“Aye, darlin’,” his voice was slightly muffled as he took a mouthful of silk, “not all my bits are numb.” As if to back up his bold statement he pressed a rather substantial bit against her that was obviously not feeling the effects of the cold at all.
“Casey, what are you trying to do?” she asked, a pulsing warmth spreading through her center even while her extremities were beginning to sting with cold.
“Undo yer buttons,” he said, pausing to gasp for breath.
“With what?” she asked as his face once again disappeared into a swathe of silk.
“My teeth,” he said, just as a flash of blinding light caught her directly in the eyes. Instinctively she dove for the ground, cracking her nose against Casey’s forehead in her haste. The pain was immediate and nauseating.
“Are ye alright, Jewel?” Casey asked in remarkably calm tones.
“Mmphmm,” she mumbled, refusing to move her face from his chest.
“Good evenin’ to ye Harvey,” she heard Casey say, and groaned inwardly. She’d entirely forgotten about Harvey, the one-armed security guard that had been hired to patrol the area after a rash of vandalism. Generally she left a thermos of something hot out for him each evening, or Casey would come down and have a cigarette and a chat with him on the man’s tea break.
“Good e’en to yerself as well, Mr. Riordan, an’ to yer missus.”
“It’ll be a fine night, won’t it then, Harvey?” Casey asked as though they were merely passing the time on a street corner. She had the annoying feeling he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Oh ‘twill indeed be, ‘twill indeed. The snow has cleaned everythin’ up right pretty.” The security guard cleared his throat and Pamela could feel his discomfort even at three yards. “Will everthin’ be alright here then, Mr. Riordan?”
“Aye ‘twill be fine, only ye’ll have to make allowances for my wife, as ye’ve caught us in a wee bit of a compromisin’ situation.” His hand drifted down discreetly and flicked at the waves of silk that were rucked up on her back. She felt it drift chill and sheer over her bottom and bare thighs and bit him sharply on the nearest piece that was handy. He muffled a yelp and tightened his hold on her.
“Well I’ll be off on my rounds then sir. Ye enjoy the rest of the night.”
“I’ll certainly try,” Casey responded, a rumble of suppressed laughter sounding in his chest.
“Well good night to ye, Mr. Riordan, Mrs. Riordan.”
“Good night Harvey,” Casey managed before dissolving into laughter.
“In the house,” Pamela managed through gritted teeth.
“Right then,” Casey said and in one fluid move, stood, heaving her none too gently over his shoulder.
“Put-me-down, you bastard,” she said, beating ineffectually at his back with her fists.
He nipped her neatly on her left buttock, effectively silencing her struggle, and headed toward the stairs leading to the open door.
“Settle down woman, we can’t have ye walkin’ barefoot in the snow, ye might catch cold.”
“Casey Riordan,” she said, closing her eyes against a world of spinning white, “if it’s the last thing I do in this world, I’ll get you for this.”
“Aye,” Casey said with a certain relish as he stepped over the threshold, “I’m countin’ on it, woman.”
“I’D FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT HARVEY. I tell ye Jewel, the look on the poor man’s face…” Casey, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, underwent yet another paroxysm of mirth.
“Yes, poor Harvey,” she said bitingly, “he’ll likely have nightmares for months, watching us roll about in the snow with your head down my nightgown.”
“Ah, now about that nightgown...”
“What about it?” she asked, digging in the top drawer of her nightstand for the mentholatum.
“Woman,” he said, tones coddling with charm, “come here to me.”
“You can save the Irish charm for someone who doesn’t know you quite so well,” she said huffily, turning away from the drawer in a flurry of skirts, only to feel a broad forearm catch her round the waist and tumble her backwards onto the bed.
“Now,” Casey said, putting a knee on either side of her as one hand pinned her wrists above her head, “are ye goin’ to tell me what the matter is, or are we goin’ to not speak to one another for three days like the last time? ‘Cause I’m tellin’ ye darlin’, if it’s the latter I’ll go sleep happily in the snow. It’ll be a deal warmer altogether.”
