“No.” Despite the playfulness of his tone, I can’t help the defensiveness that makes me bite out a harsh, “Not everything is about sex.”
A few heads turn in my direction.
Shit.
Shane raises an eyebrow at me, then says low and gravelly, “I’d argue with ye on that, Makena.” Again, when he says my name, heat sizzles straight to my core.
Yeah, definitely trouble.
I glance back at my magazine, and flip through the pages, but I can’t concentrate on anything but the giant of a man that’s currently flooding my personal space with an excess of testosterone and pheromones.
Placing his forearm on my arm rest, he leans closer, but doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching me with the same cocky grin that I have no doubt has melted more panties than any man has a right to.
I slam my magazine down. “If you’re wanting someone to…flirt with, I’m pretty sure our friendly stewardess will be more than willing to oblige.”
He chuckles like he finds my frustration amusing. “Are ye jealous?”
“God, no. I don’t even know you.”
“But ye’d like to.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Humor flickers in his eyes. He’s enjoying this way too much.
“You’re not my type.”
“And what is yer type, Makena?” He doesn’t even have to touch me and I can still feel him on my skin, his essence soaking into me, infiltrating my body like he already owns it.
“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, changing the subject so that I’m on the defense, rather than the one be bulldozed. Which is exactly what he’s doing. Tearing down my walls with a finesse that makes me barely realize they’re crumbling.
He’s good. I’ll give him that.
“What?” There’s still amusement in his voice.
“This…” I motion between us. “This thing you’re doing.”
“Ye mean flirting?” One eyebrow lifts. “Does it bother ye? To know that someone thinks ye’re beautiful?” He leans in and continues to grin at me like he has me all figured out. “To be desired?”
Holy hell. Never in my twenty-nine years has anyone ever talked to me like that.
I swallow past the hard lump in my throat. “I…”
More turbulence rocks the plane, and once again the cabin pressure drops, and I’m not the only one that lets out a terrified little cry. Other passengers around us gasp and curse as a couple of the overhead compartments open, and purses and bags fly out.
A large hand grasps mine, his fingers threading between my own as we continue to be bumped and jarred in our seats.
Terror seizes me as the plane seems to fall from the sky.
“Oh my God, Oh my God…” The words come out in a rush, over and over again, and my eyes clamp shut.
When the plane steadies, and the stewardess begins to speak over the intercom again, maintaining that we hit a little turbulence, I finally let out the breath I was holding in.
“Ye all right?” Shane’s deep voice says gruffly against my cheek.
I open my eyes and see our joined hands, but I don’t pull away like I know I should. “Y-yes.”
He reaches out with his other hand and brushes my hair away from my cheek, then cups my chin and forces me to look at him. “Ye sure?”
It only takes a glance and I’m lost in his eyes again. Whoever said there’s no such thing as an instant connection obviously never met this man.
“I…” My tongue darts out over my dry lips. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”
Chapter 2
Shane
I knew the second the woman looked up at me with those soft, vulnerable, brown eyes that I should have walked away. She’s nothing like the women I usually take to my bed. The stewardess, who had been practically begging to wrap those pouty lips around my cock, is more my style.
Women like her know the rules.
But Makena.
She’s everything I try to avoid.
Sweet.
Innocent.
Damaged in ways that can make a normally sane man go mad with the need to try and protect her, but with a quiet confidence that makes her seem almost unapproachable.
Girls like her are the downfall of men like me.
I watched it happen to my closest friends. Saw them spiral until they were so wound up in the girl that they forgot what really mattered – the music.
That was the only thing that used to drive each of us. Wild Irish was our passion, our dream. The four of us—Cillian, Owen, Aiden, and myself—spent years creating the perfect sound, the perfect image. But then, one by one, they caught the damn bug that’s been destroying good men since the beginning of time.
Love.
Aiden was the first to fall. And for my sister, of all people. Then Cillian, and most recently Owen.
Sure, they seem happy. And maybe they really are. But that kind of happiness is for suckers who forgot how much fucking fun it is to be single.
I love my life.
Despite what the guys think, there’s no void inside me just waiting for the perfect woman to fill.
I’m the one that does the filling.
And I’m damn good at it. I take care of the women who come to my bed – if we make it that far. But no matter if I have them coming against the kitchen counter, or screaming my name in the back of the tour bus, I always make them come.
Yeah, I’m cocky. But I have a reason to be. Women love me.
And not just because I play for one of the most popular rock bands in the world. But because I know exactly how to make a woman’s body sing in ways she never thought possible.
And hell if I’ll ever give that up.
Slowly, I unthread my fingers from hers, then pull the mini bottle from my pocket and hand it to her.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice cracking with nervousness. She unscrews the lid and downs it quickly, wincing when the burn hits her throat. She shifts in her seat, and I notice that she tries to move away from my touch, which is a complete paradox to the heat I see in her eyes. “Do you live in Ireland?”
“Most of the time,” I say, giving back one of her vague responses.
