by Katy Regnery
She watched his mouth as he sang, imagining it pressed against hers in some dark and anonymous place where they couldn’t look into each other’s eyes. He sang confidently, occasionally licking his lips in a way that was appealing, if wholly distracting, and she found herself, almost unconsciously, following the words of the chorus he was singing.
“I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again.
And vainly think I’d not complain.”
Tears brightened Tate’s eyes and made the room swim as she repeated the words in her head, a glimpse of her parent’s faces flashing through her mind. Sepia and warm in her memories, they smiled at her with the kind of undying love she hadn’t allowed herself to even dream about since she’d lost them. Like a quick jab to the gut, she felt it—the sharp sting of their loss, all over again—and it made her gasp softly.
I wish I had my heart again.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she forced herself to change the picture in her mind and think of Uncle Pete, his blue eyes bright against the backdrop of a cerulean sea. Her parents were gone. Pete was alive. Any drop of love left in her dried-up raisin of a heart belonged to him, leaving none for anyone else…including herself.
Mercifully, the soft, heartbreaking song ended, and Tate opened her eyes again as the bawdy chords of a jig filled the air.
“Who is that?” Tate asked her old friend Halcyon Gilbert, who was sitting beside her. The handsome musician’s face was alive with joy as he played and sang, and Tate couldn’t help wondering if he could be the one she’d been hoping to find this weekend.
“Who? Ian?”
It figures. Of course Hallie only had eyes for her old crush, Ian Haven.
“No, Hal. I know who Ian Haven is. He hasn’t changed a bit.” This was a not-so-subtle reminder to her friend that Ian was probably still the heartbreaker he’d been as a teenager. “The brown-haired one with the guitar. Some younger Haven brother we never met?”
“Nope. That’s their cousin. Finian.”
“Ohhhh. That’s Finian, huh?”
Tate cocked her head to the side. Brittany had briefly mentioned Finian, asking, when Tate called to RSVP to the wedding, if she was bringing a “plus one.”
“No. Why? Do I need one?”
“Of course not!” Brittany had laughed. “Want me to set you up?”
“Ha! You haven’t changed, little Miss Cupid!”
When they were girls at camp together, Brittany had always been trying to pair up Tate with one of the boys she knew from Boston.
“It’s my calling. And Rory has this cousin visiting, Finian, who’s single, and I think he would be perf—”
Because she had zero interest in hooking up with one of Brittany’s soon-to-be relations, Tate had cut off her friend. “No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? He’s cute.”
He might be cute, but Tate was careful. She wasn’t going to get entangled with her friend’s husband’s cousin. If things went south, it could make things awkward between Tate and Britt.
“I’m sure. Tell me more about the wedding…”
But now, as Finian glanced up at her and grinned? She wasn’t so sure she wasn’t interested. In fact, there were parts of Tate that felt very interested.
His thick brown hair was cut short, and he wore a scruff of beard that defined his jaw and would scratch the inside of her thighs if he kissed her clit.
“He’s trouble, huh?”
Hallie shrugged. “I don’t really know him.”
Hmm. Tate bit her bottom lip, looking away from Finian for a count of ten before catching his eyes again, not surprised that they were still trained on her but definitely gratified.
It’s on.
She just hoped Britt would forgive her if the whole thing somehow went tits up.
Tate leaned over and kissed Hallie’s cheek, suddenly feeling giddy with anticipation. “I gotta powder my nose.”
She stood up from her chair, picking it up quickly when it crashed to the ground. After she righted it, she looked back up at Finian, her gaze direct, her invitation universal and unmistakable as she glanced at the barn doorway leading into the dark night and then slid her eyes back to his.
“See you tomorrow, Hal,” she said distractedly as she turned and left the table.
She was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be playing another song after this one. She’d made it clear what waited for him outside in the darkness. So it annoyed Tate when, after a rousing applause and short pause, the guitar music started up again. Leaning against a tree, several feet away from the barn entrance in the shadow of the candles and twinkle lights, Tate’s eyes narrowed as new chords heralded another song and a chorus of Irish voices chimed in to sing.
What? He’s playing another song? He’s not coming out?
She blinked in shock at the barn, crossing her arms over her chest and deeply affronted that he’d choose to keep playing when she’d been so clear in her offer.
“Jerk,” she hissed, trying to decide whether she should return to her cabin or go rejoin the dinner.
“Are you callin’ me names already?”
She gasped, whipping around to find Finian standing behind her, a wide grin on his handsome face.
“But you’re—you’re playing the guitar,” she mumbled, frowning at him because he obviously wasn’t.
“Nah. Me uncle’s playin’,” he said, chuckling softly at her discomposure.
“Where’d you come from?”
“Back door,” he said with a shrug. “Couldn’t leave from the same door you did. Might’ve drawn attention.”
“Ah,” she said, turning to face him. “So you’ve done this before?”
“Snogged a lass at a party? Sure. Who hasn’t?” He lifted his chin, which made him look cocky. “You had a glad eye for me inside.”
“A glad eye?”
“You were lookin’ at me like somethin’ you wanted to eat.”
