Ian

by Kate Hoffmann

  “You can sack out here,” Marcus offered. “Since I’m the only one still sober enough to drive, I’ll head back over to Newport and sleep on the boat.” He gathered up his poker chips and cashed them in, then stuffed the money into his jeans pocket. “Can I drop you at your place?” he asked Ian.

  “If you’re dropping him off, you can drop me off,” Dec asked.

  “I’m going to walk,” Ian insisted. “The fresh air will clear my head.” He took a small share of the pot for himself, then pushed the remainder across the table at Declan.

  His brother cursed as he counted out the money in front of him. “I can’t figure how you tossers always win.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes as he looked over at Ian. Once Declan had a few beers in him, he was an encyclopedia of tells, every emotion written on his face. Both of them had always known it, but they weren’t about to reveal their secrets. “Just luck,” Ian murmured.

  “I can’t wait to collect on our other bet,” Declan said. “I think Ian is already wavering. What do you say, Marky? Is Ian going to be the first to fall to his lustful urges?”

  Marcus’s eyebrow shot up. “Ian has never been one to deny himself anything.”

  And Marcus had always had the knack for cutting right to the point. Ian had come to the conclusion that he had no self-control when it came to Marisol. Every promise he’d ever made to himself to step back, to temper his desire, to fight his attraction, had been broken. And after their last encounter, Ian couldn’t ignore his feelings for her any longer. He was obsessed, an addict whose only vice in life was Marisol’s body. He couldn’t imagine a time in the near or distant future when he wouldn’t want her.

  “A pact is a pact,” Ian said. “We swore on our lucky charm.”

  Marcus held up his key chain, the little gold medallion dangling from it.

  “That’s right,” Dec said emphatically, slamming his beer bottle down on the table. “And since you two blokes are so weak and pathetic when it comes to women, I give you permission to sleep with as many as you want. I plan to prove there isn’t a woman out there who can tempt me.”

  “There isn’t a woman out there who wants to tempt you,” Marcus muttered.

  Dec pointed his beer bottle at Marcus, sending him a menacing glare. “You can shut your mouth anytime, little brother.”

  “And you can sleep on the street, big brother.”

  Declan laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “All right. I won’t make any more disparaging remarks. Anyone who lasts three months deserves the money. And since I know the only person who will last is me, then I deserve the money.”

  Marcus turned for the door. “I’ll see you guys next weekend.”

  “Friday,” Declan said. “Ian’s cooking. Steaks at his place.”

  Ian frowned. “Since when?”

  “Since I have to be in Boston all day Saturday and since you guys don’t want to drive all the way to Providence. And since we can’t go out to the pubs anymore because there are too many women.”

  “Fine,” Ian said. “My place. Friday. Burgers, not steaks.”

  Marcus and Ian walked out together, down the stairs into the workroom and then out the door that opened onto the boatyard. “Maybe we shouldn’t have made that bet,” Ian said.

  Marcus chuckled as he pulled open the door to his pickup. “I’m stuck on that boat, all alone. I’ve got it won, no matter how confident Dec feels.”

  “Of the three of us, he’s the playboy in the bunch,” Ian commented. “All it will take is the right woman and he’ll be off and running.” Ian stepped away from the truck then waved as Marcus drove past him to the street.

  The night was warm and still, small sounds magnified in the silence. A dog barked in the distance and he could hear the gentle hum of air conditioners as he passed by a row of shops. He didn’t even realize he was on Bay Street until he stood in front of Gallerie Luna.

  Ian stared at the front windows, thinking back to the sculptures that had first brought him here, to that first day he’d met Marisol. It had only been two weeks, yet his life had been completely changed.

  Ian sighed and closed his eyes, raking his hand through his hair. He knew the sound of her voice and the taste of her mouth, the way her hands felt on his skin and the scent of her hair. He knew what made her laugh and what made her moan with pleasure. And just that was more than he’d ever known about a woman in the past.

  How had so much changed in such a short time? Two weeks ago, he’d bet his brothers he could avoid women for three months. And almost immediately, he’d found himself caught up in a wildly satisfying sexual whirlwind, unable to control his desire-or perhaps unwilling.

  There were times when he wished he could go back and do it all again, to stick to the plan and stay away from Marisol. Maybe then he might have been able to master his impulses. Still, it would have only been a matter of time before he found himself drawn into her orbit.

  He walked to the front door of the gallery and peered inside, but the lights were off. Resisting the urge to ring the bell, Ian turned from the door and retreated back to the sidewalk.

  For all intents and purposes, it was over between him and Marisol. He’d given her a choice, honesty or him, and she’d chosen to keep her secrets. The need would fade with each day that passed, and in a month or two, he’d be able to pass an hour or even a full day without thinking of her.

  For now, Marisol Arantes was no more than a citizen of Bonnett Harbor. If she caused trouble, he would be forced to involve himself in her life again. But if she kept to herself and didn’t break the law, then he had no excuse to see her.

  Ian continued his walk home, his mind replaying images of Marisol, dressed and undressed, awake and asleep, aroused and sated, like an erotic movie in his head. Did he really believe he could do without her? He’d always achieved anything he set his mind to, so why was he suddenly doubting himself? She was a woman and women came and went in his life without much fanfare.

