Broken: The Cavanaugh Brothers

by Laura Wright

  Sheridan’s fingers curved around her wineglass as she watched him walk away, her mind abandoning all thoughts about her own nudity around the house for much more intriguing thoughts of his.

  • • •

  “I think I could bathe in this sauce,” Sheridan said, her voice threaded with contentment.

  And, James mused, as he glanced up from his plate, a tiny hint of ecstasy. “Now, that’s something I’d like to see,” he said, watching as her cheeks instantly flushed pink in the soft lights of the moon and the lamps from inside the bunkhouse.

  “How did you make this?” she asked before sliding a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

  James watched until the silver utensil slid back out again. It was damn hypnotic. Anything to do with that mouth of hers. “It’s a very ancient recipe,” he said finally.

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Top secret.”

  She took a sip of wine. “Well, I hope you’ll share it with me before I leave.”

  “Leave?” he said far too quickly and way too fiercely. “Where are you going? You just got here.”

  She laughed, no doubt thinking he was joking around, being overly dramatic. It was a sexy, throaty, sweet sound that curled around him and squeezed.

  “I just mean later,” she clarified. “You know, when it’s time.”

  He didn’t like talking about this. The idea of her not being around, leaving River Black, bothered him. Probably more than it should. But he wasn’t going to let her know that. His job was to make her feel comfortable here, not self-conscious.

  Forcing a grin to his face, he leaned in and whispered, “One jar of Ragu, a handful of fresh basil, and some grated pecorino Romano.”

  Her eyes widened. “The ancient recipe?”

  He nodded. “You’ll keep my secret?”

  She grinned. “My lips are sealed.”

  His eyes dropped to those lips. And as he was studying them far too provocatively, she placed another forkful of pasta into her mouth and proceeded to suck up the long, curly strands. Good God Almighty, she wasn’t making this easy. For the next thirty seconds, he watched, enraptured, waiting for her tongue to swipe at her bottom lip and catch the red sauce waiting there. And when it did, his body groaned in a frustration he knew was only the beginning of what was to come with her living in the same small house as him.

  He sat back and forced his eyes to his plate. “How long have you worked with Deacon?” It was actually something he didn’t know and had been curious about. He hadn’t asked his brother all that much about Sheridan.

  “Three and a half years,” she said.

  “Is he a good boss?”

  “I think so. Some might consider him challenging or even arrogant.”

  “But you don’t?”

  She shook her head. “He’s brilliant.”

  The complimentary assessment of another man, even if that man happened to be his brother, made James bristle.

  “He’s what I want to be when I grow up,” she continued.

  “Head of a company?”

  “Doesn’t have to be that big, but something of my own, yes. I love investments, marketing. And Deacon has been a great teacher.”

  “He’s taken, Sheridan.” The words were out of James’s mouth before he could stop them. And hell, he really wished he could’ve stopped them. What was wrong with him? Jealousy was just not an emotion he practiced. It made him look weak and insecure.

  “I think you’re misunderstanding me,” Sheridan began.

  “I know. I’m sorry about that.” He stood. He needed to get out of her company for a spell, get his shit together. Hell, he’d probably need to do that every damn day with the way he got worked up around her. Otherwise, their living situation was going to turn into a Shakespearean production. Deep feeling, unchecked action, and maybe intense regret.

  “I’m going to take care of all this,” he said. “Then hit the hay. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Well, go to bed then.” She stayed seated, but her eyes burned into his with some of that regret he’d just been worrying over. “I’ll clean up.”

  “No.” He reached for her plate, but she stopped him. Put a hand over his.

  “I love cleaning, James.”

  Her fingers were too soft, too warm, and they made the blood pop in his veins. He wanted them around his neck. Holding on tight. “No one loves cleaning, darlin’, and you just got home from the hospital.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I actually feel great. I’m just going to sit out here awhile longer, and then I’ll take care of it.” She cocked her head to the side. “Come on. I want to. Please.”

