Complicate

by Pam Godwin

  His groin tightened. “She’s a threat.”

  “That’s not why you’ve been stalking her for fourteen months. Do you remember what I said to you when we met?”

  “You said a lot of crazy shit.”

  “A lot of crazy, smart shit. You remember.”

  Yeah, he remembered.

  If love comes for you again, it’s going to blindside you and knock you on your ass. You’ll deny it. You’ll fight it with every breath in your body. But having already experienced it once, you know it’s a fight you can’t win. So maybe, if and when it happens, give yourself a break. Don’t fight so hard.

  “That’s not what this is.” He dragged a hand through his hair and started walking toward his rented apartment. “What she did to me is unforgivable. She can’t be trusted. Ever. She’s a goddamn risk.”

  “If she consumes your mind, she’s a risk worth taking. Take the risk, Cole. Or lose the chance.”

  “I already did that with Danni. I took the risk and lost the chance.”

  “That’s why second chances were invented. It’s never too late to begin again, have a dream, and make her yours.”

  “She already has someone.”

  “That didn’t stop Trace when he went after Danni, and look how that worked out for him.”

  “Ouch.” His jaw flexed. “Direct hit below the waist, Rylee.”

  “Did it clear your head?”

  “No.”

  “Come home. If you don’t feel anything for this woman, bring your ass back to Colombia, spend the holidays with your family, and put some distance between you and this thing you’re wrestling with.”

  “Not yet.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I can’t.”

  “I didn’t think so. When you’re ready, we’re here. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  “Try not to take too much longer. We miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” he said quietly, uncomfortably. But he meant it.

  “Night, Cole.”

  “Good-night.”

  An hour later, he lay on a cold mattress in an unfamiliar apartment and thought about Lydia.

  He didn’t know her natural hair color. She wore it in every shade and style possible, usually wigs, always eye-catching. But he preferred it red, and that was how he imagined it every night when he wrapped a hand around his cock and beat off.

  He thought of the thick, silken, blazing red mass of waves tumbling off her shoulders and curling around the pink peaks of her gorgeous tits. He thought of the hair between her legs, imagining it a lighter shade of red and glistening with her arousal as he penetrated her with his tongue, his fingers, and hungry cock. He thought about her rebellious little chin lifting toward him, her lips parting, begging to be kissed as he teased her, worshiped her, and gave her everything she wanted.

  Christ, he was hungry. So fucking ravenous for her. He finished too quickly and continued to stroke, milking the final drops, trying to prolong the transient moment of pleasure.

  When the sensation passed, and his body grew cold, he lay there in the dark, breathless, empty, and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.

  Dublin, Ireland

  Three weeks later

  If the idea of Christmas heaven was bundling up under layers of clothes and slushing through wet snow across cobbled streets in an epically festive pub crawl, then Dublin was the place.

  Cole didn’t mind the cold, and frankly, nothing warmed the blood like a hot Irish whiskey in a cozy Irish inn. So in the dark hours of Christmas Eve, he sat in the quiet corner of a small pub off the beaten path and treated himself to a few of those hot toddies.

  Outside, the wind beat against the windows in an icy serenade, forming frozen lace on the glass, delicate and jewel-like. Fire crackled in a nearby hearth, and periodically, the door opened with the draft of snow and incoming Dubliners.

  Woolen hats pulled over reddened ears. Scarves wrapped around rosy cheeks. They arrived in pairs, small groups, but never solo as they stamped their boots on the entry mat and made a beeline to the bar.

  For this small island of emigrants, Christmas was a time for family and friends. Many returned home to Ireland to spend the season with their loved ones. Others reconnected like the older couple across the room.

  With their hands clasped together at shoulder height, they slowly danced in front of the hearth fire, smiling, swaying, locked in eye contact, and lost in their own private world.

  Love.

  It was the greatest gift they could give each other.

  Physical closeness. Emotional warmth. Partners for life. They shared a lasting, soulful kind of love that lifted every part of who and what Cole was.

