,” he said. Tap tap tap. She eyeballed a different angle and he tapped again, in her line of vision. “Right about here, then.” Tap tap tap tap.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and picked a ball, knocking it neatly into a side pocket. She tossed him a snotty look as she circled to find her next move. Connor rested his cue along his shoulders, gripping it with both hands. “If we’d agreed on any prizes this time, I may as well go ahead and forfeit mine.”
“I thought the stakes were rather obvious,” she said, and potted the blue ball.
Connor seemed to perk up at this. He was imagining another kiss—she could tell from his eyebrows alone, rising a fraction to betray his intentions.
“Do you now?” he asked. “And what might those stakes be?”
“Your dignity.”
He pouted, posture slumping. “I’m doomed then. Can’t we play for something else?”
She knocked a red into a pocket. “Such as...?”
“I rather liked our earlier wager.”
“At this rate, I’ll be leaving here with an entire bottle.” She eyed the yellow ball.
“Mine, not yours.”
She looked up and held his stare. “I liked your wager, too,” she admitted, her smile feeling as shy as her words were bold.
He stepped closer, skirting the corner of the table. Goodness, those hips. This man could slink.
“If that’s the case,” he said softly, “then maybe the snooker’s a bit of a formality.”
“But I already paid for it.”
A wholly evil grin quirked Connor’s lips, and he dropped to his haunches, crouching to fiddle with something underneath the table. With a smart shove, he popped the coin tray in and out, and Jamie’s investment clattered into the little change well beside it. He came close, closer—very, very close—and pressed the euro to her palm. His mouth was so near she could feel his warm exhalation at her temple.
She swallowed, pocketing the coin. “Well played.”
He took her cue stick slowly—slow enough to allow a protest, but Jamie didn’t have one to offer. She watched him set it on the table with his own, upsetting the balls and calling an official end to the match. With that same measured approach, he brought one hand lightly to her side, palming her hip. His hand was hot. So hot. The heat of him seeped inside her, rising to warm her chest, her neck, her face.
“Flash,” he said, nodding to mean her sparkly silver belt.
“I’ve got a weakness for glitter.” A weakness for glitter and, it would appear, shameless Irish barmen. Quite without meaning to, she licked her bottom lip. His eyes recorded the signal, fixed like magnets on true north.
He cleared his throat and spoke softly. “I’ve locked us in a pub together. I think chivalry demands the next move be yours to make.”
Any lingering cluster of nerves she’d been holding on to broke apart, scattering like so many snooker balls at Connor’s quiet, loaded deferral. She put her hand to his side, feeling all the heat and firm muscle through his shirt, stroking with her thumb. For a moment she studied his buttons, then she cocked her jaw, rising once more on her tiptoes.
Their first kiss had been bold, practically a dare, but this one felt nearly hesitant. His eyes closed a second before hers did, and his breath warmed her skin, smelling sweetly of grapefruit and cranberries. His stubble was the softest tease against her chin. Their mouths flirted, bottom lips brushing. Then with a strong hand raised to cradle Jamie’s jaw, Connor led them into uncharted waters.
And holy God, he could kiss.
Before his tongue even stroked hers, she was giddy. And when it did...
Surely sex itself had never felt this dirty. And raw. And right. She dropped to her heels, but his mouth never left hers as he stooped to keep them connected. That cupped hand, its thumb caressing her cheek. His other palm, hot and restless as a crackling fire at her waist. She fisted his shirt, held on tight and welcomed him to take her wherever he had in mind.
He tasted her deeply, then steadily, subtly, he turned her, coaxed her to the edge of the table. With two big hands on her hips, he helped her hop her butt on the ledge. With his eyes locked on hers and offering that same deferring caution as before, he nudged her knees open. She didn’t protest. She welcomed the next move, in fact, slipping her fingers through his belt loops and pulling him close. Thigh to thigh, now—scarcely an inch between them to keep the extent of his excitement a mystery.
The arrangement brought their faces level, and so close. He smelled wonderful—his soap, some faint hint of citrus and earth. He leaned in and his nose teased hers, the contact feeling new all over again, the anticipation intoxicating. Happy nerves wriggled in her belly and her heart seemed to stop, time suspended in an eternal breath before—
Yes. Her eyes shut. Her lips parted. Her mind went fuzzy, the world dissolving save for the single point where Connor’s mouth met hers.
His lips felt so good—firm and swollen, giving away his excitement. His gentlemanly hesitance faded, the kiss growing hungrier, needier. Not pushy, but so exquisitely eager. She could hear his arousal, feel it like a rumble of approaching thunder in his throat. Her palms slid from his ribs up his chest, down his arms. He felt solid beneath that soft cotton. Vital. She held his shoulders, squeezed the lean muscle there. As her fingertips grazed his neck, something shifted in him. He angled his mouth and consumed her.