“Where were you tonight?”
“I had a few too many drinks with the lads, an’ I know I should have been home hours ago—”
“Were you with Joe Doherty?” she asked. His whole body stiffened at the question.
“Are ye askin’ because ye want to know, or are ye askin’ because ye already know?” His eyes had gone an impenetrable black. He seemed suddenly sober.
“You were, weren’t you?”
“Aye I was, though I’m a little more interested at present in how ye know that particular fact. Don’t tell me it was a lucky guess for I can tell by the look on yer face, ‘twas no such thing.”
“I just knew,” she said carefully, wishing the light in the room wasn’t quite so revealing.
“Just knew because Jamie told ye? Would that be it?”
“I think,” she said, squirming under his iron grip, “I liked you better when you were drunk.”
“It seems, then, we both have our secrets.” With his free hand he drew a line down her jaw, across the hollow beneath her throat and further down, pushing slightly until the first button popped under the pressure. Her body, turned traitor, arched toward the hand it knew, the hand it had succumbed to time and again.
“Casey,” she said, trying to infuse calm into the situation, “we can’t do this, it won’t solve anything.”
“Won’t it?” he asked, breath soft against her skin, her nipples rising hard at the mere suggestion of his mouth nearby. “It’s the language you an’ I know best, darlin’, an’ all the words in the world can’t come near that. We can talk an’ then we’ll fight, an’ it’ll be cold enough to freeze the balls off an ox in here, an’ we’ll not have solved a thing. Or we can mend things now.”
“How,” she said distractedly, as teeth caught her nipple through the silk and tugged it gently, causing her hips to rise in invitation, “will this mend things?”
“Because it does,” he said simply, free hand slowly pushing her nightgown up, “it may not make any sense, but then it’s not meant to, is it?”
She could feel the heat begin, in a slow rush before the wake of his hand, fingers as delicate as if they were tuning a violin. He knew her weaknesses well and played them like a virtuoso, losing himself in the passion of the performance. His fingers were still slightly cold and she half-gasped, half-cried aloud as he touched the center of her heat.
“Don’t tell me ye don’t want me, I can feel that ye do,” he whispered, drawing his hand down from her wrists to push the silk away from her body. She could feel the leather of his coat, wet with drops of melted snow, press against her breasts. The unfamiliarity of the feeling was oddly arousing. Only this morning she’d told him he looked a right thug in that coat, while privately thinking he looked dark, dangerous and sexy. The sort of thug one could fully imagine taking one up against a brick wall in some fetid alleyway. Or on one’s marriage bed, she supposed, if one happened to be married to said thug.
She heard the grate of a zipper being pulled and then in one quick, hard move he was inside her, making her arch and cry out. It was a possession, clean and simple. His body telling hers in no uncertain terms just to whom it belonged.
Rational thinking was no match for hormones apparently, she thought hazily, as her legs wrapped around his waist, arching and taking him deeper, making him groan as she felt the chafe of denim on the inside of her thighs.
He pulled back, taking her with him, so that they faced each other upright. She bit her bottom lip, nails
digging into leather clad shoulders. He put his hands, broad and certain, on her hips, pressing her down firmly until she cried out, “No, Casey don’t—I can’t-please—”
“Yes, ye can. Jewel look at me,” she did, and then closed her eyes just as quickly, frightened by the naked scorch of his gaze. “Jewel,” his voice commanded, “look at me.”
She opened her eyes, regretting the action instantly. His eyes, dark as obsidian, unfathomable as smoke, laid her bare as if every corner of her soul were open to his view.
“This here—now—is what matters, this—” he moved slightly, making her gasp and curl her fingers tightly into the front of his coat, “is our truth, our language.”
He moved again taking her beyond pleasure, to the fine line that bordered pain, hands gentle but firm on her hips, allowing no escape from the sensations that knew nothing of logic or sanity.
She gave herself over to him, crying his name softly, head falling back on her neck as he took her mouth, his tongue thrusting against hers in delicate imitation of their more intimate connection.
