Naughty But Nice

by Donna Kauffman

  She didn’t arch hard, but rolled her hips up to meet him, groaning deep inside her throat as the waves of pleasure washed over and through her, each one building to a higher and higher crescendo. He grunted his own encouragement, and continued making her move, dip, and sway beneath his oh-so-clever tongue. Then making her gasp and arch when he slid a finger into her, bearing her down onto the bed with the force of his flicking tongue, while he pushed.

  She climbed up that last peak in a full rush, going straight over the edge, her body pulsing, almost convulsing under him. It didn’t stop. And he didn’t stop.

  “Griffin, I can’t—you have to—”

  “Shh,” he whispered, and his soft breath alone shot her straight up all over again. “Aye,” he said, between kisses “but ye can.”

  He proved he was right. More than once.

  Only when she was too limp to move, too satiated to do more than whimper when he finally slipped his finger out and moved his tongue away, did he slide off her panties, then move back off the bed himself.

  She managed to roll her head to one side and watch him drop his own clothes to the floor. He was ... magnificent. Modern-day gladiator was the description that came to mind. But then, she’d known he wouldn’t be anything but magnificent. Not that it would have mattered at that point, but looking at him roused her again, when she thought she’d be spent for hours, if not days.

  “Do ye have any”—he glanced at the nightstand.

  “Mmm,” she nodded, managing to make a vague motion with her hand, then watched with pure, unadulterated pleasure as he found a condom and rolled it on. She’d never thought the act a particularly sexy thing, but she’d had a very sudden change of heart.

  When he climbed onto the bed, and over her, the look in his eyes made her feel purely female and utterly desirable. Her body was still humming with the delightful aftershocks of the very thorough attention he’d given to her.

  As he moved over her, pulling one leg up and around him as he did, she arched to meet him, swamped with need all over again, before he’d so much as brushed against her.

  “You are ready indeed for me,” he said, grinning as he pushed against her, even as he slid his hands over hers, weaving their fingers together, and pinning her most deliciously against the bed.

  “So what are you waiting for?” she taunted, her breath coming in short pants of anticipation, her hips quaking a little under him.

  “What, indeed?” he said. Without needing so much as a guiding hand, he found her easily and slid into her fully with one, smooth stroke.

  She moaned, he growled in appreciation, and they immediately began to move. It wasn’t going to be some slow, carnal climb to mutual satisfaction. They’d exhausted any ability they had to do anything slowly with his intent, protracted seduction of her. She’d been compliant then, willing to let him set the pace, let him take his time. But she had little patience left. Even with the pulsepounding ride he’d taken her on, he’d left her still quivering, still wanting. He was on top of her, inside her ... and she was done following his lead.

  As she’d anticipated from the first time he’d put his hands on her, their mating was raw, bordering on ferocious. As soon as she slid her hands from beneath his and took his face to yank his mouth to hers, he roared fully into her, losing any semblance of control.

  Theirs was a needy, pounding mating. She gasped, he groaned, she screamed . . . and he came. It was glorious and intense and completely outside any realm of intimacy in which she’d ever indulged. In fact, no one had ever made her come alive like that. Certainly, no one had claimed her, ever.

  But that was exactly how she felt, when he let himself rest his weight on top of her as he tried to find his breath. He started to move away moments later, but she slid her heels higher up his thighs and her arms around his neck. “I like this,” she whispered.

  “Mmm,” was all he managed, but he stayed there a moment longer.

  Would he simply roll off her now, she wondered? Get up, tell her it had been nice, and head out the door? Did he expect they’d do this again? How long would he be staying in town? Did she dare take up with him, knowing that one or both of them would be leaving Hamilton for good? Him for certain, which was all that mattered. She had no idea when he was planning on heading back to Ireland, but she knew enough to realize that she wasn’t cut out for playing games.

  He kissed the side of her neck, her cheek, the bridge of her nose, and then gently, her lips, before he moved off her.

  She was surprised by the gentleness, and by her accompanying prick of tears. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, willing them away, so she could be all casual and unconcerned when he made his excuses. Instead he surprised her further by rolling her to his side and tucking her body up against his. She glanced at him, but his eyes were closed. He was toying with the hair on the back of her neck, urging her cheek down on his chest.

  She fit naturally—too naturally—against him. It felt good. Okay, better than good, it felt bloody fantastic, she thought, smiling privately. She didn’t move away, or roll to the side of the bed and initiate his leaving. Although that would certainly have been the wisest thing to do. She’d worry later about the wisdom of drawing out the moment. She thought about the unexpected gentleness in him and snuggled closer, the motion purely instinctive.

  For now, he was there, and he was hers.

  9

  Well, that had been . . . something, hadn’t it then?

  He should be pulling on his trousers, making his excuses. And getting right the bloody hell out of there.

  Instead he was tugging her closer, molding her against him, feeling his heart still racing beneath her soft cheek. He couldn’t seem to keep his fingers out of her hair, nor could he stop wanting to tip her head back, lean down, and kiss her some more.