  James contemplated putting up a fight and insisting. Hell, it was her first night here. But the look on her face—no, the spark in her eyes—told him she wasn’t going to back down from her offer.

  He nodded, pulled away from her touch. “All right.” Damn, he felt cold. “Good night, Sheridan.”

  She offered him a shuttered smile, the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. “Sleep well, James.”

  “If you need anything . . .” he started.

  But she cut him off. “Thanks. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  He hated her easy manner about as much as he hated his idiotic jealousy. What the hell was he doin’? Moon-soaked, wine-fueled meals with lots of flirting and fantasizing? Don’t pursue this relationship with Sheridan O’Neil any further than you already have, cowboy.

  But see, that was the thing. For years, fear had ruled every choice he’d made, and it had taken away wild, reckless, wonderful abandon. The abandon he’d just tasted for a moment with Sheridan.

  As he headed back into the bunkhouse and down the hall toward his room, he felt caged in by that fear. He wanted to be free and reckless. He wanted more abandon. And he wanted it all with Sheridan.

  Fifteen

  Sheridan immersed her hands in the hot, sudsy water and got to work washing the dishes. There weren’t many of them, which was slightly disappointing as she always enjoyed the dishwashing process. Cleaning toilets, doing laundry, cooking? No. But washing dishes she liked. Maybe it was the resemblance to a bubble bath. Or maybe it was because she was just plain weird.

  Which could explain why James had taken off.

  She took a deep breath, let her hands play with the top of the water, her fingers moving in and out of the bubbles like a couple of dolphins. No, her weirdness had nothing to do with James’s quick departure from their very lovely dinner. It was because she’d talked about Deacon, how she admired the man—how she wanted to be him when she grew up. James was jealous. And no doubt as conflicted and confused about his feelings as she was.

  “Sheridan . . .”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice so near, so unexpected. Then shivered as he came to stand beside her.

  “Sorry,” he said, his eyes soft as he leaned against the sink. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Her gaze ran over him, and maybe for a second she understood the possessiveness that had perhaps captured him earlier. He was wearing black sweat pants and a black T-shirt and his feet were bare. He looked comfortable, ready for bed, and so sexy she nearly groaned at the sight of him.

  He ran his hand through his thick brown hair. “What happened out on the deck . . .” he began in a regretful tone.

  She shook her head, went back to the dishes. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not,” he insisted. “I pretty much acted like a world-class dick.”

  She smiled to herself. “Well . . .” Really pretended to think it over. “I don’t know about world-class.” She cut her gaze to his.

  His gorgeous eyes remained somber. “Look, I know you’re not interested in Deacon.”

  “No, I’m not,” she confirmed.

  “And even suggesting that was insulting and
childish.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was.”

  His grin widened. “You’re something else, Sheridan O’Neil.”

  “You know, I’ve been told that before.” She shrugged. “But no one can seem to figure out what that something might be.”

  He inhaled deeply, let his gaze roam over her in a way that was proof of his interest. “How about beautiful? Intelligent? Funny?”

  “All good, but no.”

  “One helluva helper in the kitchen?” He dropped his chin and his voice and whispered wickedly, “Excluding the cooking part, of course.”

  Completely without forethought, Sheridan grabbed the mountain of suds near her right hand and tossed it at him.

  Shock enveloped James’s face, then a huge grin broke out. “Really?” One eyebrow lifted. “Is that how we’re gonna play this?”

  Sheridan started laughing. She couldn’t believe herself. “Absolutely.”

  Quick as a breath, James reached into the sink, scooped up a huge handful of suds and water and pummeled her with it.

  Sheridan gasped as warm, soapy water hit her neck and chest. “Oh my God. You’re going down, Cavanaugh!”

  She barely got the words out before another blast of suds hit her belly. Her eyes lifted and she growled playfully. “This. Is. War.”

