by Holley Trent
This was too personal.
She forced the words up from her gut and locked her gaze on his back as she said them. “Patrick, I’m sorry.”
He was so still there at the window, she couldn’t be sure he heard her.
Or that he’d forgive her.
Finally, he turned his head and fixed those wise green eyes on her.
“I was out of line,” she explained, wringing her hands. “That’s typical for me lately.”
“Only child, I bet.”
“Close, but not quite. I’ve got an older brother.” The gnawing tension in her gut eased a bit as his smile returned. She hadn’t completely botched this, then.
“He’s much older, my brother. By the time I came around, he was in high school. My parents were tired by then. Too gentle, I guess.”
He raised his shoulders into that elegant shrug again, and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “Sometimes we can’t help the way we are. It’s ingrained. Innate. Natural. The nurturing bit just fosters what’s already there.”
“So you’re saying I’m doomed to be an insufferable bitch?”
“Quit it.”
And she did. She pressed her lips into a tight line and watched him pace.
He didn’t say anything else for a while, and just stared at the floor, watching his socked feet make their passage back and forth across the wood planks. He wasn’t looking, so she took that opportunity to study his tall, lean form—her eyes lingering where his sleeves were rolled up his forearms to reveal the very bottom fringes of some intricate ink work. She liked a little ink, especially when it was hidden away and meant to be discovered when clothes came off.
“Patrick, how big are your tattoos?”
He looked down at one arm as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. They go up and over to my shoulder blades in the back and to just above here”—he drew an imaginary line with his finger across his chest just above his pecs—“in the front.”
“Is it done?”
“I don’t know. I started it before I left Ireland and have been adding bits and pieces here and there when inspiration strikes. I guess I’m fresh out of inspiration.” He managed a grin as he rolled one sleeve up a bit more and studied the artwork on that span of flesh. “Do you have any ink?”
She shook her head. “I like it on other people, though. It’s one of those things like having pink hair or wearing leather pants. I can appreciate it on other folks, but it wouldn’t suit me.”
“Ah. I don’t know if I agree with you on the leather pants bit, though.”
He started pacing again.
She couldn’t tell if he was still annoyed at her for that tactless insinuation about his staffing choices, or just anxious in general.
She probably would be if someone had made a snide remark about one of her girls, though. They were a rough crew, but they were hers.
Maybe a peace offering?
Shrews didn’t grovel, but negotiating came easy.
“What do you have here to drink besides whiskey, Patrick?”
He stopped pacing. “What do you have against whiskey?”
“It’s a bit rough going down for me. I’m more of a wine kind of girl.”
“Like to curl up with a glass in a bubble bath, huh?”
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she said, even as her lips peeled back into a broad smile.
Actually, a bubble bath right around then didn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Something to slake off the chill she’d picked up outside and relax the tense muscles she’d acquired over the past few soggy, wintery weeks. Maybe a backrub while she sipped a nice dry white.
At home, she never wanted to spend the time pampering herself. It seemed a wasteful endeavor when she could be getting in her half hour of cardio or completing some of the never-ending pile of Shrew & Company paperwork she brought home.
Maybe at the hotel, if the tub is clean…
“I don’t have any wine here, but I have beer.” His voice shattered her bubble bath daydream. “I could drive down to the store, if you want. I think they’re still open. If not, I can go into—”
“No, that’s okay. Beer’s fine, as long as it’s not green.”
“What do you have against green beer? That’s my biggest moneymaker for the year.”
She made a face. “I just like the things I consume to be the color God intended.”
“Tattooed men excluded, huh?”
Her cheeks burned as he strode to the kitchen, and she was glad he couldn’t see it.
What is this man doing to me?
She dragged her sweater sleeve across her forehead and blew out a breath as she stood. Distraction seemed like a good idea—to think about anything besides the way Patrick O’Dwyer’s lips curved when he spoke or how good his ass looked in a pair of loose jeans.
She walked the perimeter of the living room and memorized the floor plan of the cabin. It was a basic square—living room comprising the front, the small kitchen in the back-right corner, and a second closed-off room in the back-left. She imagined that door would lead to the bedroom and bathroom.
She’d never been one to let her imagination do all the work, so she found her hand on the doorknob, and was turning it as Patrick’s crackling energy filled the room.
Ashamed, she dropped her hand from the knob.
He held out the de-capped beer. “Go on. You won’t find anything scandalizing. I haven’t had a chance to move in much stuff because I thought I was going to sell the place.”
She wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle and drew it close, narrowing her eyes at him as she took the first sip.
He grinned. “Well, go on. I know you’re just dying to.”
I hate how easily he pegs me.
Normally, she would have walked away as if the idea had been the furthest thing from her mind, but just whom did she think was she kidding? He hadn’t lied. He could read her like a book.
It was damned refreshing.
She opened the door and stepped into the dark room.
He followed her in and flicked on the overhead light.