  Like a starving man, he was. A man whose appetite had been well and surely slaked . . . though his body was done for, the rest of him wanted what it wanted, which was Melody Duncastle, plastered to his sweaty, happy side. And what was the “rest of him” he referred to? There was only one part he should be—could be—concerning himself with. And that part was temporarily out of commission.

  He stroked her hair, closed his eyes, and tried like hell not to think about those other parts. He should be grinning like a loon, happy to have had a hearty round of it. That was what he’d thought he wanted, was it not? Just put out the fire, so the only thing left afterward were ashes.

  Only that’s no’ how it felt.

  He wanted her again. And very likely again after that. His body might not be up to the task, but that didn’t slake the desire. The pure sexual craving.

  Even as he thought it, he knew his feelings went far, far beyond that. He didn’t only want to have her, watching her slowly come apart under his tongue, sinking into her, driving into her, rushing up and over her like a roaring train, and taking her with him. He wanted all of that, aye, indeed he did.

  But he wanted far, far more. He wanted to know her. To know what made her laugh. To know what made her cry. To glory in the bliss she found in her work, and bask in that glow. She had the heart of an artist, which she was still discovering, and an intellectual’s mind. She appealed to his earthy side, as well as to the part that yearned to share his professional successes with someone who could grasp the complexity of what he did. He had to be creative, too, only in an entirely different way. One he suspected she’d understand and appreciate.

  He’d never once felt compelled to tell anyone about his past, nor to discuss what he did. He was generally too busy to think about the former, or to talk about the latter. He’d known her such a very, very short time ... but there was something to her that had his full and complete attention. He’d no business wasting an evening, much less a whole night, with all the work he had in front of him. Yet, he wouldn’t change the events of that day and night for the world.

  That he’d put pleasure before work—hell, anything before work—was a miracle of noteworthy proportions.


  One day. How could anyone feel so changed by a person they’d known for a single day? Her impact on him had been instant. It made no rational sense whatsoever, but there he was. And there she was. And he’d give almost anything not to have to leave.

  Her. Hamilton. He resented anything that would deprive him of the time it would take to find out if their instant combustion could sustain itself. He’d never before cared enough to find out. In business he was always on the hunt, always the pursuer. But when it came to relationships, it had always been the other way around.

  It occurred to him then the only other time he’d felt so certain of something was when he found a new project that would benefit from his attention. One he knew would be profitable for him and a remarkable new start for the people he wanted to help. He rarely, if ever, secondguessed his gut instinct on those occasions . . . and he was rarely, if ever, wrong.

  Perhaps his certainty now wasn’t such an odd, inexplicable thing after all. Maybe his gut just knew.

  The problem was ... what in the bloody hell could he do about it?

  “You know, if you wind my hair any tighter around your finger, I’ll have a perm,” she said on a soft laugh, startling him from his thoughts.

  She hadn’t moved from where he’d cradled her, and she was presently tracing aimless patterns on his abdomen with her fingertips. It felt good.

  He smiled as he untangled the lock of hair from his finger. “Sorry. What’s a perm?”

  She lifted her head then, and if he’d thought her eyes were deep blue pools he could drown in before, they were downright bottomless now. Suddenly drowning didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.

  “Seriously? Don’t Irish women get their hair curled?”

  “I wouldn’t know, never really paid attention. If you mean those rollers they put in—”

  She laughed. “Close enough.”

  He massaged her scalp a little, liking the feel of her hair sliding over his hands. “I didn’t mean to tug it out.”

  “It felt good, actually, until right at the end.” She shifted a little, rolled into him so she could prop her chin and hands on his chest. “Why did you stay?”

  “Stay . . . you mean now?” His heart sank, and it shouldn’t have. Of course she wanted him out of there. She still had work to do, and he wouldn’t be the least surprised if she headed straight back down the stairs to do it.

  “No,” she said, smiling up at him. She slipped her hand up and tracked her fingers over his cheek, along his jaw. “I like you right where you are.”

  Hearing that shouldn’t have been the heady rush that it was. “I’m growing rather partial to the spot myself. So . . . what did you mean, then?”

  “Tonight. In the kitchen with me. I know you said you wanted to talk to me, explain the situation, but you could have just laid it all out there in five, ten minutes. You certainly didn’t have to put in the work you did.”

  “I believe you told me I had to work if I was to talk.”

  She grinned. “You bought that?”

  He smiled, too, and tousled her hair. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  “So will I,” she said dryly, then looked away.

  “Hey,” he said, when a few moments passed and she didn’t look back at him. “I wanted to stay. It stopped being about talking up the project pretty much as soon as you let me in. In fact, if you want to know a secret, I’m no’ too certain I ever much cared what we discussed. I just wanted to see you again.”

  She looked up again, clearly surprised. “Why?”

  “Oh, I told myself it was the project, but once I was here, I knew it was more than that. You intrigued me, Melody. I wanted to know more.” He tipped his chin up and kissed her forehead, effectively ending the line of questioning and, he hoped, his apparent inability to keep his trap shut. “Do you need to get the rest done tonight? Do you need more help?”

  “No, that’s not it. I can make do. Would you have stayed and helped if I did?”

