He scooped me up off the dresser and held me again, cradled me against him. My legs went around his waist again, and I buried my face in the crook of his neck.
“I know you’re scared. If you want me to hold you, or if you want to sleep on the couch, I’m not going to pressure you,” he said.
Hell, he was such a damn gentleman. There was nothing he could have done to show more clearly how too-good-for-me he really was right down to his core. Because I was willing to indulge, willing to use him to make myself feel better, and he was willing to sit quietly and hold me if it’s what I wanted.
“Mick,” I said, anguish in my voice as he walked me to the bed. He sat down with me straddling his lap. I made myself look up at him. “I want to spend the night with you. I want you inside me. I want you on top of me and under me and behind me, wearing me out so I can sleep in your arms. I want one goddamn good night in the middle of all this hell and fear. I don’t deserve it. I know I don’t, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting you. So don’t tell me you’ll sit here like a priest and hold my hand. That isn’t what I want.”
“Whatever made you think you didn’t deserve me?” His voice was so kind it broke my heart.
“Please don’t,” I said, tipping my forehead against his. I laid my hand on his chest, right over my heart. “I know I can’t have you. Don’t waste the time talking about it. It’s not fair of me to ask you for tonight, but I’ll be the asshole who wants you anyway. Despite how I treated you, despite the fact I can’t promise you anything.”
“Why would you think it wasn’t fair to me, when you’re offering me everything or almost everything I want in the world?”
Mick’s mouth rocked over mine, the slow, sensual kiss stirring me deep in my core. I trembled in his arms and he stroked his tongue in my mouth, splayed his big hand out on my bare back. My body rose against his, my breasts against his chest. I went after his shirt with more success this time, stripping it off of him as fast as I could so I could kiss him some more. When his hot, smooth chest brushed my bare breasts, I moaned. The intensity of that sensation, of having his naked skin on mine was enough to make me whimper. I ran my fingers through his hair, stroking his hair and rubbing his scalp the way he liked. I felt the tension leave his shoulders and arms and then he shivered.
“That feels incredible,” he said, and he kissed my chin and my jaw.
Touching him and making him feel good was giving me an awesome high. I loved everything about this. I especially adored being in his bed and in his arms. The way we moved together, so natural, responding to each other so easily, was intoxicating. He turned and tipped me back onto the bed, worked my shorts down. I made quick work of the button and zipper that were keeping his cock prisoner. I pushed his shorts and boxers down, his cock springing up, long and hard and proud, a bead of wetness on the crown that made my breath catch in my throat.
He crawled over me and braced on his forearms, kissing me deeply. It was amazing I had the will to wrap my arms around his bare back as he kissed me, as my tongue stroked his and the dip and pull of that kiss dragged me under. I shut my eyes and saw stars. I drew in a ragged breath and my body bowed up under him, his hard cock brushing my bare stomach.
“Let me put my mouth on you,” I whispered, “let me taste you.”
He drew back from me, broke the kiss and met my eyes. He had something like disbelief on his face. I held him fast, my gaze steady, “I want that,” I said, my voice robust, not breathless, not begging.
Mickey rose up off of me and I slid back and sat up. He stretched out on the bed where I had been, arms behind his head, watching me. His eyes were just killing me, so blue, so gorgeous and piercing. So stunned. I touched his stomach, my fingers going lightly down. His cock bobbed in response and I smiled. He bit his bottom lip.
“You look like a kid at Christmas,” I joked, “has nobody ever gone down on you before?”
“You haven’t,” he said.
The sound of wonder in his voice ripped at my heart. How much he must have wanted this, how I had held back from him. How many times had he licked me between my legs? Dozens? I wanted to make this so good for him, and I felt excitement like electricity in my veins. I moved down the bed, the thrill of stroking those abs and tracing the cut lines above his hips almost distracting me from the main event. I touched his thighs, parted them and knelt between them. His knees came up and bracketed me, and I looked up at him. I gave him my best vixen smile and thought with an inward frown of the guys I’d wasted this on, men who weren’t worthy of the effort or attention. Men who left me. I wrapped my hand around his cock, so thick that my fingers didn’t meet, and I wanted him in my mouth, wanted to go back in time and be the first woman ever to do this to him, for him to be the first man I’d ever tasted.