  Cursing softly, he picked up his pace, his walk turning to a jog and then to a run. He ran until his chest burned and his breath came in ragged gasps. He ran until he reached his house, then ran around the block a few more times. When he was finally exhausted, Ian returned to his house, threw the back door open and stumbled inside.

  The house was quiet and cool and Ian moved comfortably in the darkness. He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and cracked it open, then took a long drink. But his mind immediately returned to the last night they’d spent together, in his bed.

  He wondered if she’d come again that night and a twinge of anticipation twisted at his gut. “Damn her,” he muttered. Ian turned to walk to the front of the house, but froze when he saw a figure outlined in the doorway.

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, then opened them again. She was still there. Slowly, she walked toward him and Ian held his breath, waiting for her to simply evaporate before his eyes. But when she touched him, he knew she wasn’t a mirage.

  Marisol nuzzled his chest, gently pushing him back against the counter. The water bottle fell to the floor and Ian braced his hands behind him as she slowly worked at the buttons of his shirt. Her lips traced a path, lower and lower, with each button she opened. And when she reached the bottom, she undid the button on his jeans.

  His gaze fixed on her, his head down, and in the corner of his mind, he knew he ought to resist. But her forbidden seduction teased at his imagination, making every sensation more intense. Her fingers grasped the waistband of his jeans and she pulled them down around his hips, along with his boxers. An instant later, her lips surrounded him, gently drawing his cock into her mouth.

  Desire slammed through his body, feelings so powerful his head began to buzz. Ian tried to think, to put what was happening to him into perspective, to find a way to rationalize his surrender. But instinct had overwhelmed lucid thought and Ian gave himself over to the extraordinary damp and warmth of her lips and tongue.

  She knew him so well
, knew every little thing that spiked his desire and left him aching for more. It was so easy to want her, to know that every time they were together it would be perfectly satisfying. Would another woman ever know his body so well?

  Ian sucked in a sharp breath as she ran her tongue along his shaft, from tip to base. Like delicious torture, she began to move faster, picking up her pace until he could no longer delay. Desperate to be closer, Ian reached down and pulled her to her feet.

  His hands tore at her clothes, caressing each bit of skin that he revealed. It only took a few moments and she was naked, her body outlined by soft moonlight coming through the window above the sink. He quickly shed the rest of his clothes, then began a gentle exploration of her body, smoothing his hands over every curve, every tempting bit of flesh.

  Marisol did the same, her fingers dancing lightly over his naked skin, teasing and caressing, continuing the seduction she’d begun with her mouth. Every time he was with Marisol, her body seemed to reveal something new and intriguing, a soft spot of skin he hadn’t yet discovered, a place where his touch made her breath quicken and her need increase.

  It became a tantalizing game, a battle to see who knew the other better, who would ultimately surrender to the perfect caress. How would he ever let her go? Why would he? Ian couldn’t imagine ever tiring of her or ever wanting another woman more. Marisol was his and his alone.

  He grabbed her waist and spun her around, then lifted her up to sit on the edge of the counter. Slowly, Ian spread her legs, then guided himself inside her. Inch by inch, she surrounded him with her heat, until he was buried to the hilt.

  He captured her face with his hands and kissed her deeply, thirsting for the sweet taste of her mouth. No matter how close he was, how deep he was, it didn’t seem to be enough anymore. There had to be more-words, whispers, proof that she felt the same as he did, that there was meaning behind what they shared.

  “I can’t breathe without wanting you,” he murmured, biting at her lower lip. “What have you done to me, Marisol? How am I supposed to live without this?”

  She wrapped her legs around his hips and Ian carried her into the living room. But when they reached the stairs, he realized he couldn’t go on any longer, the shift of her body against him bringing him close to the edge. He gently laid her down on the stairs, then braced his hands on either side of her.

  Slowly, he pulled out, the simple movement causing a flood of desire to course through his body. When he didn’t slide back inside her, Marisol moaned, moving beneath him, her hands grasping at his hips.

  “Say it,” he whispered. “Tell me you want me.”

  She pulled against him, but he drew back. “I do,” she breathed. “I do want you.”

  “Forever,” he said. “Tell me it will be forever.” He needed to hear the words, even though they might not be true. He had to believe, somewhere, in some corner of her heart, she felt the same connection he did.

  Her eyes stared up at him, clear and sober. “Forever,” she repeated. “I will want you forever.”

  With that Ian plunged back inside, feverishly driving into her as she writhed against him. And when she finally cried out, her orgasm racking her body with pleasure, Ian pulled her hips tight against his and allowed himself to yield. Caught in the midst of a shattering orgasm, he felt as if he could almost touch heaven.

  They slid down along the steps, their limbs tangled, bodies moist with perspiration. Ian smoothed the hair from her damp brow and took in the beauty of her face. There was no use denying it any longer. Maybe he’d known it all along. He was falling in love with Marisol Arantes. And even if he could stop himself, Ian didn’t want to.

  MARISOL SIGHED SOFTLY and sat up, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She glanced over at Ian, sleeping next to her, his face buried in the pillow, his arm curled around his head.