  In that moment, in his dark, solitary corner of the world, all he wished for was another beating heart, one less empty chair, and one more pair of gloves resting on the table beside his.

  He’d learned how to fly solo, how to sleep alone, and how to solve his problems unassisted. Over the past twelve years, he’d become a lone wolf, and it had made him a successful, unstoppable force in his job.

  But what it left was a form of loneliness that he couldn’t mend by himself.

  What it left was a sad man who sat alone in a pub on Christmas.

  Throwing back his whiskey, he dropped some money on the table and returned to the streets.

  The toothy bite of winter wind nipped at his face. Ice crackled underfoot. Carolers crooned in the distance, and shop window displays flickered beneath strings of rainbow-colored lights.

  Grafton Street at Christmas was a wonderland, and for anyone who believed, they could pluck the magic right out of the air.

  But he wasn’t a believer in the spirit of anything. Not in a world where he walked alone.

  His teeth chattered as the cold seeped into his gloves, numbing his fingers until they ceased to bend. Burrowing deeper into his leather jacket, he pulled his beanie low on his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Then he walked.

  He tried to walk off the chill and the direction of his thoughts, all the while keeping constant vigilance on his surroundings, always on the lookout for threats.

  Miles later, he took a cab to Dublin 22 and walked some more.

  His breath rose in white puffs and faded into the dark, frozen sky. Naked winter trees lined streets that slept peacefully beneath no boots, save his.

  The houses around him were home to those in full swing of togetherness, their merriment shining from decorated windows. But out here, he felt only the beat of his heart. A lonely beat, but strong, and growing stronger on the cusp of a decision.

  Treading slowly, he kept to the shadows, out of sight, his senses on alert. As if the snow had stopped time and covered all the distractions, he couldn’t see anything but what was right in front of him.

  He wasn’t lost. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing as he stared up at a three-story, mid-terraced house made of fieldstones and ancient wood.

  With neighbors attached on either side, the old, dilapidated property belonged to Micheál and Shannon O’Sullivan.

  Micheál O’Sullivan. Mike.

  Shannon O’Sullivan. Lydia’s real name?

  Were they married? This seemed to be their permanent home. They’d been holed up in there for two weeks, the longest they’d stayed in any one place since leaving Texas.

  He shouldn’t be here.

  The wind whipped sleet into his eyelashes and chafed the exposed skin above his beard. But the freezing chill brought a crispness to his thoughts.

  Once he walked up to that door, he was involved in this. Connected to her. Committed.

  There were a lot of risks.

  She could shoot him. Her husband could shoot him. Those who hunted her could shoot him.

  They could try.

  Under a black sky of wintry snow, he backed away.

  Around the property and along the surrounding streets, he slipped through the shadows and swept the perimeter. There was no one outside. No lat
e-night wanderers. No Santa. No reindeer. No hitmen. No present danger.

  Dark windows veneered the O’Sullivan house on both sides, suggesting they were asleep or not home. The thought of catching them in bed together sucked the life from his soul, but he wasn’t stopping.

  He’d gone as far as he could on this path alone. His next step forward would be with her, and he was prepared to fight.

  When he was buried inside her in Texas, she was with him. When he kissed her in Rome, she was with him. Every time he had her body, she gave him her passion, her beautiful desire. And Mike had tolerated it.

  Fuck Micheál O’Sullivan, and fuck their relationship.

  Keeping to the darkest areas of the walkway, Cole ghosted to the door with a single-minded focus.

  The porch creaked beneath his boots, and he paused. A chill crawled over his scalp. Breathless, he glanced back, searching the perimeter for movement. All held still.

  As he reached for the handle to check the lock, the wind wiggled the door, cracking it open. It hadn’t been latched. What the fuck?

  Alarms fired in his head, tensing his muscles. Quickly, he removed his bulky gloves and drew the handgun from the back of his waistband. Holding it up and out, he expelled a soundless breath and pushed open the door.