She wants me. But for some reason she’s standoffish. Like she’s afraid of the pleasure she knows I can give her. I’m also starting to think she doesn’t know who I am. Which is a complete ego-buster.
Sure, my face isn’t as recognizable as Cillian’s, but I’ve been on enough talk shows, and enough magazine covers in the past year, that it’s difficult to go anywhere without being recognized.
Part of me is disappointed that she doesn’t know who I am. I don’t know why, but I want to impress her. But, as cocky as I am, I’m not a bragger. And I don’t need my status to get a chick to spread her legs.
I’m Shane Hayes. That in itself is enough to have girls begging for a taste.
“I was checking out some talent in the New York area,” I say, stretching out, making sure my calf brushes up against hers and watching as a hint of color fills her cheeks.
“Talent?” She does a good job at hiding the way I affect her. But I’m a master at reading women. And I know exactly what she needs – me.
But she’s got more walls around her than Fort Knox, and hell if I don’t want to break them down and get inside of her in ways she’s never dreamed. At the same time, my self-preservation sends out a warning that this isn’t the type of girl who would be satisfied with a quickie in the airplane lavatory.
“I run a recording label,” I say, not sure what stops me from telling her who I am.
It isn’t a lie.
After Aiden and Cillian decided to stop touring, Owen came to me with the idea of starting our own label. It’s not really my thing. Sure, it keeps me busy. But it’s not playing on stage in front of thousands of cheering fans.
Fuck, I miss that.
“But I’d rather be making music than listening to other people.” The comment is more to myself, a gripe I’ve been repeating a lot lately.
“You sing?” There’s still an air of reservation to her words, like she hasn’t decided what kind of trouble I am. I want to whisper in her ear that I’m the good kind, the kind of trouble that will have her trembling in pleasure and begging for more.
“Not well, no. But I play. Drums, piano, but mostly the guitar.”
It’s been months since the band has jammed together. And hell if a part of me doesn’t blame the women who have taken my boys from me. It’s not that I don’t love them. I do. But life was so much more fun when our conversations didn’t center around diaper changing and epidurals.
There are just some things a man doesn’t need to know about.
“You’re a musician.” The way she says it makes the word sound dirty.
And I have to hold myself back from telling her I’m not just a musician - I’m Wild fucking Irish. At least I was, until my asshole bandmates decided to go all domesticated on me.
“What about ye?” I ask, stretching out further, taking up the armrest so that my forearm brushes hers.
“What about me?” she counters, the reservation that had been in her eyes earlier, now turned to solid wariness.
“Do ye play any instruments?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have a musical bone in my body.”
I can’t help but let my gaze dance down across that body, wondering just what talents it does possess.
God, the woman is beautiful. She’s tiny, but she has curves under the oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing. Everything about her screams that she doesn’t want attention. Especially not the kind that I want to give her. But that just draws me to her more.
The seatbelt sign turns off and a voice comes over the intercom announcing that we can move around the cabin.
A few feet away, the stewardess I’d been flirting with earlier starts to put the bags that had fallen out, back in the overhead compartments.
When she sees me, she gives a small pout as she looks between Makena and I, then leans over the chair, and says, “Are ye sure ye wouldn’t be more comfortable in yer own seat?”
This woman knows exactly who I am. And the look she gives me tells me that she has more planned for me than just serving a few drinks. The woman is easy, and not just in the way she’ll spread those thighs for me. She’s also the kind of woman who wouldn’t expect anything more.
Unlike Makena, who practically screams long-term relationship. And if I thought I’d ever see her after this flight, I’d probably be running at breakneck speed in the opposite direction.
“I’m fine here,” I say when the stewardess continues to stare at me expectantly.
Makena lets out a small laugh, watching the woman walk away.
“What?”
“No wonder you’re so cocky. Women just fall all over you, don’t they?”
“Except for ye.” I give her one of my grins and tilt my head, brows raised, hoping to change that fact.
Red creeps up her neck, into her cheeks.
“Because I’m not yer type,” I repeat her earlier words. “Or…” I lean closer. “Are ye just afraid to take what ye really want?”
Her expression goes hard, the humor in her eyes evaporating just as quickly as it appeared. “And you think you’re what I want?”
“Am I wrong?” I sit back, studying her.
“Yes.” There’s no conviction in the word. “But I’m sure you’ll have better luck with your friend.” She nods at the blonde stewardess who continues to glance over at us with a pout every few seconds.
Makena lets out a sound of disgust and looks away.
“That’s some measuring rod ye got there.”
“What?” She glares at me.
“The way ye judge people.”
That makes her pause. She opens her mouth, then shuts it on whatever she was going to say. “I’m not judging. I just feel…sorry for women like her.”
I tilt my head. “Why? Because she knows herself? Ye think that makes her weak? Knowing what she wants and going after it?” I give a hard shake of my head and sigh. “Ye’re wrong.”