He groaned, and I parted my lips and took him in my mouth, velvety and hard and hot. I licked and sucked, worked my way down to take as much as I could, working my hand on the base of his cock in slow strokes to make up the difference. Every time I drew on him and felt him respond, every time he arched and writhed, every time his hand went to my head and his fingers tangled in my hair, it made me feel powerful, satisfied.
“Fuck, baby, you gotta stop,” he groaned. I gave him one more long suck and lifted my head. He was shaking. His legs, the taut muscles in his stomach, his hands as they hovered near my face. I moved up his body. He took my face in his hands and kissed me. There was something so intimate about it. He pulled the elastic out of my ponytail, so my hair spilled over us like a curtain.
He hesitated, lifted my hair from the side of my face and kissed my cheek. His eyes were full of emotion, but I looked away. He caught my chin and made me look at him, kissed my top lip, meeting my eyes the whole time. For a breathless moment, I wasn’t sure what he’d do. Tension drew out between us. I held my breath. I felt vulnerable He brushed my cheekbone with his thumb.
“You’re amazing,” he said in a rough whisper, “and you’re mine.”
Mickey flipped me on my back so fast I squealed. He was between my legs, arms under my thighs, pushing my knees to my chest. He opened me, his mouth on my sensitive, wet lower lips, kissing me open-mouthed, penetrating me with his tongue. Then he sucked my clit and I screamed as his fingers slid in me, stretched me, stroked me. I shuddered, my leg shaking where it was draped over his shoulder. I made an inarticulate sound of desperation or pleasure or something. I felt him smile. I felt the stubble on his face as he smiled against my most private, tender place.
Then he kissed his way up my stomach, still pressing my knees up to open me.
I reached for his face, that square jaw, that rough stubble. I held his face and brought his lips to mine. The slow, seductive kiss lulled me, like red velvet, like the heat of a campfire, like something luxuriant. I felt the fullness of his fevered flesh, the wet head of his cock bumping against my sex. My knees were over his shoulders then, and he thrust into me, spreading me wide, stretching me, tunneling in so deep that I nearly choked from it. It was gorgeous and filthy and wet. I could feel every inch of him inside me, his skin so hot and smooth. His thick cock drove into me with slow, deep thrusts. The rhythm was irresistible, and I bucked with him, my hips rising to meet him every time he tried to withdraw. My breasts bounced with the impact of his thrusts and he caught a nipple in his mouth and worked it. Bolts of sensation slid up and down my stomach. Every time he penetrated me, he pushed my knees closer to my chest, so his cock tunneled in, filling every part inside me, taking my breath. He ground against my clit until I tossed my head back and forth on the bed, screaming as wave after wave of rapture crashed over me and threatened to tear me apart. I was sure I’d split in two from his huge cock., I gripped for dear life with my inner muscles, bearing down on him and canting my hips until I felt him surge forward, fucking me harder and coming in a great rush of liquid heat that made me cry out with him as he exploded. He kept rocking into me, lowering one of my knees and reaching between us and ru
bbing my tender clit. I begged him to stop, tried to wriggle and writhe and pull back, but he was too strong. He held me down and worked me until I came again and again in a black rush of sweet agony, clamping down on his cock that was still inside me. Tears burst from me as slickness surged out of me and drenched us both. The pleasure was too much and made me weep.
He gathered me against his chest, cradled me and kissed my head. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever experienced, the deepest pleasure, an intimacy that rocked me to my foundation. Even my lips were trembling as he kissed me softly. Rattled, and my breath sawing in and out roughly, I whispered, “Mick—"
“I love you Karin,” he said, and fastened his mouth over mine before I could say anything I’d regret.
His kiss was so sweet, so tender, our tongues exploring and tasting gently, languidly. I cried a little. I couldn’t help it. Slowly, I was able to straighten my legs, stretch my neck, to get my stomach muscles to unclench from the force of that orgasm. He ran his hands all over my body, soothing me, stroking me, making me relax and open up. I felt like he’d unlocked me, like I was free of something that had bound me too tightly or caged me somehow.
Mickey held me. He stroked my long hair back from my face and kissed my forehead, “Don’t say a word. You don’t have to say anything. Just hear that. I’ve needed to tell you for a while now.”
I just held on tight. I couldn’t tell him I loved him just yet, but I could lie in his arms and rest my cheek on his chest and drift off to sleep.
I woke up hours later, a soft blanket pulled over me up to my shoulder, but the heat that warmed me radiated off the man whose huge, muscled body was curved around me, engulfing me in his embrace. He was still there, still in bed with me, holding me. I felt a smile creep across my face. Nothing on earth felt better than this.
