Marriage of Inconvenience (Knitting in the City Book 7)

by Penny Reid

  “None of your fucking business where she works.” Dan shut another cabinet.

  “I work at an architecture firm.”

  Seamus leaned back in his chair. “You an architect?”

  “None of your fu—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Nothing is my business.” Seamus rolled his eyes again, and I had to roll my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing.

  Dan finally joined us, his movements jerky as he pulled out the seat next to mine and poured himself a cup of tea straight from the teapot. “There’s no Irish breakfast.”

  Seamus, his posture once again lazy and relaxed, looked between us. “Who’s watching your dog? You still got that dog?”

  “Wally?” Dan glared at Seamus over his tea. Dan also kept his pinky finger straight when he sipped his tea, muttering, “Fuck, that’s hot,” as he set it down.

  “What’s his full name again?” Seamus was rubbing his chin.

  Dan hesitated, glancing at me and then away. “Bark Wahlberg,” he grumbled.

  My eyes bulged and I suppressed a laugh. And then I frowned, my mood shifting suddenly because, who would name their dog Bark Wahlberg?

  Only the funniest, cleverest, most amazing man in the world, that’s who.

  Dan being Dan was making this impossible.

  Every time he opened his mouth he tugged on a string wrapped around my heart, bringing me—and him—closer and closer to calamity. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d be completely and utterly in love with him, I was already teetering on the edge of disaster.

  And this was a disaster because I had no outlet for these feelings. He wouldn’t let me do a single thing for him in return; he didn’t want my gratitude; he wouldn’t accept money. So I was left with a mountain of feelings and frustration.

  Marie’s words from weeks ago echoed in my mind, “That’s not how relationships work.”

  I released a silent sigh, wishing I had her here with me now.

  “That’s right. Funny name. I love that name.” Seamus grinned at his brother, showcasing a mishmash of intense dental work and one missing canine. “What’d you used to say? About him not being allowed here?”

  “It’s just a stupid joke,” Dan responded flatly.

  “Yeah. And it’s fuckin’ hilarious. What was it? Why isn’t he allowed someplace?”

  “It’s nothing.” Dan lifted his teacup and blew some steam away from the tea. I had to blink several times to keep from becoming mesmerized by the movements of his lips.

  “Come on. Do the bit. Do the thing.” Seamus leaned forward and motioned to me. “Come on. She’ll love it.”

  “Fine.” Dan set his cup down and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly irritated by Seamus’s pushing. Then, to me, he said, “Ask me why Wally isn’t allowed in Boston.”

  “Why isn’t Wally allowed in Boston?” I asked, loving his eyes on mine, feeling like a junkie waiting for my next hit.

  “Unpaid barking tickets.” Dan rolled his eyes even as he grinned, like he thought the joke was dumb, but also hilarious.

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. His grin widened, which made me laugh more. “That is funny.”

  Seamus, however, was laughing his butt off, clutching his stomach, tears leaking from his eyes. “Unpaid barking tickets! Funniest fucking joke I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah, well, you need to get out more.” Dan scowled at his brother over his teacup. But this time, I could tell he was forcing it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Executor: “The individual appointed to administer the estate of a person who has died, leaving a will which nominates that individual.” (Not to be confused with “Trustee”)

  —Wex Legal Dictionary

  **Kat**

  Seamus didn’t stay long.

  Based on the way Dan continued to look at his brother, I made no attempt to shake Seamus’s hand, let alone embrace him when he left. Dan escorted him to the door, glared at him while he waved goodbye to me, and turned every single deadbolt after he left.

  Mumbling something about changing the locks under his breath, Dan gave me a distracted half-smile, placed a kiss on my cheek, and removed himself to the study. He didn’t close the door, leaving a sliver of light spilling into the family room. Leaning against the entryway wall, I stared at that sliver of light for an indeterminate period of time—longer than ten minutes, shorter than a half hour—debating my next move.