Makena’s lips press together and I can see her brain swimming with a response. After a few seconds, she says tightly, “Then maybe you should go give her what she wants.”
I lean in again, giving her a look that she won’t be able to misinterpret. “But she’s not what I want.”
Makena meets my gaze for a short, intense moment, before looking away. But not before I see the desire that burns underneath the coolness she’s trying so hard to hang on to.
I take her hand and rub my thumb along her inner wrist.
She trembles, but doesn’t pull away.
“Have ye ever let yerself take what ye want, love?”
For a second, albeit brief, I see her contemplating my question. And in that moment, I see all the pent-up passion she’s holding back. A fury of untapped desire. Then, it’s gone.
The hand that I’m holding curls into a ball and she draws it back. “What a person wants and what they need are two very different things.”
“Someone hurt ye?” I already know the answer. It’s written all over her countenance. And whoever did it to her, did a fucking bang-up job of it.
Her bottom lip trembles before she says softly with a slight hint of bitterness, “Yeah.”
I run my palm across my jaw and watch the emotions that flitter across her expression.
Complicated. That’s what the woman is. And I’d dug a little deeper than I intended. But hell, I want to know more.
Shit. Time to walk away, man.
“And you?” she asks. “Have you ever had your heart broken, or are you just set on breaking them?”
I shrug. “If everyone knows the rules going in, then no one gets hurt.”
“The rules?”
I grin down at her and say low enough so that only she can hear, “No emotions. No promises. No tomorrows. Just pleasure.”
Her pupils grow larger and she sucks in a small, trembling breath.
Dark waves of hair fall across her shoulders as she shakes her head. “I…couldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Sleep with someone I don’t…care about.”
I grunt. “Ye’re telling me that ye loved every man ye were ever with?”
“Yes.” Her chin juts out defiantly. “I loved him.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying. “Ye’ve only been with one man?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”
I give a low whistle. “That explains a lot.”
Her eyes narrow at me. “It’s better than being a walking, talking STD billboard.”
“Ouch.” I grip my chest and chuckle, despite the way her words get under my skin.
I barely know the woman, but I hate the way she sees me.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “That was rude. You seem nice, but I’m not looking for anything right now. I just need…” She makes the mistake of looking at me, because her gaze tells me exactly what she needs. But she’s too caught up in right and wrong to take it.
“Trust me, love. I know what ye need.”
She snorts, then sighs. “How could you, when I don’t even know?” Vulnerability flashes in her eyes.
Even though I know I shouldn’t press her, that it’s probably best for both of us if I just walk away, I place my palm out and demand, “Give me yer phone.”
Suspicion makes her lips purse. “Why?”
I try and keep my tone light, which I don’t usually have a hard time with. But there’s something pressing inside of me, insisting that I don’t let the woman walk away without at least getting her number. “Do ye argue with everyone?”
“Just over-demanding strangers who don’t know when to back off,” she says with a half-smile, which is a small improvement from the glare she’d been spearing me with a few seconds before.
I chuckle. “Tell me to go away and I will. But first, give me yer phone. I only want to add my number.�
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She hesitates, resistance in her eyes, before pulling her iPhone out of her back pocket, her fingers whitening around it in a death grip. “I don’t want your number.”
“I think ye do.” I take her hand, using her thumb to unlock the screen. The air between us heats at the contact, but I don’t make a big deal about it, knowing anything more than a slight touch will most likely have her calling for security to have my ass dragged back into first class. I wink at her. “Ye wouldn’t have given the phone to me if ye weren’t slightly interested.”
“If it’s the only way to make you go back to your seat, then give me your number.”
Bullshit.
I chuckle under my breath, seeing the red creep back up her neck, filling her cheeks. Her eyes narrow, but there’s a fire in them despite her iciness. The woman sizzles with an untapped passion, and hell if I don’t want to be the one to liberate it.
After I type in my digits, I hand the phone back to her, letting my fingers linger longer than necessary on hers. Yeah, there’s heat there. Scorching, blistering heat.
“It was nice meeting ye, Makena.”
Her breath comes out small and shaky, and she gives me a small nod, which is my cue to leave. Because even though I have the luck of the Irish on my side, I know there’s no chance in hell she’s about to let me give her anything more than my number.
As I walk back to my seat, ignoring the flirtatious look the stewardess gives me, I doubt I’ll ever hear from Makena. And if I’m honest with myself, it’s probably for the best. Because I know how it would end. The exact way she’s afraid of. With her heart crushed.
I may be a cocky bastard, but I’m not a complete asshole.
And despite her sharp tongue, it’s not difficult to see that the woman is vulnerable.
But her confession that she doesn’t have a musical bone in her body has my thoughts racing. Because I know a secret that most men don’t. Every woman can make music, it just takes the right musician to play her. And if I could teach her how not to get her emotions involved, I’d love to hear the melody that sweet little body of hers so desperately wants to make.
Chapter 3
Makena
Taming Irish Page 2