The room was spartan. It contained only a heavy pine bed covered in a patchwork quilt in green tones, a wide dresser against the front wall, one battered nightstand, and a chair in the corner that had an open duffel bag dangling precariously over the edge.
“What do you think?” he asked as he leaned against the doorframe.
“It could certainly use a woman’s touch.”
“You available for the job? I can pay you either in booze or carnal favors.”
Carnal favors sounded nice.
She perched on the edge of the surprisingly comfortable bed and brought the beer to her lips again. The cold, strong brew made her chest tighten on the way down and she could tell the resulting effects would show in the thighs she spent so many hours exercising. Alcohol wasn’t a match for her enhanced metabolism, but carbs certainly were.
He laughed from the doorway, shaking his head as she scraped her tongue against her top teeth’s edges. “Robust, huh? It’s kind of like drinking oatmeal.”
“Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about all the calories I’m going to have to run off. You really like this stuff? I’d rather drink cod liver oil.” She brought it to her lips again and tried another sip.
Nope. Still gross.
“Watch it, woman. That’s my favorite beer.” He pushed away from the wall he’d been holding up and strode to her in four easy lopes, hand extended.
She gave him the beer. “Be my guest.”
“There’s a huge variety of beer out there for you to try if stouts don’t do it for you.” He sat close on the bed’s edge so their thighs touched and brought the bottle to his lips.
Suddenly very tired, she leaned back against the mattress and fixed her stare on the wood paneled ceiling. It made the room seem very dark. If she had her druthers, that’d be the first thing to go during renovations. A nice coat of white paint would do wonders, as
would getting rid of that god-awful wicker ceiling fan.
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to convert me into a beer-drinker?” she asked.
He leaned on his right elbow, and stared at her while sipping the remaining beer with his left hand.
He was close enough that she could feel the gentle exhales from his nose tickling her forehead.
“I’m good at my job. My job’s to keep people drinking. If they give up after the first beer that doesn’t do it for them, I won’t be able to keep them on their stool long enough to order one of my expensive hamburgers.”
“Savvy.”
“A guy’s gotta earn a living.”
“Maybe you can give me some tips. My business is in the black, but I’d like to buy a house at some point. I’m barely paying myself, and if I keep taking jobs for free”–she gave him a nudge—“I’ll be stuck in Apartmentland forevermore.”
“Dana, you’ve only been in business a couple of years. The fact you’ve got a staff of…how many?”
“Five, including myself.”
“A staff of five, yet you’re managing to turn a profit only two years in? You don’t need my help, sweetheart.”
She shrugged, or at least tried to. It was hard with her being horizontal. “I had a lot of start-up capital, though, from the class action suit against the drug company and my unemployment claim after the police department canned me.”
“Still. The first couple of years are sort of make or break, and you’re hanging in there. This time next year, I bet Shrew & Company will claim the largest market share for private detective work in the area.”
“Well, don’t go blowing a girl’s head up.” She laughed. “You hardly know me. Maybe I’m an awful boss and won’t retain my staff that long.”
When he didn’t respond, she turned her head and saw him frozen, beer at his lips, but not drinking. His eyes were locked on her cleavage, which had slipped toward her neck when she got horizontal. It wasn’t quite a peep show, but there was a lot of flesh showing at her collar. She cleared her throat.
He blinked and sat up. “Sorry. I think it’s the cat part of me. I’ve started fixating on things—wanting to pounce. When you laughed…”
“Oh. Don’t worry about it.”
Her adjustment period after the mutation was rife with awkward situations, at least on her end. She’d always reacted with her usual brash brush-off, so other people didn’t know the extent of how uncomfortable she was. Inside, she’d been crumbling.
Patrick must have felt the same way, judging by the way his face reddened and he sat up to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. For some reason, I think you’re usually a little more discreet with your ogling.”
“That’s a skill most teenaged boys learn in short order, so you’re right.”
She actually didn’t mind him looking. Maybe even liked it a little. And why not? Patrick O’Dwyer was gorgeous, industrious, intelligent, and like her—seemed to have a low bullshit tolerance. That meant for hers, too. He didn’t get angry about the way she was. He just redirected her and made his limits clear, and he didn’t seem to have many.
Perhaps he could even be in control without taking away hers.
As if on their own accord, her fingers found the base of his spine and made a gentle press of the ridges there, drawing his gaze to her face again.
His eyes had widened, but whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself.
She let her fingers dance up his strong back, making lazy, tickling circles that made him suck in air when she reached the middle, then continued to the top where his neck met shoulders. Her hand seized the back of his shirt collar and gave it a playful pull.
He set his empty bottle on the nightstand and turned his brooding gaze to her.
She pulled again. “Patrick?”
“Yes?”
“This is me giving you permission.”
That statement made him turn slightly to the right, putting his collar out of reach of her hand, but allowed him straight-on eye contact.
Amazing eyes. Old soul.
