by Naima Simone
“I want that for you; Michael wanted that for you. The happily ever after. The fairy tale.”
“What about what I want?” she breathed.
He narrowed his gaze, pressing harder on her flesh even as his cock tried to tattoo itself on the zipper of his jeans. “Bennett. You want Bennett,” he ground out, reminding her as well as himself. Swearing roughly, he jerked his hand away from her face and dragged it over his head. It seemed like every time he touched her, his common sense went on vacation, leaving his dick in command. “Can we call a truce for today, Khloe? I can go back to being the bastard tomorrow, but for today…spend time with me.”
Long, tense moments passed before she finally nodded. “Okay.”
Fierce satisfaction poured through him. “Good,” he rumbled. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“We’ll go have breakfast then decide what to do from there.”
Again, she nodded. “Okay,” she repeated. “Let me get dressed.”
When she edged past him, he grasped her upper arm. That small, simple touch to such an innocuous part of her body had him aching to bury his fingers in her hair, drag her head back, and take her mouth like he craved to take her body.
She paused, glanced down at his hand.
“I forgot to give this back to you.” He removed her cell from his coat pocket and placed it in her hand. “I’m sorry. For yesterday,” he said, curling his fingers around hers. When she lifted her gaze to his, he continued. “But understand me. Not sorry for touching you. Or tasting you. For three years, I tried to convince myself I should feel guilty about fucking you. Because I shouldn’t have. But most of my guilt comes from not regretting it.”
He released her, placed space between them before he did something foolish.
Like pull her upstairs and lose himself in her arms, her mouth, her tight, sweet sex.
This idea of his—spending a day alone with her—was one big mind fuck that he was willingly signing up for. If he had a brain, he’d walk out of this apartment now and not show up again until the time came to escort her to Bennett’s dinner party. Yeah, that would be the smart thing to do…
“Go get dressed. I’ll be waiting.”
“Ice skating? Seriously?”
Niall scanned the ice-covered pond already filled with skaters of all ages. Frog Pond on Boston Common. This early in the afternoon, the white Christmas lights draping the denuded trees weren’t on, but the gaiety of the season reverberated in the excited squeals of children, the delighted laughter, and the holiday music soaring on the air.
Still…
“When I said you could decide our next outing, I pictured something indoors, warm…on the ground, not ice.”
Khloe glanced up from lacing her ice skate and grinned. The joy in the wide smile took him aback. He hadn’t seen that open, unconstrained happiness since he returned. In the past, she’d never held her pleasure from him. And for a boy, and later man, who’d barely been noticed much less welcomed when he walked through the front door of his home, her smile had been priceless.
He missed it.
With sheer force of will, he resisted reaching out and tracing the sensual line of that grin. Maybe try to catch a bit of the joy in it for himself.
Damn. He delivered an extra hard yank to his skate laces. Fine time for the Irish in him to emerge with the poetic shit.
“Oh, come on,” she drawled. “What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than ice skating followed by a cup of hot cocoa?”
He arched an eyebrow. “A Superman movie marathon. A Guinness in a warm pub. Sex.”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re such a man.”
“True.” He stood, offering her his hand, and tugging her to her feet from the bench. “We’re happy. We want sex. We’re sad. We want sex. Want to relax? Sex.” He shrugged. “We’re easy.”
“Easy being the key word there.” She snickered. “And a Superman marathon? Not including IV, I hope,” she muttered, mock shuddering.
Grasping her elbow, he guided her to the black iron gate surrounding the pond. “You mean The-Movie-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Hell no.”
“Good. You had me worried for a second there. Even though III wasn’t that much better.”
“Watch it, woman. You’re heading into blasphemous territory. Besides, what would you suggest? Wait, let me guess. A Twilight marathon?” he teased. At her prolonged silence, he loosed a bark of laughter, bending and peering beneath the brim of her newsboy cap. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?” She scowled, tipping up her chin. “Team Jacob rules.”
