A Risk Worth Taking

by Brynn Kelly

  He and Nicole would take turns rowing out with their dad to help him fish—as kids they fought over who got to go, as teens they fought to stay behind. In those later years, they’d moan about having to go to the loch at all but for him that was just for appearances. Here, his parents stopped worrying about work and money, stopped talking about his exams and football development squads and piano recitals. He no longer needed to be the best to make them happy.

  He’d sure freed himself from that pressure.

  You said impressive. Like you’re doing it to get approval.

  Hell, maybe approval had been his first addiction, the first indication that something was wrong in his programming. Maybe his drug back then had been attention and acceptance, which had worsened as he got older, his gut heaving with that endless spiral of craving and risk and reward, churning up to tornado forces. And once a tornado had started, nothing known to science could stop it.

  Shite. Reality and regret. Were there two bigger passion killers?

  His head ached, like the cold was shrinking it. He rolled the syringe in his hand. How good would just a small dose be? A wee reprieve from the pain, the memories, the failures and betrayals.

  Was that why he wanted Samira so badly? He wanted an anesthetic; she wanted an escape. She wanted to forget the immediate future; he wanted to forget the past. And he’d like to give her that reprieve as much as he’d like to take it. The idea of spending even one night peeling off her layers... He blew out a foggy breath and stood, rubbing his quads.

  After one last check, he banged on the door. “Just a deer,” he shouted. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Silence. Maybe she’d gone to sleep. That would solve the dilemma of what to do next. He could sleep in the car.

  Quick scuffling footfalls, and the door opened.

  “You were gone a long time,” she said, stepping back into the shadows.

  “Needed to be sure.” He laid the syringe and gun and knife on the counter and bolted the door. Suddenly he had...butterflies in his stomach. So not manly. His body was going all-out fight-or-flight—adrenaline releasing, pulse soaring, blood racing to the limbs and brain and lungs. Digestion slowing, blood vessels constricting in his gut, his stomach’s sensory nerves complaining about the shortage of blood and oxygen. As if she were a greater threat than the goons. He turned, rubbing his hands together. And in one sense, she was. “I’ll stoke up the fire, will I?”

  Fight or flight or see this through—what would it be?

  As he worked, he sensed her standing behind him, as motionless as she’d been on the platform at the Gare de Blois. In the bathroom, he washed the soot from his hands. When he returned she was in the same spot, the fire and candles throwing a warm glow onto her skin and hair and dancing in her eyes. Dilated pupils—her autonomic nervous system firing up, just as his was.

  “Jamie.” Her voice wobbled. His butterflies turned into locusts. “I want this—us, tonight.”

  “You’re sure?” Was he sure?

  “This may be the only thing I am certain of right now. I’m just...” She slipped her hands in her rear jeans pockets and fixed him with a determined look, the same expression as when she’d stared at the computer screen. A woman who knew what she was seeking and just where to find it. Oh aye, now his blood was going to all the right places. “I just... I still feel...strange about doing this when La—”

  She closed her mouth and inhaled fiercely through her nose. She was thinking about her fiancé.

  And so what? She wasn’t looking for a replacement, just a distraction. And Jamie could absolutely provide that. The fire crackled, its warmth building. Slowly, he walked to her, pulling up an inch short. She dropped her gaze. She had to be the one to cross the gap, this time. No doubts. She smelled fresh, like shampoo. Tentatively, she rested her hands either side of his waist. He could see the touch of her fingers on his jeans but couldn’t feel it, it was that light. Their chests were heaving, like magnets trying to connect.

  Cross the gap, Samira. Come to me.

  He leaned in just enough to brush his lips against her silky hair. The fridge ticked and hummed. Her breath grazed his neck. Finally, her hands drifted underneath his jumper and glided up his sides. He braced for a cold touch but she circled warm palms over his pecs and around to his back, her touch growing more confident, drawing them closer but still not to the point of full body contact. In a second his dick was going to take the initiative and close the gap. Patience.