“Permission?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m not generally so accommodating. I want you to know that.”
“I read that vibe.”
“Good.” Now she pushed up onto her elbows and tried to impart her consent with her expression, her gaze. Did she really need words for that?
Or would a touch do?
Slowly, she reached out and trailed the back of her hand along the stubble on his jaw, his chin, and dragged one finger along the crease between his soft lips.
He took her hand in his, kissed it front and back, and glided his mouth over the pulse point over her wrist, licking it with hot tongue and growling out his impatience as he pushed her cuff up her arm. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”
“Same could be said for you, Paddy.”
“You asking me to strip?”
A grin pulled her cheeks and she knew even without seeing it that it was probably quite evil looking. “It would be nice if I weren’t the first one naked for a change.”
“I see.” He dropped her hand, with some reluctance, and immediately clutched the bottom of his shirt.
Please don’t disappoint me.
He didn’t. The chest beneath that shirt was decorated not just with colorful, thoughtful tattoos, but also with hard-earned muscles.
Her cheeks burned as he stood before her, his knees skimming hers through their pants, as he manipulated the fly of his jeans. Black fabric peeked through the gape when he let down the zipper, and suddenly she felt very young. Very inexperienced, though that wasn’t it.
He certainly wasn’t her first, second, or even third, but this felt brand new, and the novelty of it—the heightened anticipation, was making her head swim.
She gulped and clamped her teeth together, hoping doing so would quash the quivering of her lips. “Slow down, lover. I want to see what I’m getting.”
“I can go slow, sweetheart.” He dropped his jeans so all that was left were snug boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination.
Paddy O’Dwyer was hung.
The rock hard muscles of his abdomen shifted as he lifted one leg, then the other, out of his jeans and nudged them aside with his foot. He insinuated himself between her thighs at the bed’s edge and leaned her back once more. His hands pressed onto the bed on either side of her head as he hovered close. “Slow is fine, but how do I know you’re not going to get me naked and then change your mind? That doesn’t seem fair.”
She swallowed, his cock’s proximity to her making her aroused sex clench. “Uh, what do you want, a show of good faith?”
“That’s the way it worked during childhood, right? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
Oh, she wanted to see his. She blew out a breath and averted her gaze from the smug set of his lips, landing on the wood-paneled ceiling again. “Before this goes too far, you should know I don’t have condoms on me.”
He shifted, removing his hands from the bed near her face, and when she turned a questioning gaze to him, he was easing away from edge of the bed.
She mourned his departure, wanted him back between her thighs and thought perhaps she’d thrown ice water on things with her statement.
No, he bent and picked up his jeans, patting the pockets until he found his wallet. “I always keep a couple in here.” He clamped the two foil packets between his teeth as he returned the wallet to its former location.
No excuses, then.
She sat up and thought about good-faith gestures as she heeled off her boots. What would he like to see first? Breasts?
Too easy. Of course he likes tits.
Thighs, then. She locked her gaze on his green one as she slid open her slacks’ fastener.
That former fixation he’d had on her chest shifted to her waist. His lips pressed into a flat line, and he stood very still as she unzipped. Someone could probably drop a bomb outsi
de and he wouldn’t move.
“Hey, Paddy? What color are my panties?” She held her hand over the flap, shielding her lace from his sight.
“Panties?” His eyes didn’t move.
“Yes, what color do you think they are?”
She watched a lump travel down his throat. When he didn’t answer, she dragged one socked foot up the inside of his leg and jostled his balls.
That woke him up.
He hissed.
“Panties, Paddy. What color?” Her big toe traced a circle around his sack and his lips peeled back as he hissed again.
She remembered now that there was a cat in there somewhere. If she kept poking, she might get bitten.
Maybe she’d like that, too.
He wrapped one large hand around her ankle, stilling her. “What happens if I’m wrong?”
It was a good question, but one she didn’t actually have an answer for.
She figured she should probably make something up.
“If you’re wrong,” she mused, tapping her index finger on her chin, “I won’t let you peel them off me using your teeth.”
That earned her a scoff. “Sweetheart, with the way I’m feeling right now, you don’t want my teeth anywhere near you.”
The little wet spot at the front of his boxer briefs seemed good enough evidence of such. He must have been hard as steel and she wondered what he’d feel like inside her, probing deep things that hadn’t been stoked in who-knew-how-long.
“Why don’t you let me decide that? You up to date on all your shots, kitty?” She wriggled her toes, but his grip was too steady. Still couldn’t reach anything of consequence.
“You’re waiting on me to tell you that you picked something dull or predictable. White. Black. Nude.”
She stilled her face to a blank and tried for coolness, even as her heart pounded and blood pressure rose. He’d done it again. Read her like an open book.
“You like having little secrets. Things you never plan to tell anyone else, but that give you a little power because secrets are potent things.”
Funny, she wasn’t feeling so powerful all of a sudden.