She wasn’t offended. She laughed softly at his arrogant tone. “I wasn’t the only one.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his teasing grin lingering. “I mighta noticed you too.”
He took a step closer to her, close enough that she could smell him, and his cologne made her gulp softly. Sandalwood. Her favorite.
“I’m Tate,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Finian,” he answered, taking it.
His palm was rough and warm, dwarfing hers, and though he wasn’t as tall as his cousins, he was muscular and lean, and there was an evident strength in his grip.
“I know,” she said, stepping closer to him.
His hand slid from hers, landing on her waist, his other hand doing the same. He pulled her firmly against his chest, so that her small breasts—through a thin blouse—pressed against his shirt.
“Your nips is rocks,” he noted.
The words made her wet. So simple. So true.
His hands slipped to her ass, pulling her pelvis flush against his.
“So’s your cock.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to take you against this tree?” he asked, rotating his hips a touch to grind into her.
He was stone hard, long and rigid, and her mouth watered. “Maybe.”
“The bark’ll scratch your bum, cailleach.”
She had no idea what the last word meant, but her “bum” was suddenly aching to be scratched. “I’ll take my chances.”
“So be it,” he muttered, his lips dropping to hers in low growl of possession as he lifted her easily, sandwiching her between the tree and his body and groaning as she locked her ankles around his back.
***
Still breathless from exertion, Finian pulled up his pants, zipped the fly, and fastened the button on his pants. Jaysus, what a ride.
Flicking a glance up at her, he watched Tate smooth her skirt and slip her feet back into her shoes.
Her face was serene in the moonlight, her platinum
head almost glowing in the soft light. For no good reason he could fathom, it made him feel a sudden tenderness for her.
“You all good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Sure.”
He had no reason not to believe her, and having dispensed with gentility, his mind moved swiftly on to the next order of business: his ego. “So…was it, um, okay?”
She reached behind and rubbed her backside through her dress, offering him a cryptic smile. “Scratched bum, as promised.”
It wasn’t the declaration he was looking for, but asking again would seem desperate. Besides, he knew the truth: he’d come too quickly.
But hell! It had all happened so damn fast. They shook hands. Suddenly, he had her pressed against the tree and they were kissing. Her fingers grappled for his buckle. He shoved her panties aside. Bam! He was in. He’d thrusted four or five times and then—Wait! Fuck!
“Shit! We didn’t use a—”
“I’m on the pill,” she said. She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “Are you the type of asshole who would fuck a girl if he wasn’t clean?”
“No.”
“Then we’re all good,” she said, leaning back against the tree with a sigh.
It was dark, but the ambient light from the barn shone on her face, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a tiny, almost invisible, tick in her jaw.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“Right as rain,” she said. She glanced up at the path, which was lit by tiki torches to show the way back to the cabins. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
Something in him flared—something like chivalry but slightly less noble, making him wonder: Did he fear for her safety? Or was he hoping for seconds?
“I’ll walk with you.”
She smiled at him, but it wasn’t a real smile, not like the one she’d given him inside the barn. Her eyes didn’t sparkle. “No, thanks. Not necessary.”
“Hey, now! I’m being a gentleman. I’m offering.”
“You’re no gentleman,” she said, pushing away from the tree. “And I’m declining.”
“So that’s it?”
“Did you want me to write you a poem?” she asked, a slight edge in her voice. “I’m all out of stickers.”
He stared at her. “Seems like…I don’t know…a bit cold.”
She chuckled at him, but it wasn’t a warm, confident sound. It was tinny. Hollow. Like the smile she’d just given him. “I’m okay with that. ’Night, Fin.”
He watched her go—the way her dark skirt, which had been hitched around her hips only moments before, now brushed the back of her thighs as she walked away, up the path and out of sight.
And damn it all if he didn’t feel a little used, a little bruised, and a lot wondering if his performance was so underwhelming that she didn’t even accept his offer to escort her home. Was it that bad? Christ, it had felt great to him no matter how fast it had happened. And hadn’t she bitten his ear? What was that all about? Hmm. Fin pulled at his ear lobe with his thumb and forefinger. It had been months since he’d been with someone, but he’d never had complaints before. Maybe his fat dick wasn’t enough if he came in under five minutes. Shite. Maybe she was going to tell Brittany how much it had sucked, and Brittany would tell Rory, and Rory would tell Ian, and—Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!—it’d be all over Limerick by the time it got back to him.
He could hear it now: his brother and sisters heckling him about it until the end of time. Remember the lass from New Hampshire? From Rory’s wedding? Should have named you Johnny-come-quickly!
Shite, shite, shite.
He needed to prove to her that he could do better.
Next time, he’d go slowly.
Next time, he’d show her that he was capable of bringing a woman to the very brink of heaven before opening the pearly gates and shoving her inside. He’d make her see fireworks. He’d make her see goddamned bloody stars.
“Next time,” he muttered, turning back to the barn and grumpily wondering if “next time” was even in the cards.
CHAPTER 3
“How was that?” asked Fin, panting in Tate’s ear.