  She stilled, her hands splayed across his back. His shoulder throbbed. Long seconds ticked by—literally ticked, on a wall clock he hadn’t noticed before. This was it—she was going to back out. Flight wins.

  She drew her gaze up. He couldn’t tell where her pupils ended and her irises began but he was pretty sure they were focused on his lips. She rose onto tiptoes, her palms pressing firm for balance. He closed his eyes and she touched her lips to his like an experiment, like she expected an electric shock.

  Hell, there was electricity, all right. Finally, she leaned against him, while maintaining a touch on his lips so feathery, so tentative, it might dissolve if he as much as breathed. Enough waiting. He threaded his fingers into her hair either side of her head and deepened the kiss, ignoring the fire in his shoulder. Her mouth was as satiny against his tongue as her hair was against his skin, as her fingers were, skating across his back. Hot and yielding and holy fuck.

  She tasted of the lemon salt he’d used on the fish and the velvety smoothness of the wine. She melded from give and take to give and give, her body pushing hard into his, while her groan told him all he needed to know about what was happening inside her, as it was him. Relief hit him like a hot shower, washing away his headache and the tightness in his stomach. She eased off her tiptoes and slid her hands to the sides of his waist, digging in slightly with her fingernails. Fuck. Her tongue flicked against his. Changing things up.

  He coasted his hands down her neck, her collarbone, her ribs. As he explored the shape of her, she stroked up the middle of him, over his stomach and his chest, her fingers coming to rest around his neck, pressing into the skin. The kiss heated, his desire cranked. No doubts, anymore, from either of them.

  He scooped his hands under her and hoisted. Her thighs gripped his waist, her heat grinding against him, and her arms encircled his neck, one skating over his wound. Fire tore down to his fingers. He gasped, waiting for the burn to pass.

  She broke the kiss, jerking her arm away. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “Seriously, it’s fine.” Or it would be, in a little while.

  “I don’t want to stop but...if you need to...”

  “I don’t give a fuck about my arm. I don’t want to stop for anything. I want this, Samira, like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Long eyelashes flickered shut, and open again. “I think I might believe.”

  He managed the few steps to the table and lowered her, taking some of the strain off his arm. Definitely a bullet fragment or shrapnel in there. Something to worry about later. She pushed up his jumper. He grabbed the bottom of it and pulled.

  “Merde,” he said, as his shoulder refused to lift.

  “Let me.” She skirted behind him and helped ease it off, followed by his T-shirt. Her lips pressed between his shoulder blades, warm and soft, as her arms closed around his chest. He spun, caught her and planted her on the table again, her hair falling, sexy and disheveled, to her shoulders.

  “Fuck, I love the way you’re looking at me right now,” he said.

  She locked her legs around his waist and drew him in tight, like she was giving his dick a preview. “How am I looking at you?”

  “No fear. No doubt.”

  “That’s because I don’t feel any of those things. You’re good for me.” She rubbed his arms, up and down, just shy of his wound. “I might have to keep you on.”

  He froze, a current sho
oting up his torso.

  Her eyes widened. “Sorry, offhand comment. I know you can’t... We can’t...”

  “I wish I could, Samira. I really do.”

  She bit her lip.

  Don’t ask me why, not now. She opened her mouth to speak but he sealed it with a kiss, which was a little jerky but not as bad as making promises he couldn’t keep. This was an escape, nothing more, and he would lose himself in her as long and deeply as he could. He left her mouth and pressed kisses along her jawline to just below her ear. Under his lips her pulse throbbed, twice as fast as the clock ticked. With one hand he cupped her nape and dived in to kiss her throat, her hair falling over his face. She leaned her head to the side as he explored the satiny hollows with his lips and tongue. She tasted of wood smoke.

  Aye, she was just the drug he needed—just so long as he ended things before he couldn’t function without her.