  Dark, deafening silence enveloped him. He slipped out of the doorway and pressed his back to the adjacent wall, staying hidden. The narrow entryway accommodated only a stairwell that rose into more pitch-black darkness. No other doors on this level. No other rooms. Nowhere to go but up.

  He kept the gun trained as he stepped toward the bottom stair, steadily, quietly. Until the shadows moved in his periphery.

  The darkness beside the staircase dispersed, and Mike prowled forward, blocking the path to the stairs. He wore a heavy coat, no doubt concealing a myriad of weaponry.

  “What do you want, Cole?” Mike asked in a heavy, distinctive brogue.

  He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You’re Irish?”

  “Born and raised in this house, you thick knacker scumbag.” Mike folded his arms across his chest, his expression etched in hostility. “Why are you trespassing on my property?”

  Blood thrashed in his ears, his fingers aching with tension. “Where’s Lydia?”

  “Leave.”

  “Move. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  “You won’t.” Mike smiled cruelly, repeating Cole’s words from Rome. “She won’t forgive you if you do.”

  “Who is she to you, Micheál O’Sullivan? Is her real name Shannon? Your wife?”

  “Shannon was my mam. God rest her soul.” Mike’s mouth tilted down. “And no, Lydia and I haven’t tied the knot.”

  Relief thrummed through him, but it still didn’t explain their relationship.

  He glanced at the top of the stairs, probing the thick blackness. Was she up there, standing just beyond the reach of his sight? He was seconds from knocking Mike out and scaling those steps.

  “Who is she to you?” Mike cocked his head, his body rigid and unmoving.

  “She’s a risk,” he said honestly. “A risk I want to take.”

  “Of course, you want to take her.” Mike laughed, his accent thickening. “You’re a manky stalker. Following her around for months and months. You have a problem, pal. An obsession.”

  “Yeah, I have an obsession, one that takes dedication, discipline, and sacrifice.” His voice vibrated with a growl. “I’m not walking away from this. Nor will I leave it up to chance or fate. Not this time. I’m taking this risk because, without her, there can only be a lonely goddamn existence.”

  Mike blinked, his expression cast in shadows. After a long, fraught silence, he opened his mouth, but Lydia’s voice cut him off.

  “I love you, Micheál,” she said from the dark landing above. “More than anything in the world. So I say this with the utmost respect and adoration.” Her tone turned to steel. “Get lost.”

  Cole’s breathing quickened, and he wrestled to control it. A swell of heat spread inside him, blooming into a fire so intense it made his pulse spark and flutter.

  Cautiously, Mike stepped forward until his chest pushed against the barrel of the gun, which brought a playful smile to his face.

  “If you hurt my sister, I’ll remove your bollocks with a bloody spoon.” Mike clapped him on the shoulder and strolled toward the door. “Merry Christmas, fecker.”

  Sister.

  Not lovers.

  The door shut, and he closed his eyes, just for a moment, savoring the pure and utter joy in that revelation.

  Siblings.

  “Lock the door,” she said.

  His skin heated with buzzing energy as he stowed the gun in the pocket of his jacket and engaged the outrageous number of locks, bolts, chains, and bars on the house’s only entry point. “Mike won’t be able to open—”

  “He’ll be gone all night.”

  “Where?” He stepped toward the stairs, straining his eyes, trying to see her at the top.

  “Wherever there’s pussy. He hasn’t left my side in…I don’t even know. It’s been a long time.”

  “He trusts me with you?” He climbed a step.

  “He trusts you’ll be here all night and that you’ll shoot anything that tries to come through that door.” Her voice grew breathy, and she coughed, hardening it. “Did you mean it? What you said? Or are you just here for sex? I know you’re not going to kill me. You would’ve done that by now.”

  “I meant it.” He felt his way up the railing, ascending into the dark. “Where’re the lights?”

  “No electricity on this level. Old wiring.” She shifted, creaking the floor just a few steps away. “You never lost me.”