  She reached out and smoothed a lock of his hair from his forehead. The lines of tension that usually creased his brow were gone and he seemed so much more relaxed than he had in the past week. It was her fault. She was making this more difficult than it need be. If she really cared about Ian’s feelings, then she’d spend her nights in her own bed and stop tormenting him. But instead, Marisol chose to be selfish, to satisfy her own needs.

  This was the only place she felt safe, in Ian’s arms, in his bed. The rest of her life had become one big anxiety-her father, the gallery opening, her future as an artist-and that damned painting. If she wanted to worry, there was plenty to worry about. But when she was with Ian, all her troubles seemed to disappear, if only for a short time. The moment he touched her, her mind and body were swept away to another place.

  She carefully crawled out of bed and searched for her clothes, then remembered they were downstairs in the kitchen.

  “Stay.”

  Marisol turned and looked at Ian. He’d pushed up on his elbow and was watching her, his hair mussed, his eyes wide. “It’s starting to get light,” she said. “I should go.”

  “Don’t. I want you to stay.”

  She smiled. “And what will the gossips say? Aren’t you worried about your reputation?”

  His jaw twitched, the movement barely visible in the pale morning light.

  “Whenever we talk lately, it seems to end in an argument,” Marisol said. “Perhaps it’s just better to be silent.”

  “How can that be better?” Ian asked.

  “Not better, just more sensible.”

  “I like to hear the sound of your voice,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you say. Just talk to me, Marisol.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. I’m beginning to think that I dream you into my bed, that you’re not really here. When I wake up you’re gone and all I’m left with is the smell of your hair on my pillow.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, then pulled her back onto the bed. “Tell me a story. I don’t care what it’s about, I just need to hear your voice.” He pulled her naked body against his, throwing his leg over her hip and kissing her softly. “Tell me about your childhood.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, relaxing into his arms again and letting her thoughts drift. “There aren’t a lot of things I remember, but I do remember the first time I picked up a paintbrush.”

  “Tell me,” he whispered as he kissed the skin below her ear.

  “My mother insists I was only three, but the memory is so vivid I think I must have been older.” Marisol snuggled against him. “We were still living in Portugal in a small town on the sea, not far from Lisbon. My father was painting and having modest success. My mother had just retired from dancing with a ballet company in Spain. And I was the center of their universe.”

  Ian pressed a kiss to the top of her head and Marisol smiled. She liked this feeling, this comfortable closeness. When they were like this, she could almost believe what they shared might last. “I’d sneaked into my father’s studio while he was eating his lunch and all of his paints were there, such pretty colors in little tubes. So I grabbed a paintbrush and squeezed some of the paints out on the floor and began to apply them…to my body and to my clothes.”

  “You painted yourself?”

  Marisol nodded, giggling at the memory. “I have photos of my very first work of art. My mother was horrified, but my father refused to let her clean me up. He felt that to do so would have been stifling my creativity. And so I walked around our little village for days, covered in colorful paint, like a pretty tropical bird. And the tourists took pictures of me and the old ladies fussed over me and my papa was so proud. I think that was the moment I decided I wanted to be an artist.”

  “I’d like to see the photos,” Ian said. “Will you show me sometime?”

  Marisol hesitated. They’d been so careful to maintain a distance between them, to avoid any talk of the future. Their relationship was supposed to be casual, no strings, no expectations. But now, Ian was changing the rules. He wanted to know who she was and where she’d come from. And “sometime” was the future, a date hovering
off in the distance that required a promise of something more…forever.

  Had he taken her words seriously? Had she made him a promise beyond the forever that was a night in his bed? Marisol knew she ought to beware, but at the same time, she needed to believe there was more to them than just this, a bed and two naked bodies.

  “Now, you tell me a story,” she said, attempting to shift focus back to him. “Tell me about your childhood.”

  “It wasn’t nearly as perfect as yours,” he said.

  Marisol forced a smile. He didn’t know about her father’s trial and conviction, or about her mother’s breakdown afterward, or the struggle that life had become for her. “When did you realize you wanted to become a policeman?”

  “It wasn’t such a clear choice for me,” Ian said. “I spent most of my childhood wanting to be a rubbish man. A trash collector. They guy who stands on the back of the truck.”

  “Why?” Marisol asked.

  “Survival,” Ian replied. “My brothers and I were sent to Ireland when my ma got sick, and somehow we got it in our heads that we were going to run away and live on our own. Like The Boxcar Children.”

  “What are the boxcar children?”

  “A book I read when I was young. About four orphan children who run away and live in an abandoned boxcar and find everything they need to live in a rubbish heap. Once my brother Declan and I realized that we weren’t going home, we decided we’d run away. So we began to collect little items from the rubbish tips and hide them in the closet beneath the stairs at my grandmother’s house.”

  “And did you run away?”

  Ian shook his head. “My little brother, Marcus, talked us out of it. When we told him about our plans, he reminded us if we ran away and our parents came to fetch us, they wouldn’t be able to find us. So it was better to stay put. It was only after I pulled my brothers out of a dozen school yard brawls that I decided law enforcement might be a good choice for me.”