He snorted as he eased out onto the ice. It’d been years since he’d been skating. His first time had been with Michael and Khloe here at Frog Pond. God, that’d been a lifetime ago.
“C’mon, Danny boy! Get the lead out. Or have you grown soft in your advanced age?” Khloe slapped him on the ass before zipping away, her laughter trailing behind her like the mahogany banner of her hair.
“Ah Jaysus,” he grumbled, cautiously sliding along the slick surface. He was like a newly born colt on spindly, unfamiliar legs. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on regaining the balance and speed he used to possess more than a decade earlier. By the time Khloe sailed past him on her third lap, he grabbed her waist and drew her against his chest, her skates dangling inches above the ice.
“Niall!” she shrieked, clutching his arms. “Put me down!”
“What was that about my advanced age?” he murmured against her ear, digging his fingers into her sides. She howled with laughter again, squirming, and threatening his equilibrium. And his chances of hiding the erection all her wriggling caused. “Careful, baby. If I go down I’m taking you with me.”
Her wriggling ceased, though she continued to grip his arms. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Chivalry, hell,” he growled. “I’m defending my honor.” With that warning, he lowered her feet to frozen pond, releasing her. Then he delivered a retaliatory stinging smack to her jean-covered ass before sprinting away.
The day flew by. As the CEO of a successful recording label and a millionaire in his own right, he’d attended parties on yachts and in palatial homes, visited more countries than he could recall, and indulged in vices that only the wealthy could afford. Yet, none of them could compare to the hours spent with Khloe. After skating, he allowed her to drag him to Faneuil Hall where they passed away some time strolling around the marketplace before attending the holiday lights and sound show. The thousands of lights that transformed the Boston landmark into a fantasy land didn’t hold him as enthralled as the almost childlike delight on Khloe’s face. The women he’d slept with in the past—including the one he’d married—practiced and honed their appearances, gestures, and words to tease and seduce. Khloe didn’t need to go to those lengths. Her very innocence was seductive.
“So where are we headed to?” She shivered inside her jacket as the town car slid to a silent stop in front of them. He waved his driver back inside the vehicle, and opened the rear door for her himself before following her inside. Her moan as the blast of warm air surrounded them had Niall gritting his teeth. Sex. She made a similar, throaty sound during sex. He’d made it his mission to drag those from her as often as possible that night. Collected them like fucking trophies.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, forcibly reining in his memories of her naked and coming. His mind realized this was a good thing, but his cock vehemently disagreed. “But I can promise it’ll be warm and indoors.”
“You big baby,” she teased. “You’re from Ireland where the weather is rain, rain, snow, and rain.”
“It’s why Irishmen are the best lovers, babe,” he murmured, thickening his brogue. “We spend a lot of time inside staying…busy.”
She scoffed, but the illumination from the passing streetlights revealed the red staining her cheeks.
He released a bark of laughter, leaning forward and peering in her face. “Are you blushing?”
/>
“No.” She scoffed pushing him away.
Chuckling, he leaned against the seat, pleasure a warm, molasses-thick glow in his chest. Minutes later, the car slowed and halted in front of his favorite Irish pub in Boston. Light spilled onto the sidewalk from the wide, white-framed windows, and as he ushered Khloe into the bar, the welcome of beer, food, and the hum of lively conversation embraced him like a bit of home. More than one lilting accent caressed his ears, reminding him of rolling emerald hills, misty, cool evenings, and the magic inherent in his homeland. As they settled at one of the tables, and placed their orders for shepherd’s pie, a glass of red wine, and a Guinness, a knot of tension unraveled in his shoulders.
“I can see why you chose this place.” She propped her crossed arms on the table, scanning the dark paneling, the teak bar, and the massive fireplace against the far wall. “You must feel like this is home away from home. It’s—” She flinched and reached into her pocket, withdrawing her cell. “Damn,” she whispered.
“What’s wrong?”