  If it would keep me around you awhile longer, I’d build kingdoms for you, he wanted to say. But, mercifully, he seemed to have at least some control over blurting out each and every one of his thoughts. “What, wasn’t I doing a good enough job?” he teased. “By the last couple cupcakes, I wasn’t even licking my fingers any longer.”

  She looked up more sharply at him, then knuckled him gently in the ribs. “Very funny. You Irishmen have a dry wit.”

  “And most of us a wet whistle. I’m sure there’s some connection there somewhere.”

  “So, you enjoy a good ale, then?”

  He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  He chuckled a bit dryly. “We’re not all a bunch of loud, limerick-reciting sots, you know.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” she said.

  He could see by the honest surprise on her face that she was telling the truth.

  “It was simply because, growing up in a restaurant and pub, it would make sense if you had a—”

  “Acquired a taste for a few nips now and again?” He shook his head, and tried to keep his tone smooth. She was poking in places she didn’t know were tender. More than that, it annoyed him to no end to realize just how tender they still were. “Quite the opposite in my case. I don’t touch any of the stuff.”

  She gave him a steadier look, and he realized she wasn’t just talking off the top of her head. “I was going to say ‘acquired a distinguished palate’ but, either way, it’s still a surprise to hear you don’t drink at all. Not to be obvious, but is it because you saw too many folks who couldn’t stop at those few nips?”

  “Something like that.” He felt even more the fool for letting her innocent questions make him feel so defensive. It had been a long while since he’d cared what anyone thought of him, or the family situation he’d come from. He would never have volunteered the information, but it was important to him that she knew who he was, though he couldn’t have said why, since their time together would be limited. “My father, mostly.”

  She laid her hand over his heart, her expression instantly compassionate. “That’s rough. I’m sorry. I can’t pretend to know anything about it, but I’m sure I’m grossly understating when I say that couldn’t have been a good situation for a child.”

  He could have pointed out any number of scars, some small, some more noticeable, like the ones through his eyebrow and along his hairline, that were part of what hadn’t been a good situation. She wasn’t pitying him, merely feeling bad that he’d had such a difficult time. There was a distinct difference. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. I left when I was sixteen. My father died a few years after.”

  “You didn’t go back?”

  “No.” He tipped her chin up, cupped her cheek, and smiled. It came easily, surprising him. “I didn’t do too badly from that point on.”

  “They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but I suspect a situation like yours might have gone the other way. It doesn’t seem fair, for any kid to have to deal with that.”

  “I spent my fair share of time thinking about that, but it wasn’t going to help matters.”

  “Your grandmother, the one whose restaurant you worked in, didn’t she?”—Melody lifted her hand—“No, that’s none of my business. I’ll just say I’m glad you escaped, and that your path changed afterward. I’m guessing it didn’t happen right away, though. How did you get from there to doing what you do now?”

  “One thing about the Gallagher clan is we have a lot of cousins.”

  She laughed. “On both sides of the pond, yes. So, did another branch of the family take you in?”

  “Not exactly, but they did help me find work.” He’d never told his cousins in Dublin why he’d left Cork. Nor did he ask for help until he was old enough for them not to question his being on his own. The various branches of the family were close enough that they probably weren’t all that surprised. “My Dublin cousins also had a restaurant. As did several o
ther branches of my family. For a long time, I’d been trying to get my grandmother to see that if she could talk the other family restaurants into joining forces, they could all improve their individual places.”

  “You realized that? You were just a kid.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I watched too much television in the pub growing up, maybe. A lot of news programs along with all the sports. Commerce intrigued me. Rebuilding, reimagining things to make them successful made sense to me. I don’t know why I think like that, but I always have.”

  “They say inventors are born, not made. Maybe you’re the same way.”

  “Maybe. But my grandmother and other family members wouldn’t listen to me.” It had been far more than merely tuning him out. They’d taunted him about his faery world ideas. His odd appearance, with his light eyes and hair, had engendered any number of faery jokes. He’d simply thought them idiots for not even giving his scheme a shot. “My cousins in Dublin weren’t much more open to the idea.”

  “Really? I was thinking that was your first success story.”

  “I think of it as my biggest failure, actually. But you can’t change what people don’t want fixed.”

  “I asked before, but do you think maybe they feel as I do?”

  “In some ways, yes. In most ways, they’re simply too stubborn to hear they might not be doing something the best way possible.”

  “That trait runs in your family tree.” She laughed. “I’m shocked.”

  He did have the good grace to smile, and, for the first time, soften his view regarding his family’s choices . . . at least a little. “It was while working for my Dublin cousins that I made a few suggestions to another shopkeeper. He thought they sounded like a good idea and put them to use. I didn’t make any money on that deal, but it gave me the confidence to flesh out my ideas. I started taking university courses while working, and that shopkeeper passed my name along, which led to a few small consulting jobs. And”—he shrugged—“it’s hard to explain, but it became a business. Lots of stops and starts and going off in far too many wild directions, but that’s what it took to figure out what would work. I was young, so it didn’t matter if it wasn’t good right from the start. I had the restaurant in Dublin as backup, always had a little cash in my pocket, and, eventually . . . well—”