  “No.” He measured his footfalls, his entire body strumming, attuned to her voice. “I followed you out of the desert and across the Atlantic. I’ve been following you ever since.”

  “Four-hundred-and-forty-one days of dedication. Why?”

  “Because you were mine, Lydia.” Hot anticipation coiled inside him as he reached through the dark and caught her nape. Then he hauled her gasping mouth to his. “You’re still mine.”

  Their lips collided, tongues seeking and connecting. She flung her arms around his neck, and he lifted her, stumbling blindly until her back hit a wall.

  The kiss caught fire, desperate and starving, building into a tameless, unholy fever. The aggressive savagery with which she met the strokes of his tongue only made him harder. Jesus Christ, he was so fucking hard for her.

  His hands threaded through her hair. Long, silky, heavy waves of hair down her back. He found her delicate neck, her slim shoulders, and continued downward, searching for skin beneath her clothes.

  She wore a baggy t-shirt. Nothing on her legs. By the time his fingers reached her pussy and sank deep into her heat, he was ready to explode.

  Goosebumps prickled her thighs, and she shivered in the chilly air. He needed to move her to a warm bed, where he could take his time looking at her. He’d never seen her without clothes, and dammit, he needed to see her.

  With his hands cupping her firm, bare backside, he turned and carried her up the next set of stairs. Her legs circled his waist. His palm pressed against her lower back, and he curled his middle finger deep into her asshole. A placeholder, to let her know he was coming for it.

  Her gasp tore their kiss. He bit at her lips, her neck, nipping at her shoulders and marking her flesh with his teeth.

  “I own you.” His mouth covered hers, claiming her with rough, unbridled hunger.

  “I own you.” She molded his urgency to her own with a fierce passion.

  “You don’t have an Irish accent.”

  “I’m not Irish.” She frantically kissed his face, panting. “Mike and I have different mothers.”

  “You’re going to tell me everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want it all, Lydia. All of you.”

  “Take it.”

  A possessive hum resonated in Cole’s chest. A wantin
g wrenched his gut. He ran a shaking thumb across Lydia’s lips, unable to stop himself from touching her. Then he kissed her, claiming her with the sweeping, stroking blade of his tongue.

  Mouths locked, hands grappling, they bounced off the wall, bumped into the railing, stumbled over the last stair.

  The third level greeted him with more darkness. But a sliver of moonlight poked through the curtains, giving shape to furniture and obstacles as he carried her through the space. A modest room with an open kitchen and a couch.

  Without breaking the kiss, he headed toward the door that led to the only bedroom. Except he didn’t make it past the next wall. He crashed against it, deliberately falling against her, trapping her tight little body beneath his mindlessly grinding, humping, trying to assuage his blistering need.

  He tore off his jacket, dropping it. She lowered her legs and fumbled with his zipper, opening it. His shirt and hat went next. Then his boots, his jeans, until he wore nothing but ink.

  She bit her lip, breathing heavily and eyes slitted, trying to see him in the dark.

  “Need light.” He gripped her waist and looked around.

  “Bedroom.”

  With spiking urgency, he hoisted her legs around his hips and attacked her mouth. She weighed nothing, her body twisting as she wrestled off her shirt.

  Her sexy moans and whimpers drove him crazy, vocalizing unspoken wants. He quickened his gait, each step increasing the friction and persistence between them. Her hot mouth fell upon his neck, his shoulder, showering him in a frenzy of kisses as her hands clawed and pulled, scratching his back and tangling in his hair.

  “You grew back your beard.” She kissed the scruff from one cheek to the other and cupped his face. “You’re so handsome, Cole Hartman.”

  “Lydia.” Groaning, he bumped into the bedroom door and slapped a hand along the wall, hunting for a light switch.

  “The table.”

  He knocked over a slew of shit in his path and wiped out everything on the nightstand in his quest to find the bulb. “How do I turn the damn thing on?”

  She laughed against his mouth. Then she threw back her head and laughed harder, the musical sound alive with relief and breathy with need.