Everything this kiss made her feel, she wanted him to feel right back—desired, needed, craved. She fumbled at his waist, finding his belt, tugging him close. He gave what she demanded, that ultimate confirmation—his hard length pressed to the crease of her thigh, stifled behind two cruel pairs of jeans. His soft moan interrupted their kiss. His lips left hers, their foreheads flush as he reached between them to adjust whatever had him pained. When he brought his body back to hers, a rhythm accompanied the pressure of his stiff, insistent flesh. Gentle, subtle thrusts,
the faintest contact spurring her excitement as explicitly as if it were his fingertips, his lips, his tongue. Need bloomed in her, a blossom spreading wide then cinching tight as a fist.
She hugged her thighs to his hips. Her kingdom for a skirt, and for his open fly. To have nothing between their overheated bodies but two layers of underwear.
Still, safer this way. As she imagined going further, reality sobered her a few degrees, banishing the fog of infatuation enough for Jamie to find her bearings. It was her first night in the country, alone, and this was the first eligible man she’d met. Much as she was dying to make a mistake tonight...not yet. It was the advice she’d give Kate, were it her best friend here on this table, sprinting toward third base with a man she barely knew. And tipsy or not—eager or not—Jamie took her own advice.
She reeled them back slowly until their bodies grew still but for playfully flirting mouths. Both were smiling as their kiss broke apart, and Jamie licked her tender lips. Their gazes darted and met, and all the hunger and curiosity she felt was reflected back in those blue eyes.
“I should probably get myself back,” she said.
“Don’t want your hostess to worry?” he teased, and rubbed the tip of his nose sweetly to hers. He wanted her, she knew, but he respected the line she’d drawn.
She nodded. “Something like that.”
He stepped back a pace, and desperation burned in his eyes, flushed his cheeks and ears pink to spite his self-control. He didn’t pressure her, didn’t sweet-talk her, didn’t lament how she’d led him on. He simply cleared his throat and asked, “Do you need a ride?”
She’d love one, but it still seemed reckless to hop in a car with a relative stranger, no matter how urgently her body wanted to hop into a bed with one.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, miming casual male ambivalence. Adorable, considering how hard he surely still was. She’d felt his need pressed between her legs, thick and eager. The mere thought of it brought a fever to her body.
“How long are you here for?” he asked.
“Ten days.”
“I, em, I work the day after tomorrow. First drink’s on me, if you get bored or whatever.”
Goodness, who was this man? She’d made him shy—chased that brazen flirt away and replaced him with this lovable, uncertain creature. Maybe that was how he got when he was aroused. All helpless. She had to stifle a grin to imagine it. The things she’d love to discover about this man... And if she should discover something she didn’t adore, who cared? She’d be flying back home in ten days.
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
Spurred by the acceptance, Connor stood a bit taller. “Or if you’ve not got any plans tomorrow night, if you wanted to get dinner, maybe...?”
“I’m not sure what I’m doing tomorrow.” Perhaps an Irishman. About six-foot-one, brown hair, ridiculously blue eyes? Know of any likely candidates? Then a different plot materialized. “Oh, wait...”
“Yes?”
“You said you work with cars—you must know how to drive a manual.”
“Naturally.”
“I’ll trade you, if you’re up for it. A couple hours’ lesson, and in exchange I’ll buy you dinner? Donna offered me her car while I’m here, but it’s not much use until I learn how to drive stick. If I don’t I’ll go crazy, stuck out here for—” Whoops, better backpedal. “No offense. It’s a lovely place to be stuck—”
His warm smile cut Jamie off, melting her like a Popsicle in the summer sun.
“None taken. Trust me, I counted down the days until I turned sixteen and could finally escape. And I’m free after four o’clock.”
“Perfect. Could you come out to where I’m staying, maybe?”
“I could. I’ll make you an expert in no time.”
“Here’s hoping.” She looked around, realizing all over how strange this was. How weird that this man could feel so right and so familiar, so impossibly soon. She fetched her bag from the barstool. “Let me give you my number.”
Connor pulled out his own phone and they traded digits.
“I’m naming this contact ‘shameless Irish bartender,’” she informed him, typing the entry.
“I’m naming yours ‘beguiling American snooker shark.’” He pocketed his phone with a lopsided little smile.
As they wandered toward the exit, Jamie was positively high. His attention felt amazing. Noel had grown so distant their final few months together, and she’d forgotten how intoxicating a guy’s interest felt. The headiest cocktail. And she’d happily get blitzed on Connor’s company—just not tonight. She zipped her hoodie.