  “Bring it on, O’Neil,” he challenged, slowly reaching past her to scoop up another handful.

  Laughing and getting soaking wet, Sheridan lobbed soap and water at him—in his face, in his hair, on his shirt. And he did the same, wonderfully, unmercifully pelting her with suds.

  “You have a good arm, O’Neil!” he called out.

  “And one see-through shirt!” she returned merrily, raising her arms.

  Just as the words left her mouth, James let another handful of suds fly, nailing her square in the chest. She froze, looked down and doubled over laughing. “Oh my God . . . How do I look? Like a cloud? A cotton ball?”

  She glanced up to get his answer. But he wasn’t laughing anymore. In fact his smile was fading and morphing into something else entirely. Something hot and hungry. Something predatory.

  “You look . . .” he growled low in his throat. “Good enough to—”

  “Kiss?” she finished for him.

  He shrugged imperceptibly. “For a start.”

  Sheridan had no time to process that remark before James was on her, before his hands cupped her face and he took her mouth under his. A soft moan escaped her as she wrapped her wet, soapy hands around his waist and pulled him close. He was all impressive muscles and hot skin beneath his soaking wet T-shirt, and she rolled up onto her toes to get closer to him.

  “Sheridan,” he groaned as he kissed her deeper. He tasted like wine and warmth, and when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, Sheridan felt her entire body flood with desire.

  Her inhibitions long gone—if they had ever been there to begin with—she ran her hands down his back and cupped his butt. He groaned, and she joined him. He was truly glorious muscle everywhere. Lord, all that riding had obviously served a higher purpose. As she squeezed the hard flesh, James ground his hips into hers and kissed her so deeply and so hungrily, she lost her breath. But he didn’t let up. His hands fisted in her hair and he eased her head to one side to get closer, deeper, to feast on her lips, on her tongue. Truly he was like a tornado touching down. Fast, furious, and out of control. And Sheridan reveled in every second of it. There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than him. To be utterly and completely lost in him.

  Ripping his mouth from hers, he dipped his head and nuzzled her neck. Sheridan shivered as he ran his nose all the way up to her earlobe.

  “Oh, God, James,” she uttered, her sex going slick with moisture.

  “Tell me you want this,” he demanded in a husky whisper near the shell of her ear, his teeth grazing gently over the lobe.

  “I want this,” she nearly cried out. God, I wanted this. “I want you.”

  He dropped his head to her chest, and stunned her by suckling one taut and aching nipple through the wet fabric of her shirt. She gasped, her sex clenching in response, and brought her hands up, threading them in his hair. James growled at her and shifted to take her other nipple into his mouth. Her fingers pressed into his scalp and her breathing turned rushed, rapid. It was the most exquisite feeling. Torture and temptation. She wanted her clothes off, wanted to feel the cool breeze from the open window on her skin as he first suckled and tasted her, then turned her around, kicked her feet apart and drove up into her body like he owned it.

  As he eased her wet shirt up to her chin, then pulled her bra cups down, settling them just below her breasts, Sheridan arched her back. She wanted to give him better access, wanted to give him everything. Wanted him to taste her, consume her.

  “Goddamn, darlin’,” he uttered hoarsely, cupping one of her breasts in his large, callused hand. “You are one achingly beautiful woman.”

  Sheridan meant to reply with something other than a groan of delight, but she couldn’t manage it. His head had dropped once again and he was suckling that breast he held so possessively. Sheridan went brilliantly blind for a moment, let her head fall to one side. What he was doing to her . . . just his hand and his tongue. Squeezing, massaging, pulling, lapping, teasing, twisting.

  And then he sent the other hand down to the button of her jeans. Sheridan held her breath—her crazy, ragged breath—as he worked the zipper. The muscles in her sex clenched in anticipation and she knew her underwear was soaked. Then she heard the metal drop and she moaned. Moaned at just the idea of those callused fingers touching her, invading her heat.