She glanced up and sighed. “I left my phone in the car while we were skating, and I have four missed calls from my mother.” Swearing softly again, she tucked the phone in her coat pocket and shrugged out of the heavy garment. The joy that had infused her lovely features all day ebbed, replaced by a weariness tinged with a touch of sadness. He hated the expression, especially after the day they’d had.
“Are you going to ring her back?”
She shook her head, and relief flooded him. He could just imagine Carter and Rosalind’s reactions if they learned their daughter—their only living child—was with the man they blamed for their son’s death.
“It’ll keep,” she said.
He snorted. “Michael used to pull a flask out of his desk drawer when he had to make his weekly phone call home.”
She laughed, and this time it was softer, not as abrasive. “I remember those weekly sessions.” A wry smile twisted her lips. “No one does guilt trips like my parents. You know what’s funny though? Neither Mom nor Dad would schedule anything on Friday mornings at eleven o’clock; that half-hour when Michael called was sacred. Even if when they talked with him, they made sure to remind him how his leaving and being so far away distressed and hurt them. They loved him but could never understand how he could just forget the years he’d spent in college on his education degree to be a teacher. For them, this love for music had come out of left field, had been a whim. They worried he would regret his seemingly impulsive decisions to abandon his career plans and to move to a different country away from family.”
Michael’s choices were also the reason his parents blamed Niall for their son’s death. If Niall hadn’t “lured” Michael away from home, Michael would’ve been safe and not on that dark road three years ago.
“He reimbursed them for the loans they took out on his behalf for college,” Niall murmured.
Her chin jerked up, her lips parted. “I didn’t know that.”
He nodded. “He lived like a pauper those first couple of years after college. Wouldn’t let me help him or come stay with me. He made sure to pay them back because part of him felt guilty for not becoming the professor your parents wanted for him. Even though music was his passion, and his dream was working with artists and helping them achieve theirs.”
Music had brought the two of them together. His mother had been born and raised in Boston but had moved to Dublin with her husband. But after so many years away and a husband who was gone more often than he was home, she’d decided to move back to America, bringing Niall with her. For a lonely thirteen-year-old in a new city—hell, a new country—his fiddle had been his only friend, his only comfort. But finding the quiet, smart kid from his English class playing the piano in the empty music room after school one day had been like locating his long lost brother. They’d been tight ever since that afternoon.
“I was so thrilled for Michael, and unlike Mom and Dad, I didn’t believe he was wasting his life. He was happy, and I just wished they could’ve accepted it.”
“Is that what your missed calls are about?” He smiled a thanks at their waitress as she set their drinks before them.
He held up his pint of Guinness, and when she lifted her glass of wine, he tapped them together. “Sláinte.”
Smiling, she repeated the toast and sipped the alcohol. “The night of the gala, Mom invited me over for a dinner she and dad were hosting. Already had a date picked out for the evening. She wasn’t too pleased I said no.”
He snorted. “I imagine not.” He drummed his fingers against the cold glass of his mug. “Do they know I’m here?
Khloe briefly lowered her lashes before meeting his gaze. “No. I haven’t told them about”—she flicked a hand back and forth between them—“any of this. My parents have always been…always been…”
“I believe the word you’re searching for is controlling,” he supplied dryly.
The corner of her mouth kicked up, but he didn’t delude himself into believing amusement lay behind it. “Set in their ways. They envisioned certain paths for Michael and me, and intended for us to follow them to the letter. When he veered and later died, all their attention fell on me, and they became even more protective. As if they’d lost one child and had to cling tight to the one they had left. They’re not bad people, just scared. And too proud to admit it.”
“And I’m the boogeyman they fear.”
In Carter and Rosalind’s eyes, he’d enticed and lured their son away from the respectable life he’d led with lurid promises of money, women, and sex. Niall had then stolen their son from them by moving his job to Ireland where he’d died. Because of Niall. They blamed him for Michael’s death. They’d said as much at his funeral.