“Tomorrow,” he said, putting a hand lightly to her arm as he unlocked the front door and held it open. The night air was glacial after all that body heat.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, and slipped demurely across the threshold with a final smile.
“I trust that bike’s got a light,” Connor called as she wheeled it around from the fence that separated the pub’s parking lot from a neighboring field.
She flipped on the beam, illuminating six-feet-something of long, lean man. Her made-to-order vacation fling.
“You sure you’re all right on that thing? I won’t hear tomorrow that some American girl careened off the lane arsewise and wedged herself in a hedgerow?”
“I’m fine.” She swung a leg over and slid her bag from her hip to her back.
“Text me that you arrived back in one piece.”
She twisted her hair into a bun and snapped an elastic around it. “Sure. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Smiling, he offered a little salute. “You will.”
“Hope you’re a better driving instructor than a snooker player.”
His smile dried to a smirk. “And I hope you’re a more gracious pupil than you are a winner.”
She put a foot to a pedal and glided toward the road with a “See ya” tossed over her shoulder.
His voice lit the dark night, words warm with promise. “Indeed you will.”
Chapter Three
She’d texted him when she got to Donna’s, standing in the drafty front hall with her heart beating quick.
Back without any bodily harm. Night!
His reply didn’t come immediately, and though she filled the wait with prebed routines, the silence of those five or so minutes echoed positively cavernous.
Finally, a ping and wriggle from her phone. She snatched it off the bedside table, arms still half-tangled in the shirt she’d been pulling on.
All right for some, he’d written. I’ve got a pub to clean.
I’d have helped if you’d asked me, she replied, and flipped her hair from under her collar.
Perish the thought. You’ll need your rest for tomorrow’s lesson.
She held herself back from tapping out a reply. Her long-neglected dating instincts had kicked in, and she’d always preferred to leave a guy just slightly hanging in such an exchange. Besides, he already knew she was eager. No need to underline that fact.
Instead she climbed under the guest room’s old quilt and checked the texts Kate had left—a good dozen of them, all peppered with question marks. She gave her the gist, then added, Tomorrow he’s giving me a lesson on how to drive stick shift.
Ping.
Too easy. Not even dignifying that with low-hanging innuendo.
Jamie laughed aloud. She texted a good night with a promise of updates, then, smiling, she shut off her phone and lamp, pretending she stood any chance of actually falling asleep.
* * *
The next afternoon just past four-thirty, the sound of tires on gravel launched Jamie’s heart into her throat. She’d been up and down the stairs fifty times in the last half hour, making last-minute wardrobe changes and texting Kate.
Did I really meet a hot Irish mechanic bartender last night, or was that some crazy jet-lag dream?
I dunno. Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?
LOL
<
br /> Anyway, be good. But not too good. Text me later.
Now Jamie pulled the curtain back and peeked through the gap. She’d woken with some trepidation, worried she’d overestimated their connection or this stranger’s reliability, or her own charm—questioned everything, basically, and jumped at every text that graced her phone, finding only Kate. But there he was!
He was even handsomer in the cool, straining sunlight, swinging a long leg to dismount a motorbike and hang his helmet on the handlebar. Too bad he was here to take her for a driving lesson; she’d have liked an excuse to sit on that bike and hold on to his strong body for dear life.
He’s here!!! she shouted at Kate with her fingers. Don’t wait up.
She grabbed her purse and Donna’s keys and opened the door before he reached the stoop. There’d been the faintest strain of nerves on his face, but it fled the moment he saw her. Aww, did that mean he had butterflies as well? She’d not have thought that possible from this Jedi master of cool flirtation.
“All right?” he asked, resting a foot on the edge of the front step. “Ready for your crash course—preferably nonliteral?”
She nodded. “Been looking forward to it.”
He gestured toward the car and she locked up behind her.
“So what’ve you been up to all morning?” His strides were slow and lazy, keeping pace with her shorter legs. “You look lovely, by the way.”
“Oh, thanks.” She’d spent at least twenty minutes on her makeup, all the while striving for a barely touched, natural look. He was a fine sight himself, in jeans and a vintage-looking oxblood leather jacket, his eyes crazy blue in the sunlight. She wanted to put her face to his neck and breathe him in—old leather and that sinful soap smell.
“The time change messed me up,” she said, “so I didn’t wake up till about noon. Then I scrounged around and made myself breakfast, and took a long walk, and went on YouTube looking for stick-shift videos so I wouldn’t make a complete ass of myself.”
“That remains to be seen,” he teased as Jamie got the doors unlocked. “Though a charming arse, at least.” He climbed into the passenger seat and Jamie the driver’s side, the steering wheel placement just wrong, all wrong.