Ringer: A New Year's Romance: The Doyles, a Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  And we’re back there, with Jack fighting through his instincts and his desires.

  Where would you be comfortable? How should this be? What’s the exact best way to execute this mission?

  The only gift I can give him is my honest desire in this moment.

  “Jack, I want to come with you. Here. Now,” I say.

  Our eyes meet, and his are so overcome with desire it’s staggering.

  “Fuck.”

  I grind against him, riding the length of his cock with just some sheer fabric between us. The building tension, a coiled spring of desire wound tight, threatens to let go, and he shifts his hands to hold my hips.

  Pressing me closer, he’s doing something with the rolling of his hips that hits my clit with each half-thrust, and I stifle my cries against his mouth as waves of pleasure overtake me.

  My legs wrap tighter around him, and I think I scream his name as I come. But everything’s a blur beyond the explosion of pleasure that starts between my legs and expands to encompass the universe.

  I cling to him, my breathing ragged and shallow, as I come again, and he groans and growls with such a primal note of desire that my own heat seems to rekindle instantly.

  We manage to slow down, and he’s still kissing my neck, kneading my nipples, and his cock slides along my slit, outlined by the wet patch on my pants.

  I exhale.

  He’s looking at me like I just discovered the cure to everything that ails mankind and promised him a lifetime supply of his favorite beer.

  There’s something like wonder there that threatens to tip me into an emotional space I’m not quite ready to claim.

  “You’re even more breathtaking than I ever imagined,” he whispers, putting his lips to mine.

  When I give my hips another roll, his whole body goes rigid.

  “Alexandra, if you keep doing that…”

  “Come for me, Jack,” I say, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “I want to feel how much you want me.”

  His eyes drift closed for a second, and he whispers, “Oh, God.”

  My pussy is soaking wet, and the tremors of my orgasm promise to lead straight into another as I rub myself against him.

  He’s working my hips, pressing himself into me hard as we find a rhythm that’s fast, demanding, and perfectly aligned. It’s like our bodies were made to generate perfect friction. His breathing gives way to groans and then grunting as he’s grinding up onto me, and then a huge, raw growl as I feel his huge cock twitch inside those running shorts. Another orgasm rocks through me as I feel him getting close.

  I don’t let up.

  Instead, I pick up speed, bearing down, riding out his release as he pulls me even tighter against him and growls out my name.

  “Alexandra, oh, my god! Alexandra.”

  For a long minute, we stay entwined, leaning against the tree, slowing down our breathing. His face is buried in my shoulder, and I suddenly get the feeling that he's being shy.

  And as I turn my face toward him, lazily putting my lips against the scruff of his cheek, I can see the slightly concerned look on his face.

  “What’s the matter, Lt. Colonel? Have you never dry-humped a girl in the woods?”

  His eyes snap up to mine, and he barks a surprised laugh.

  “Actually, no.”

  I put my lips to his ear.

  “Well, you’re very good at it.”

  I trace my tongue across his earlobe for good measure and am rewarded when he shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

  He’s still holding on, and finally, I lean back.

  “Listen, I know you’re fit as fuck, but you might need to put me down eventually,” I say.

  The look he gives me makes me giggle.

  He does put me down, impossibly gently, and then almost looks lost. I don’t know what comes next or even what to say.

  But I know one thing: right now, right here, I’m happy to be with Jack.

  So, I reach out and wrap my hand around his fingers, and he gives me a shy smile.

  Our short walk back to the farm is in contented silence.

  11

  Jack

  I call in a favor.

  Alix agrees to meet me in Newburyport.

  I want to pick her up – hell, we’re leaving from the same place – but it’s Christmas Eve Eve (apparently), and she’s got some things to do.

  Earlier in the day, she texted me to say, “You should come with me to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve.”

  Long minutes passed while I stared at that text.

  The part of me that wanted to go surprised me; the part of me that wasn’t yet ready to let go of the idea that the Winthrops hated me for the death of their son wasn’t so keen on the idea.

  “Only if you’re ready,” says the follow-up text several minute later.

  I’d planned to stay at the shelter and take care of the animals.

  Maybe get some one-on-one time with Cookie, who had migrated from his crate and onto the couch, just to see how we were getting along.

  Train.

  Mostly pick up the workload so that Alix could have the holiday with her family, without worrying about her responsibilities at the pet shelter or anything that might go down her while she’s visiting family.

  I’d gone to the police station to report what happened and talked to both the Detective and the Chief.

  In no uncertain terms, I let them know that I was clear on who the problem was.

  Long looks were exchanged, and the Chief agreed to call Walker down to the station.

  I left them to it, because I had something else on my mind.

  An icy wind blows off Newburyport’s harbor.

  I’m standing next to the SUV when I see her.

  She’d inquired what I had in mind when I asked if I could take her to dinner.