“No,” Khloe continued, though he caught the glimmer of guilt and regret in her eyes. She didn’t address his comment, but she had to know her parents resented him. They’d probably warned her away from him, wanting to protect the child they had left from Niall. “They’re afraid of change. Of anything that doesn’t belong to their insular, academic world. Of anything that jeopardizes the sameness of it. My going into the technology field caused them a moment of panic, but when they realized I wasn’t leaving Boston, they calmed in a few months. Anyway,” she trailed off, raising her glass once more and swirling the wine inside. “I can’t live in that bubble,” she said so softly he almost didn’t catch it.
“Here you go. Nice and hot,” their waitress chirped, placing their shepherd’s pies on the table. “Enjoy.” She left with a grin and a promise to check back with them.
“Oh my God, this is delicious.” Khloe groaned several minutes later, her eyes closed in pleasure. Shit, would everything she did remind him of sex? His grip on his fork tightened. Either that or reach forward, grab her around the nape of his neck, and drag her across the table so he could taste that sexy smile for himself. “Perfect after a day of being out in the cold.” She tilted her head to the side. “Somehow I can’t imagine you, the high and mighty CEO of Duir Music, sitting in a dark Dublin pub eating shepherd’s pie.”
“Really?” he drawled, lifting his half-empty pint of Guinness. “What can you imagine, then?”
“Expensive restaurants where all the beautiful, shiny people gather and the meals cost more than a month’s rent.”
“Beautiful, shiny people?” He snorted. “Careful, baby. I think your Twilight obsession is showing.” At her glare, he set his glass on the table and help up his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. You’re Team Jacob. I forgot.”
“You just wait until I find out your guilty pleasure,” she warned, pointing her fork at him. “I’m going to be ruthless.”
Hell, she was his guilty pleasure.
“In spite of your image of me, I spend at least a couple nights a week at the pub near my office. They have the best fish ‘n’ chips.” And music.
She quietly studied him, and he could envision the wheels grinding behind those beautiful eyes.
“What are
you thinking?” he asked, reclining in his chair.
“Did you take your wife with you?”
Shock punched the air from his lungs. Only years of negotiating contracts and deals enabled him to remain stoic and not betray the astonishment rioting through him.
“I didn’t know you were aware of my marriage,” he murmured.
She hiked a shoulder in a seemingly careless shrug. “It wasn’t a secret.”
“No.” But the marriage of an Irish music CEO based in Dublin wouldn’t have been enough news to make the American social columns or tabloid pages. Had she been keeping tabs on him? The thought shouldn’t have elicited a fierce surge of satisfaction. “And no. I never brought Veronica with me to the local bar.”
“Why not? Or am I just special?” she asked, the tone so dry it could’ve been thrown into the fireplace for kindling.
He snorted, the topic of his ex-wife turning the savory flavor of the stew to bitter ash on his tongue. “Because there was no one to influence with her beauty or body in the pub. No one to make jealous with her jewelry and clothes, and no one she could pimp for her non-existent music and singing career. So she had no use for a simple pub filled with people relaxing after an honest hard day of work, who wanted hot food and good company.” He tried to stem the resentment and animosity from his voice, but it crept in, dirtying what should’ve been a comfortable evening between friends.
“She sounds like a real piece of work.” Khloe laid her fork beside her bowl and picked up her wine. “And by that I mean a real bitch.”
He loosed a bark of laughter. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Then why did you marry her?”
Eying Khloe over the rim of his pint, he sipped deeply. The usual response hovered on his tongue, but when he lowered his beer, the truth spilled out. “Because I was lonely,” he stated, the admission stark, blunt, and fucking pathetic. Surprise flashed in her eyes, and he tightened his grip on the glass before deliberately easing it. Inhaling, he finished the confession. “Michael had died, you and I were no longer speaking, and in a moment of utter weakness and thinking with my dick, I convinced myself the truth of marriage didn’t apply to me. That it could work. But a year and a half of hell and a lighter bank account cured me of the loneliness and illuminated my foolishness about the unholy state of matrimony.”