  * * *

  SAMIRA GROANED AS Jamie nuzzled her throat, lighting fires down her neck, her breasts, her belly... But mostly the fire was concentrated in the spot the bulge of his jeans was pushing into. She tightened her legs around him and pressed her fingers into his back. His lean, muscular body was so different from hers. He was far broader than Latif, a body honed from serious training, not casual pavement running.

  For God’s sake, stop thinking about Latif. Focus on Jamie.

  Jamie pulled away, eyes narrowed. “You okay?”

  How the hell did he sense that?

  “Yes. Yes. But I’m too hot. The fire, you...”

  He smiled wickedly, which only hiked her temperature even more. She hadn’t meant it like that but, yeah, he was hot in every sense... She went to unbutton her shirt.

  “Let me,” he said, throatily.

  He trained his eyes on hers while his fingers flicked open one button, then the next, then the next, each flick ratcheting up the yearning between her legs. She wanted the pressure back. Oh God, she wanted much more. She gripped the edge of the table. She was panting like a sprinter and he wasn’t even touching her. Just the nudge of his fingers on her blouse.

  “Whoa,” he said, stilling.

  “What?” Don’t back out now.

  “This shirt. You were wearing it the last time we did this.”

  “Was I? You remember this?”

  “You might be surprised what I remember.”

  “We hardly knew each other back then.”

  “To be fair, we’ve only been in each other’s company another...twelve?...fifteen?...hours since.”

  She frowned. “It seems like so much more.”

  “It does.”

  She’d heard of people falling for someone this fast but she’d always been skeptical. It had to be just physical desire and wishful thinking, yes? But with Jamie—the way he made her feel... Oh God, she was falling for him. Falling in love?

  No. That was a whole other thing. And it was illogical. This was some Neanderthal gratitude that he was protecting her, fused with a completely understandable physical desire—liquid fire racing through her body, pooling between her legs and throbbing there like a dance party. She exhaled, shakily.

  He slipped his hands around her neck and pushed the shirt back. She freed the sleeves and let it fall behind her. With one finger he drew a line across her collarbone, bumping over her necklace, edging her bra strap down her shoulder, his pale irises glittering as he watched its progress. One finger—he was touching her with one finger and yet it was like he was touching all of her, and not nearly enough... Talk about illogical.

  Give in, Samira. Stop trying to reason your way through it.

  He traced the scalloped edge of her bra cup across the top of one breast, down her cleavage, across her other breast, and lowered the second strap. She swallowed and his gaze landed on her throat. He leaned in, tipped his head, kissed the dip at the base of her neck and ran his tongue down into her cleavage. She threw her head back with a gasp. Wow. She’d expected a quick tumble, a frantic, hurried release of this crazy tension. A few jokes. Not this. She wanted to hurry things up and slow things down, all at the same time.

  His fingers found her bra clasp, fumbled, released it, his breath warm on her shoulder. She forced herself to sync with his breathing. In, out, in, out... He drew the bra off, watching the slow reveal with heavy-lidded eyes. As the support lifted away, her breasts fell, excruciatingly tight and heavy.

  With a groan, he slid a hand around her neck and stepped in for a kiss, gentle but probing, coaxing her down until her spine was flat on the wood, his erection pushing into the apex of her thighs, at the edge of the tabletop. She planted her hands either side of his waist and slid them to his back, urging him closer, needing his weight on her. But he pulled back slightly, releasing the kiss, and, with a suddenness that made her cry out, took a nipple into his mouth. His hands found the fly of her jeans. She was only vaguely aware of them loosening and being pulled away as he sucked, his tongue and teeth working together in a gentle insistence, drawing moans from the depths of her throat. He drew her panties aside and thrust his fingers into her.

  “Holy shit.” She bucked with the delicious shock. But, wow, she liked that pace. Slow, slow, slow...and then, boom.