  James’s palm rested on her lower belly, and he lifted his head. His eyes slammed into hers. His gaze was pained, ravenous. No doubt mirroring her own, she thought, placing her hand over his on her belly. Her eyes pinned to his, she slowly guided his fingers. Down, down, down, until they breached the band of her underwear.

  “Oh, Sheridan,” he said on a groan as he took it the rest of the way. “Honey . . .”

  Sheridan gasped as his fingers moved over the top of her shaved sex, then cried out as one lone digit dipped inside her folds and began circling the tight bud inside.

  “Is this for me?” he asked, his deep voice curling around her.

  “What?” she breathed, squeezing her internal muscles, wanting, desperate. Every inch of her ached for him, for release. Damn! Why were her clothes still on?

  He leaned in past her cheek and whispered into the shell of her ear, “This hot, sweet cream?”

  She shivered. Oh, yes. God, yes! For him, because of him. All she could do was nod, because in that moment, he thrust two of those thick, callused fingers inside her.

  A soft growl of lust escaped her. Or maybe that was him. She couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. Her mind was seizing up. One moment he was filling her, the next he was gone, drawing back out of her hot sheath.

  “No,” she groaned. She felt so bereft, so sad, she nearly started raging at him. She needed him—back where he belonged. Inside her. But then his eyes flashed with blue-glass fire, and she watched as he brought those fingers to his lips and sucked the shiny, wet digits into his mouth.

  The utterly erotic action made the muscles in her pussy clench so painfully, so hungrily, cream leaked from her sex and trailed down her inner thighs.

  His eyes blazed down into hers as he slipped his fingers from his mouth. A growl followed. Then he moved in close and said in a harsh whisper, “You taste like heaven, Sheridan.”

  Sheridan tried to answer, tried to make any kind of sound. But James didn’t give her a chance. He covered her mouth with his and stole her breath completely. As he kissed her, she tasted herself on his tongue and whimpered with the intensity of it. God, this was madness. The perfect kind of madness. The kind you wish for, hope for—never in a million years think you’re going to get beca
use of all the disappointments in the past. The things you’re told. The lies you’re spoon-fed from those who are supposed to give you hope and encouragement and an open heart.

  No more, Sheridan thought through a brain heavy with desire.

  James kissed her madly as his fingers found their hot, wet home once again, thrusting into her slow and deep until she moaned and clung to him for support. Her legs wanted to give out, and every inch of her was poised for climax.

  “That’s right, darlin’,” he whispered against her mouth, then nipped the bottom lip. “Come for me. You’re right there. Hovering on the edge.”

  Swinging her hips, grinding herself against his knuckles, squeezing her muscles around his fingers, Sheridan lost herself to the frantic need to come.

  And then he brushed the pad of his thumb over her clit. Once, twice . . . Sheridan cried out. Lightning was going off inside her. Lightning and rockets. She was completely lost to the feeling, to him.

  “Oh, yeah,” he groaned, continuing to circle the tight bud while he thrust inside her. “Milk my fingers, Sheridan. Squeeze me tight, darlin’. Just like you would if my cock was driving into you.”

  She was gone, crying out, falling down the rabbit hole.

  “Oh, fuck,” he ground out through tightly clenched teeth. “Your walls are squeezing me so tight, baby. Shaking around me.” He drove his fingers deep, then flicked the pads of his fingers against her soft, sensitive flesh.

  She came in a rush of whimpers and moans, bucking against him, rubbing her creaming pussy all over his knuckles. But he didn’t stop or slow. He remained steady, deep inside her, working her G-spot in tandem with her clit until she cried out and sagged against him. Then he obliged, easing back and gently pumping inside her as her orgasm receded.

  It could’ve been seconds or it could’ve been hours, but when he finally slipped his fingers from her body and wrapped his arms around her, Sheridan was bone weary. She snuggled into him, and he held her tight, stroking her hair, her neck. Then her back and shoulders. It was only when she winced that he stopped.