  It was bedtime. He was waiting for me to go to sleep first. I didn’t want to go to sleep without him. I wanted to be with him. But I didn’t know if that was a good idea.

  You’re falling in love with him.

  I swallowed past a tightness in my throat, breathing through a painful flare, immobilized by . . . fear.

  You’re afraid.

  I straightened from the wall, because I refused to be afraid. I was going to march in there and spend time with him. We were going to kiss, somehow I’d make that happen, and I would not allow fear to make my decisions.

  Solid plan.

  But then the light switched off and Dan strolled out again, pushing his fingers through his hair as he walked to the stairs. I watched him go, taking them slowly, tiredly, his chest rising and falling with a big sigh.

  For the first time since we’d fooled around last week in Chicago and my anxieties had taken over—and I’d failed miserably—I wanted to try again. I wanted his hands on me. The mere thought filled me with renewed anticipatory restlessness.

  Where Dan was concerned, anticipatory restlessness had become a chronic condition.

  As soon as he made it to the landing and turned towards our room, I tiptoed to the base of the stairs and climbed them, my heart beating in my throat.

  No need to freak out. You’re not even allowed to orgasm.

  No. Orgasming.

  Just. Touching.

  And enjoying.

  I nodded, figuring I could do that. I could enjoy myself. I enjoyed knitting, didn’t I? And cheese. I knew how to enjoy things, how to savor. All I had to do was apply the same principles to being with Dan.

  Dan is cheese.

  I made a face at that, because as much as I loved cheese, Dan definitely wasn’t cheese. Maybe a fine wine? He was intoxicating, so it was an apt analogy. Of note, wine goes with cheese. Maybe I was the cheese.

  As I rounded the corner to the hall, thinking about wine and cheese pairings, I collided with a fine wine—er, Dan.

  But we didn’t just collide, we crashed into each other with enough force that, for a second, I thought I was going to tumble backward down the steps. The impact jarred me, scattering my wits.

  I flailed, reaching out and grabbing on to him. Dan sucked in a startled breath and he caught me by the shoulders, saving me from the tumble.

  “Holy shit. You scared me.” He pulled me forward, taking several steps away from the stairs.

  “I scared me too,” I admitted, huffing a laugh. It might have been slightly hysterical.

  Shaking his head, he removed his hands from me, carefully setting me away, and pushed his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t hear you come up the stairs, you’re so quiet.”

  “Your mom is asleep,” I whispered, twisting my fingers, stepping around him hurriedly, my heart galloping. “We shouldn’t wake her up.”

  I marched into his room, my stomach a bundle of nerves made worse by the hallway collision. Straining my ears for sounds of him following, I turned. To my relief, he’d followed, but he hovered outside the door, his hands in his pockets.

  Dan watched me with a wary expression. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine. How are you?”

  He looked at me like the question confused him. “Fine.”

  “Sorry,” I repeated, then clamped my mouth shut. There was no need for me to apologize.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll give you some time to get settled.” He took a step back.

  “No. Don’t leave.” Unthinkingly, I rushed forward and caught him by the
hands, pulling him forward into the room, releasing him, and shutting the door. I placed myself between him and the exit.

  He stared at me, the confusion plaguing his features intensifying.

  I stared back at him, nervous. But also determined.

  “Are you tired?” I asked, advancing on him.

  “Not really.” He didn’t move, just let me come, invade his space, his eyes watchful.

  I didn’t touch him, and I realized—abruptly frustrated—I didn’t know how to initiate what I wanted. All that time, standing downstairs like a weirdo, staring at the sliver of light from the study, and my plan hadn’t extended beyond being both awake and alone with him.

  It had been shortsighted of me.

  From now on, all plans would have numbered steps. Perhaps I’d make a flowchart with if/then/else statements, to prepare for the most likely eventualities.

  But I didn’t have time to make a flowchart now.

  Staring at his chin, because I couldn’t quite lift my eyes any higher, I cleared my throat. “Should we get ready for bed?”