All the world condensed into a diamond hard point of light, blackness swirling at its edges, dizzying, a maelstrom threatening to pull her in and dissolve her very bones. He thrust harder and she screamed, the sound lost against the rasp of his beard and the brutal assault of his tongue.
He seemed to be everywhere, under her, inside her, around her, in the cool slip of denim under her thighs, in the smoky taste of whiskey in her mouth, at her very core like a hot, hard brand, searing her soul with demand.
“A liomsa,” she heard him whisper and then again, “a liomsa,” as her mind translated it automatically to English, ‘mine,’ he said and again, ‘mine’ around the soft heat of his tongue. ‘Mine’.
She pushed her hands hard into his hair, felt the curls crumple like damp silk in the creases of her fingers, looked into his eyes, burning like black fire, and felt the last barrier fall from between them.
“Yes, you bastard,” she said, breathless against his mouth, “yours.”
And then the diamond point of light burst wide, obliterating the darkness, carrying them both over the edge and down into the consuming heart of the maelstrom.
“SO ARE YOU FEELING LIKE MASTER of your domain again?” Pamela asked, warming herself against the long expanse of her husband’s body.
“That obvious, am I?” Casey asked ruefully, “I suppose I could just take up pissin’ on yer shoes before ye leave the house.”
“Granted, that would be fairly effective for keeping me in my place, but not nearly so enjoyable,” she said stretching blissfully, every muscle and bone feeling like melted butter.
“I don’t mean to be such a brute, ye know, it’s only that I still have my moments of disbelief that yer mine to keep. On the day we married I kept waitin’ for ye to bolt, an’ mutterin’ a little prayer to God, sayin’ if ye’d taken leave of yer senses altogether could He see His way to keepin’ ye in that state for a bit.”
“I’ve no intention,” she tilted her head back and kissed the soft skin under his jaw, “of coming to my senses where you’re concerned.”
“Good,” he replied, and returned her kiss with a thorough one of his own.
“Now are you going to tell me why you were with Joe Doherty tonight?” she asked.
He sighed melodically. “Where have my cigarettes gone? I’ve a feelin’ I’m goin’ to need them.” He sat up on the bed, reaching for his coat, the pinkish glow from the window catching his torso and left arm.
“Casey Riordan,” she said in tones of shock, “what the hell have you done to your arm?”
He froze in place, hand in the pocket of his coat, the line of his back and arm bold against the fuzzy light.
“Um, well, I’ve gotten a tattoo,” he said as if uncertain as to how said tattoo had found its way onto his arm.
“I can see that.” She leaned forward to have a better look at the dark band that encircled the girth of his upper bicep. “Is that writing? Turn the light on.”
“Now darlin’—” Casey began in protest, as she reached across the bed for the little bead-fringed night light.
She flicked the light on, eyes narrowing in disbelief, “Erin Go Bragh? ERIN GO BRAGH?!”
“Aye, it means Ireland Forever.” Casey flicked the light back off.
“I know what it means,” she said, “what I’m rather more interested in is why you’ve decided to have it permanently carved into your arm.”
“Well…” Casey drew the word out rather reluctantly, “it was on a bit of a dare actually.”
“A dare?” she said, eyebrows arched in inquiry.
“Robin dared me, I think he was tryin’ to see how far I’d go before I backed down.” Casey looked down at his arm, where a Celtic band with interlocking weave spanned a fair two inches of arm, the words Erin Go Bragh, artistically woven within the band. He grinned suddenly. “It could be worse darlin’, Robin’s got Up the Republic an’ it’s nowhere near his arm.”
“Robin was there too?”
“Aye,” Casey said reluctantly, clearly aware that the presence of Robin wasn’t going to be in his favor.
“A pissing match then, that’s what all this is about, who’s got the thicker skull and the least amount of common sense?”
“It’s only a silly, wee tattoo—” Casey began, a slight edge of defensiveness in his voice.