  Hopefully, this was right.

  It’s been a long time.

  Alix crosses the parking lot and my heart pounds in my chest. Some part of me is brought back to that day – all those years ago – and how breathtaking she was.

  Somehow, she’s even more beautiful now.

  Her curves fill out a striking silver dress that’s full length, molded to her breast and hips.

  The sparkle catches the light, and her hair is twisted up into a fancy updo.

  She’s wearing a long dark coat and heels so high I’m not sure how she won’t break an ankle.

  At the thought, I rush to her and slide a hand under her elbow.

  Partially an urge to keep her safe.

  Partially just an urge to touch her.

  “You look amazing.”

  Not the right words, but there are no words to capture how gorgeous she is.

  “You look great yourself,” she says, giving me an appreciative glance that makes the two-hour round trip down to Boston for my suit time well-spent.

  Her smile brightens.

  “So, where are we headed?”

  At that moment, I falter, and she looks at me in concern.

  I’m hoping that I didn’t fuck this up.

  Go overboard.

  Misread what’s happening.

  One way to find out.

  Guiding her across the parking lot, we cross the street and head a couple of blocks down until we’re at the base of a small lighthouse.

  A man waits by the door and gives me a broad smile as we approach.

  “Colonel Mulvaney, good to see you, Sir,” he says, crisply.

  The current caretaker is a former Marine, and a friend of a friend put us in touch. He gives Alexandra an appreciative look that gets my hackles up, but I tamp them down.

  “You can go right up, Sir. Dinner’s been set up, and the place is yours. But first…”

  I pull an envelope from my pocket.

  I’d seen it framed on her wall – the lighthouse passport.

  Quietly, I’d taken it down and removed it from the frame.

  Just for today.

&nb
sp; Just for this.

  “A once-in-a-lifetime marque,” he says, producing a stamp and quickly marking a blank page in the book.

  Her eyes are locked on the book, and then she looks up into mine.

  I don’t stay anything, just guide her inside out of the cold and then up the winding stairs.

  Once we reach the top, there’s a 360-degree view of the harbor through the floor to ceiling windows in the lighthouse.

  In summer, it would be more striking.

  Still, the lights from other lighthouses, the boats, buildings across the harbor, and more are captivating. It sparkles and is totally alive.

  New England at the holidays.

  Not as captivating as the woman herself.

  “You remembered.”

  I help her sit at one of the two chairs at the table and slide in across from her. I push the passport back to her, but she makes no move to grab it.

  “Is that okay?” I ask, quickly.

  Wide blue eyes hold my own for a long minute. “It’s better than okay. It’s maybe the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  She looks around, taking in the steak dinner, the view, the lighthouse.

  “And this? The only people I know that have come here were getting engaged,” she sounds excited.

  I immediately flush hot red.

  I’d been afraid this was a misfire.

  Too much too soon.

  There was something about the way Alexandra affected me.

  All or nothing.

  I wanted her to have an experience that she would never forget.

  I busy myself putting food on our plates and pouring wine.

  “Sorry if this is a bit much,” I finally say, and then look up to meet her eyes.

  “Jack, this is the most perfect thing I can imagine.”

  She sounds so sincere, that I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  The last few days.

  They’ve really gotten me thinking.

  She’s gotten me thinking.

  Tough. Fearless. Unafraid of hard work.

  But she’s also understanding and takes the time to see beyond her circumstances and into my sometimes-strange world.

  To build that connection.

  And to call me on my shit.

  It’s an intoxicating combination.

  Music starts to play, a delayed playlist of romantic songs. The kind of stuff you could slow dance to.

  It’s been years since I danced, fast or slow.

  I have no idea if that’s even Alix’s thing. She looks radiant in the candlelight of the table and the soft light that’s thrown by subtle lamps around the room.

  “Why now?” she smiles at me.

  I dip my head.

  “The better question is why did I wait.”

  She puts down her fork, and I reach out to take her hand.

  “Everything I said is true. I don’t have a good history of relationships. I’m not really sure how to make them work. The only thing I’ve been good at is my work, and maybe to some extent, raising my kid,” my voice is tight and I’m intensely interested in keeping my eyes on the table. “But I’ve only ever had one regret. Not spending more time with you.”

  Her face softens, and her blue eyes are curious on my face.

  “Years ago, when Bryan brough you to that Corps barbeque. Do you remember?”

  How could I forget?

  “You had on little jean shorts and a summer top, and your hair was in a ponytail. You came over to say hello and you held my son. You tried to talk to my ex, but she stormed off, and you were just so friendly and happy,” I say, ducking my head at the degree of detail I can recall.

  It’s almost exactly what I remember it, except that I’d been so focused on the ache in my chest.

  “That entire day, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. That night,” I stop, sounding embarrassed. I can’t believe what I was about to say.

  Now, in this moment.