  “Sure,” he said, his voice a rumble. Dan’s eyes were on me, I felt the weight of them.

  My hands came to the hem of my skirt and I hesitated, feeling winded for some reason. Sneaking a glance at him, I immediately wished I hadn’t. His gaze was watchful, but it was also unmistakably hot in a way that seemed at once both avaricious and accusatory. The vice tightened around my lungs.

  Kiss him! Just freaking kiss him! You want numbered steps? Fine. You kiss him- check. He kisses you back- check. Then you make out- check. Check the boxes.

  I licked my lips, balling my hands into fists at my sides again, preparing to follow my hasty list.

  But then he said, “Undress me.”

  My breath caught. On instinct, my eyes lifted and collided with his in much the same way our bodies had collided at the top of the stairs just moments ago. Jarring. Startling. Thrilling. This time I couldn’t look away because this time I was falling. He made no move to catch me.

  “What? What did you say?”

  His eyes narrowed, which served only to increase the intensity of his gaze from smolder to inferno. “Take my clothes off.”

  I stared at him, licking my lips again, and shaking my head. That wasn’t one of my steps.

  Lifting my chin, I moved to kiss him. He leaned to the side, evading me even as his eyes dropped to my mouth.

  “Take off my shirt and I’ll give you a kiss.” He’d used his naughty-secret voice.

  An explosion of heat erupted in my belly, and now I was hot all over. I couldn’t figure out if the heat was embarrassment or arousal or both.

  He didn’t give me a chance to figure it out. His hands lifted and he undid his cuffs; then they moved to the top button of his shirt.

  “You better take over,” he said darkly, “or else you’re not getting that kiss.”

  I didn’t let myself think about it. Acting on the urge, my fingers lifted to the next button and I unfastened it, then the next, and the next, and the next, until the two sides hung open and a sliver of skin—like that sliver of light in the study downstairs—was bared to me. Entranced, I didn’t hesitate. I slid my hands inside, parting the shirt, pushing it open like I should have opened that door.

  His skin was taut over muscle, smooth, hot, and he felt divine. I stroked a path down the ridges of his stomach, caressed the sharp angles of his obliques, and around to his muscled back. Even though I knew he had the tattoos, unwrapping him now, seeing the ink up close in the light, felt like uncovering a secret.

  “Take it off.”

  My heart jumped at the command and my eyes darted to his. A new spreading warmth moved outward from my chest to my limbs. The way he looked at me, the cadence of his voice, was inebriating.

  But not like the dulling daze of alcohol, or the superficial saccharine dream-state of MDMA. This was something better, because it was real. He was real.

  I pushed his shirt from his strong shoulders, my hands stalling briefly over the deliciousness of his arms, and then completely off. It dropped to the floor at his feet, soundless in its descent.

  His lids had dropped over his eyes; his gaze no less intense, but now with a languid quality, giving me the impression his thoughts had taken a wicked turn.

  Slowly, so slowly, he bent. He placed an achingly soft kiss over my mouth. And then . . . he retreated.

  I moaned mournfully, not meaning to, but—damn it—that was barely a kiss. The anticipatory restlessness became something else, a beast, and it demanded . . . something!

  Again, I moved to kiss him. Again, he evaded me, his hands dropping to his pants, settling on the waistband.

  “Do you want something?” he asked.

  His question made me feel like my lungs were on fire. I grinned despite myself, feeling something like resentment—but not quite—set up camp by the fire.

  “You know what I want.”

  Now he grinned, just a little one, and glanced down at his pants. “Then you know what to do.”

  My mouth fell open and his gaze drifted to my lips, his smile spreading, his eyes still at half-mast. More wicked thoughts danced there, intoxicating me.

  “Fine,” I said, the resentment becoming renewed determination.

  In a way, he was trying to torture me. In a way, it was working. It also gave me an idea.

  I moved my hands to the front of his pants, but instead of unbuttoning his fly, I brushed the back of my hand over his groin, stroking down and then up, pressing firmly against the growing stiffness.