  He switched breasts, starting the journey of arousal over again, but this time from so much higher. As she wound her legs around his back, he hooked his fingertips, working the inside of her as his palm ground the outside. Trust a doctor to know where the G-spot was—and just what to do with it. No fumbling, no guesswork. This was pinpoint, clinical.

  And it was working. And she needed to stop thinking about how well it was working and let it happen. She skimmed her fingers over his hair, willing conscious thought to slip away, leaving only the touchpoints of pleasure he was lighting. She had the sensation of separating from her body, floating above, watching his fingers explore, the heel of his palm grind against her, his mouth lave her breast, his teeth tug her nipple. She squeaked as a spark of desire exploded and ping-ponged through her. If that was a taste of things to come then...oh man.

  His mouth left her breast and found her lips. They kissed, exploratory and impatient as his fingers maintained their relentless rhythm. Had he studied that at med school?

  Shut up, Brain.

  She kissed harder, closing her fingers around his neck, and he responded with a groan. His erection pushed into her belly. Oh God, she wanted that, she wanted this—she wanted all of him. Pressure built and coiled as he kissed and circled and thrust, the slide of his fingers telling her how badly she wanted more—as if she didn’t already know.

  She tipped over the brink, arching and thrashing and crying out. He released her lips and kissed her neck, giving her room to breathe, keeping just the right pressure as her climax detonated and bloomed, racing up and down and out, every limb, every finger, every toe. A sweet frenzied oblivion.

  As she returned, she opened her eyes, panting like it was she who’d done all the work. He released her neck and stared down at her, his mouth slightly open, not with the wicked grin of earlier, nor his usual expression of amusement or concern, but something more emotional. Dead serious. Intense. The very look that had scared her off last year, that’d warned her they were skirting dangerously close to the edge of some precipice. The crackle of the fire returned, the smell of burning wood and her own desire. She felt suddenly awkward. That had gone so far beyond her expectations she couldn’t recall what she’d expected. Her hands were still implanted in his neck. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  He leaned down and took her in a kiss so gentle and...loving...that something pinged in her chest. Who needed words? Finally, he lowered his body, his skin hot against hers all the way from her neck to her belly.

  She broke off. “Shall we move to the bed?” she managed. “And, uh, do you have protection because I didn’t even think...?”

  The wicked grin again. “Aye, in my wa
llet. And, aye, the bed. I want you on top. In control, doing this the way you need it until you come all over me—because I want to see that again. And feel it.”

  Her belly flipped. A laugh bubbled up—from shock, from embarrassment, from pure freaking joy. Even now, with his need so strong his jeans might well rip, he was empowering her, building her confidence, giving more than he was taking. So good for her.

  God, he was everything. Everything except available. Everything except hers.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JAMIE WOKE TO thick darkness, the air a cold sheet over his exposed skin, one side of Samira’s body grazing his. From the living room the clock ticked hollowly. He exhaled and reached for his watch on the bedside table. Pain bolted up his arm. He clutched the elbow and rolled over, picking up the watch with his other hand. Shite—only half an hour since he’d last woken. His mind and body were too overstimulated to stay asleep—pain, vigilance, Samira, the ghosts of this place.

  Something about the smell here was so familiar, something undefinable. The trees and plants weren’t flowering, so it couldn’t be that. Wood smoke, the lingering scent of recent cooking, the stone walls, metallic and earthy. The loch, crisp and decaying at the same time. And the sounds were the same, if deadened by the approaching winter—the haunting cry of a gull, the tiny splash of fish or birds, the cottage creaking like an old man’s joints.

  When he’d woken here as a boy it was to the promise of a lazy day, the chatter of voices on the water, the slap of an oar—his parents sneaking out fishing, or for a chilly morning dip. His chest twisted. It seemed less like the past and more like a previous life. His father was gone, his mother might as well be, his sister had written him out of her life—understandably. Everything’s always been about you, hasn’t it? she’d hissed, as he’d walked out after the funeral.