They’d seen each other at the wedding, of course, her eyes unable to stop seeking his throughout the ceremony and his having the same problem. As Rory and Britt made their way back down the aisle as man and wife, Fin had grabbed her hand, pulled her through a side door, down a flight of stairs, and into the basement of the church.
Tearing at one another’s clothes, their teeth clashing as they kissed, he’d spun her around in front of a long table covered with choir music, leaning over her, his front to her back.
“You want it?” he’d demanded roughly, his breath hot against the back of her neck. “Say it.”
“Yes!” she’d cried, soaked with anticipation after forty-five minutes of hot glances in the sanctuary upstairs. “I want it!”
“How much?”
“Now!” she’d yelled, her voice breaking with frustration.
He’d hiked up her dress, yanked down his pants, lined himself up, and thrust into her, his teeth biting into her shoulder as she gasped. He was huge and throbbing, hard as a rock but smooth as velvet, massaging the walls of her sex with every successive pump of his hips. Reaching around, he’d put two fingers in her mouth, and she’d sucked them greedily. When he’d reached for her breasts and tweaked her nipples through the bodice of her dress, she’d bitten down on one so hard that he’d growled in pain, then slammed deeply into her body just like she wanted him to.
And fuck, it was fast and furious and…delightful.
All of it. Right up until the very end, when he took his fingers, slick from her mouth, and rubbed them in raspy circles against her throbbing clit. She’d screamed then, unable to hold back the maelstrom inside.
He’d come violently into her, groaning like a dying man, the hot spurts of his cum satisfying to both of them on a base and visceral level.
Now she only had two gripes.
One, it was over too soon—the latent waves of bliss, of wildly contracting muscles, perfect yet maddening as they slowed.
And two, as her heart rate returned to normal, she felt so terribly, indescribably lonely that she closed her eyes against an unexpected rush of tears and forced her mind to go blank.
His voice, asking about his performance, made her refocus her attention.
How was that?
He leaned over her back, the buttons of his shirt digging through the thin material of her dress, his cock still deeply embedded within her. “Tate. Was it okay?”
Was it “okay”? No, Fin. It was excellent. It was first-rate, grade-A fucking.
“Let me up,” she said softly.
He backed away from her, and she felt his hot flesh slip from her body. Her palms were flat on the table, and she used them to push herself upright on shaky legs, pulling down and smoothing her dress with her back to him.
She looked up, and before her, on the wall, was a poster of a rainbow. Under it, it read, “God is Love. God is Real. Love is Real.”
Tate clenched her jaw.
“Hey,” said Finian from behind her, tapping her on the shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She spun to face him. “Fine.”
“Sure?”
She nodded, uncertain if she trusted her voice not to waver.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, reaching for her flushed cheek.
Tate sidestepped his touch. “You don’t need to say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Whatever. She grabbed her purse off the table.
“I hope…” he started.
She could see what he wanted. She knew that he needed some sort of reassurance that she’d enjoyed herself, that he’d performed well. But the sign on the wall made her batten down the hatches, made her feel frightened and mean.
Her tone was terse. “You hope what?”
“I hope that was good for you,” he said simply, his hands loose by his sides.
&nb
sp; It occurred to her to ask him if he’d ever fucked a woman before. Didn’t he feel the bites on his fingers? The way she’d come apart when he’d fondled her clit? The way her body had shaken uncontrollably, her innermost muscles clenching around him like an obscenely tight glove? The sounds of her moans and cries? The scream when she’d orgasmed? Had he missed all of that? Was it necessary to rehash it?
She wasn’t in the mood to stroke his ego. If he’d somehow missed the fact that she’d orgasmed big, that wasn’t her problem. She took a deep breath and sighed. “Reception starts soon. We better go.”
He’d been smiling hopefully at her, but now he frowned. “You’re hard to please.”
Oh, Lord. “I didn’t say I was unhappy.”
“Didn’t say you were happy either.” He took a deep breath and let it go loudly in consternation. “Why’d you say yes in the first place?”
“Because I wanted you to fuck me.”
He blinked at her. “Jaysus, but you’re stone cold.”
That was, in fact, what she was trying to project, but it really bothered her to hear him say it. It stung for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand and had no interest in unpacking. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t that what every guy wants?”
“Is it?” His brows knitted together as he looked at her. “I don’t know.”
She laughed at him. “It is. I promise.”
“Me last girlfriend,” he said, reaching down to fasten his tuxedo pants, “was clingy as shit. Demanded to know where I was goin’, and when, and with whom. Constantly ridin’ my ass, you know? I thought I hated it. But now…”
“Now what?”
His eyes were sad as he stared back at her. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t seem to know very much,” she muttered, heading for the door, careful not to look up at the poster that proclaimed, “Love is Real,” which—in her opinion—was irresponsible as fuck. Sure, it might be real, but it could die, and when it did, it flattened a person. Tate knew the anguish of that loss, and she never wanted to experience it again.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his footsteps quick as he caught up with her on the stairs. “Wait up.”
“Why?”
“I…Jaysus, I don’t get you.”
“What don’t you get?”