  He moaned, eyelashes flickering, like I’d blown dust in his eyes. But his jaw was tight, his teeth on edge.

  “Kat.”

  “Yes Dan?” I answered sweetly.

  I couldn’t remember ever being so raw and desperate and turned on. He still had most of his clothes on and not a single article had been removed from my body. And yet, I felt wild, mindless, drunk on his reaction to my touch.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” I angled my chin closer to his mouth so we shared a breath and continued to stroke him over his clothes.

  He felt impossibly hard, and I had a fleeting thought, wondering if it were painful for him and sadistically hoping that it was. I hoped it hurt. I hoped he wanted me so much he couldn’t think straight.

  But the thought was driven away by a rising ache within me, frantic and agonizing.

  “Touch me,” I heard my voice say. I watched one of my hands move to and tangle with his. On autopilot, I brought his fingers to my thigh, encouraging him to lift my skirt, guiding him to the tormenting throb at my center.

  He groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. Dan touched me over my underwear, stroking me covetously, his breathing labored.

  “You’re so wet.” His voice dropped, deeper than the naughty-secret level, to something infinitely baser.

  I nodded, not sure why I was nodding.

  “Touch me.” The words were inane, because he was already touching me. I wanted more, so I said, “More.”

  “Kat.”

  “Please,” I begged.

  “Fuck.”

  Dan charged forward, backing me against the wall, his mouth crashing to mine, his kiss mercenary, incendiary. Fingers wrapped in my hair and he pulled, forcing my chin upward as his other hand slid into the waistband of my panties and parted me. Though his kiss was rough, his strokes were slow, lightly rubbing circles. This, too, was torture. Wicked, wonderful torture.

  I gasped, struggling for air, my nails scratching down his sides on the way to his fly. Touching him, holding him in my hands and stroking his hot skin was the only option. I had no choice. I needed to feel him. I needed it.

  But as soon as I had his zipper undone, he pulled his hands from my body and caught my wrist, wrenching it away. Then he turned and stalked to the other side of the room. His hands coming to the back of his neck, he threaded his fingers together.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was shaking his head, fa
cing the opposite wall, still breathing hard. “Fuck.”

  I hadn’t recovered, was nowhere close to recovering, so I stumbled after him as though pulled, following him across the room like an infatuated puppy, hungry for his attention.

  I reached for him. “Dan—”

  He flinched away from my touch, placing new distance between us. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

  My stomach dropped, sobering me, and I nodded. I stepped back, trying to find a place in the small space where I wouldn’t be crowding him, at a loss as to what to do or where to look.

  This is why you need a flowchart.

  I returned to the far wall, placing my back against the corner and waited, my gaze settling on a team poster of the Bruins from 1997 as I tried my best to not jump to the worst conclusion. I wouldn’t think the worst, I wouldn’t. Not with Dan. He’d never given me a reason to think anything but the best. I would be reasonable, not neurotic.

  I stood there, regulating my breathing, thinking back over the last few minutes, immersing myself in the memory of how it had felt to be touched by him, teased, kissed. I’d lost control. I hadn’t been thinking. I wanted him and the wanting had seemed like the only thing that mattered.

  “No orgasms.”

  I looked at him, blinking through the haze of my recollections. “What?”

  “Your lady,” he still stood on the other side of the room, his hands on his narrow hips, his gaze moving over me, “she said no . . . orgasms.” He said orgasms like the saying of it was painful.

  “So?”

  “So. We’re doing this right.” His tone was firm.

  “Dan—”

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you want me to fuck you.”

  An image of that, of what that would look like, flashed behind my eyes and made my knees weak. I leaned completely against the wall behind me, my gaze dropping of its own accord to his torso.

  “I do want. So, I’m not sure how to not look like that.”

  “Cross your eyes, make a face or something.”

  I stared at him for several seconds, and then covered my overheated cheeks, laughing—not because I found this funny—because I was frustrated.