“A silly wee tattoo is it? Should I inspect the rest of your body for signs of male ritual bonding? A bone through the upper lip, a ring through the nose? Just what the hell happened tonight, Casey? You tell me I’m supposed to avoid the man at all costs, that he’s dangerous, and then you go out and get matching tattoos with him?”
Casey shifted uncomfortably and she could feel him trying to form the thoughts in his head into some form of coherency. The soft pinkish glow from the snow-drained sky fell across his back, turning old scars the color of new pearls. She touched his back and he shivered slightly, his skin responding with expectation even at her merest touch.
“Just tell me,” she said gently, fingers resting at the top of his spine, where the first of the cervical vertebrae met with the occipital crest. One of the most fragile places on the human body and the point just below where the primitive brain sat. She could feel, as if through transparent material, the pulse of his blood and the rhythm of his heart.
“It’ll seem foolish in the tellin’,” he said, head tilted down like that of a small boy suddenly ashamed of his actions.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, for suddenly here in the half-light, the scent of their two bodies still heavy on the sheets and the feel of Casey’s skin under her hand, it didn’t matter. Only that he was here and safe.
“Ye see,” he began tentatively, hand rubbing over the stubble that coated his chin darkly, “the whole evenin’ was designed as a sort of test, for Joe to take my measure an’ test my mettle so that he might best decide how to solve the problem of me.”
“The problem of you?” she echoed, an uneasy thrum settling low in her stomach.
“Aye,” he cast her a quick grin over one scarred shoulder, “I thought ye might be able to sympathize with the sentiment, if not the method.”
She merely arched an eyebrow at him and he cleared his throat before resuming his story.
“Well, Bobbie had come to me some days ago, askin’ would I meet with Joe, somewhere that might be considered neutral ground, for he desired to have a wee chat with me. ”He paused to take a deep breath. “I didn’t like the sound of it, but I didn’t think Bobbie’d lead me into a trap, at least not willingly, so I agreed.”
“You knew about this for days?”
“Aye an’ before ye give me both sides of yer tongue woman, I want ye to know that I felt sick with guilt over not tellin’ ye, but I also knew ye’d be upset an’ worry yerself needlessly over this meetin’ or maybe even try to prevent me from goin’. But, not growin’ up in this city, nor in my neighborhood, there’ll be some things t
hat ye don’t understand. If I’d not faced the man it’d be taken as pure bad manners an’ a challenge to his authority.”
“Yes, heaven forbid that we should appear to have bad manners towards Joe Doherty,” she said acidly, “though I believe even in Ireland politeness doesn’t extend to having to end an evening in the tattoo parlor.”
“Well how that happened is a tad bit more complicated.” Casey, having located his cigarettes, blew out a steady stream of smoke with his words.
“How complicated exactly?”
“Well it began with a game of darts, if ye can believe it,” he said, tone apologetic.
“I can believe it,” she replied grimly, thinking little was out of the range of possibility where her husband was concerned.
“I let him have the first three games but then my ego got the best of me an’ I had enough of the drink in me to start feelin’ slightly competitive. So I suggested we move on to the Republican club where they’ve the pool tables.”
“Did you then?” she asked, thinking of the ruby earrings he’d bought her one Christmas, paid for entirely by hustling men with too much drink and too little sense in them. If he ever wanted a change of career he could have tried out for Olympic billiards.
“Well ye know I’m a dab hand with the pool cue, so I couldn’t let the man have his way altogether.”
“How many games did you let him win first?” she asked, sternly suppressing a smile.
“Five,” Casey said, not bothering to suppress his own grin. “An’ then I took him down nice an’ slow in the sixth game, vain bastard didn’t even see it comin’, took twenty pounds off him as well.”
“Casey, do you think that was wise?”
“Likely not, but when is a man wise when his pride’s at stake?”
“Never in the recorded history of mankind, apparently,” she said tartly, “now can we move along to the part where you found yourself in a tattoo parlor?”
“Alright,” he said, turning to the side to stub out his cigarette, “it’s likely ye won’t want to hear the bit about the prostitutes anyway.”
Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2) Page 30