  But curiosity sparks through her.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s just that I couldn’t get you out of my head. Not that night, not for months afterward. It wasn’t like I’d done a great job otherwise, but I couldn’t believe the impact you had on me. What a jolt it was to see you again,” I clear my throat.

  She gives me a little smile. “I don’t think that’s what you were going to say.”

  “Yeah,” my cheeks are red with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  This whole flirting thing – especially for how much I like this woman – seems completely out of reach.

  It’s been so long.

  “Be disrespectful,” she says, giving me a slightly wicked smile that arrests my gaze.

  She casually slides a hand down the front on her dress, from her collarbone and across the silky-smooth skin of her throat. My cock pulls tight.

  Down over the peaks of her breasts and between them. Along the central line of her stomach. My eyes follow her progression, unable to look away, and heat builds at the back of my neck.

  Lower still.

  “Alexandra,” shock, heat, a question all sound in my voice, even as my cock grows harder and my balls are heavy with desire.

  “That first day that we met again in the gym, Jack,” she says, continuing lazy circles across her body with her fingertips. “When we came home and you were clearly staying out on that couch, I went into my bedroom. I closed the door. And I did this and then some.”

  My mouth has gone dry.

  For years, I’ve craved nothing more than the chance for this kind of connection with someone.

  With her.

  Sexual chemistry with someone that I connected to on other levels.

  For a woman comfortable with her own desires.

  Who knows what she wants.

  That wants me.

  But even more, to experience this with her.

  Sex with Alix.

  To bring her pleasure and even more, to understand who she is in that part of her life.

  Confronted by that open heat and desire – particularly in the way that this woman delivers it – is melting my resolve.

  Alexandra is the total package, and the best decision and opportunity I’ve ever been given.

  If I cross that line.

  If I give in to what my body wants.

  Everything else that I’m holding in balance – that’s at stake.

  My heart.

  My ability to let her go.

  The clarity I need to make sure she stays safe.

  She stands up, one hand still caressing her body in a way that sends a stab of heat straight to my groin. The other she extends to me.

  An invitation.

  I take it and stand, the remainder of dinner forgotten on the table.

  She walks to the small door that leads out to the balcony. It faces the sea and it’s high up, so it’s mostly private.

  A freezing wind whips around us, but she’s totally unphased.

  “What do you like, Jack?”

  “I like you,” my voice is deep and raw. “I like everything about you.”

  “But what turns you on?”

  She turns away from me and leans her arms down on the iron railing. Her ass is in the air, and I move to it and slide my hands on those hips.

  There’s something about those curvaceous perfect hips that completely holds me captivated. She sways them slightly, the promise of more, drawing me deeper into whatever spell she’s weaving.

  I press my length against her ass and bend over to whisper in her ear.

  “This is definitely turning me on.”

  She leans back into me, shimmying her ass and I practically throw my head back. Instead, I lean in closer to nip at her earlobe.

  Her hand grabs mine and brings it to her breast.

  Holy god.

  Part of me wants to get her inside, get her home, and find a bed and candles and flowers. There’s a way you s
hould sleep with a woman like Alexandra.

  I’ve never been a fan of the words “make love,” but I’m understanding it right now.

  Some women you could fuck against a wall in a lighthouse.

  Bend naked over a railing outdoors where everyone could see.

  And if you’re both into it, I bet it’s hot as fuck.

  But Alix? I want to offer her more.

  She’s more.

  She’s different.

  She’s everything.

  What if this spark, whatever it is, grows into a new beginning?

  That fresh start we keep alluding to.

  A new year and a new decade are just days away.

  What if this is the start of something we’ll remember all our lives?

  Tell our children.

  Whisper to each other in bed decades from now.

  Or even just remember as the time we went after what we wanted, even though we knew it might be hard?

  That’s the biggest risk.

  The length of my cock aches for her, but crossing this line has less to do with my body.

  And everything to do with my heart.

  Surrendering to Alexandra Winthrop means no distance.

  No walls.

  No bullshit.

  No chance of making this out with my heart intact.

  None.

  It means facing the hard conversations and the reality that I think I love this woman.

  That I’ve always loved this woman.

  That I fucked up and make stupid decisions that hurt us both.

  And that whatever I do now has lifelong consequences.

  It’s all right there, in my heart, in my head, probably written across my face.

  She wiggles against me with such determination it’s clear: we’re not making it out of this lighthouse.

  But I can at least make sure that we don’t have an audience.

  Just the thought makes me growl.

  I want to fill her up, stretch her, take her and claim her, giving her pleasure until the only word she can say is my name.

  I’ve never wanted anything more.

  But sharing? Doing that for a potential audience?

  No. This will make her mine.

  But a bigger part of me wants to grind my cock against that ass and feel her full breasts in my hands and tell her things that turn me on that I’ve never told anyone else.