Chapter 21
Mickey
It was before dawn crept in through the window that I woke with Karin in my arms. She felt delicious, warm and heavy with sleep, draped across my chest. I shifted slowly until I could lie on my side facing her. A lock of black hair swept across her cheek and her lips were parted softly in sleep. I knew in my bones I wanted to wake up like this for the rest of my life. I’d never felt happier than I did when I held her all night and woke up to her still in my bed.
I had told her the truth. That I loved her. I had seen the words register on her expressive face. Awe, fear, worry, disbelief. None of it the joy I had hoped for. That was why I backed off and told her not to say anything back to me. I didn’t want her saying she loved me to spare my feelings or to say it and then wish she could take it back. I wasn’t going to get what I wanted, an unreserved declaration that she loved me back followed by passionate kissing.
Watching her sleep stirred some powerful protective instincts in me. I curved around her, encompassing her in my arms, nestling her in my chest where she fit perfectly, my chin resting on top of her head. I could cradle her like this, protect her completely. I could shut my eyes and imagine taking bullets for her without hesitation. Nothing would be allowed to hurt her. I wanted to keep her in my arms forever, cocoon her in this bed, this cabin. She was the woman for me. I had no doubt. But I’d have to tread carefully. I didn’t want to scare her away again.
When she stirred, a smile playing at her lips, I kissed her awake. I gave her soft pecks on her full lips. She responded to me at once, her lips clinging to mine. We kissed back and forth softly, unhurried. Then I drew back and kissed her forehead, “Good morning,” I said. “I’m going to make breakfast.”
“I think I need a shower,” she yawned.
She seemed sleepy, but pleased, and didn’t show signs of wanting to run out into the street in fear of commitment, so I considered that an early win. While she disappeared into the bathroom, I whipped up some pancakes and sausage. I was cutting up mango and papaya for a fruit salad when she emerged in one of my t-shirts. It was the crappy one from our first run of misspelled pub shirts that read OShee’s Authentic Irish Pub St. Martin. Spelling our name wrong was an early lesson in quality control. I shook my head. Bad spelling had never looked so good.
The worn navy-blue shirt hung down almost to her knees. Her hair was wet and twisted up in a knot on top of her head. Her bare feet somehow tugged at my heart. I wanted to go over and hold her and tell her she should only wear my clothes from now on, but I remembered to take it easy. No pressure. I had her back in my life, in my arms. I could be patient.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
“It’s stolen.”
“It was an early attempt at pub merch.”
“I can’t decide what I like better. The misspelled name or the fact that the logo is a canoe. I mean, what the hell? I’ve seen sea kayakers around and catamarans and stuff, but never a canoe. Was it, like, the graphic designer’s placeholder clipart or what?”
“Well, I can’t explain the canoe. I remember something about Connor ordering them and telling them to just make a bar logo with the name on it, and somehow instead of a pint of beer or a fucking shamrock, the designer thought that meant put a canoe on the shirt.”
“So this is a rare, collector’s item type shirt?”
“It’s not one of a kind, but it’s close. We had a dozen run off for proofs and I think Connor used his as rags to wash his car.”
“So it may be one of a kind now. Because no one else had the sense to preserve it for the future O’Shea’s Museum of World Domination in St. Martin. You guys are taking this island over with all your businesses.”
“We all like to do our own thing. Between the five of us and Brandi and now Elise, I think we have most of the tourist industry covered.”
“You don’t have a florist or a bridal shop yet. I noticed because I’ve been spending time doing stuff for the wedding,” she said.
“I doubt we expand in that direction. Unless there’s a real gap in the market. How’s the flower search going?”
“Good. I convinced her we couldn’t wait till the morning of the wedding and go pick flowers. This isn’t Little House on the Prairie. It’s an actual wedding where we need to know the flowers will be there. Elise, who is this total perfectionist normally, is so laid back about the wedding. She just wants to get married. It could be pregnancy hormones, but the last time I said hormones might be causing something she just started crying. So it’s not like I want to mention that again,” she said.
“Do you need any help?”
“Yeah. Absolutely. Because if I were planning a wedding on short notice for a pregnant woman, the first person I’m going to ask for help is a former Navy SEAL. Because that is totally in your wheelhouse of skills,” she said.
“Hey, SEALS are resourceful and determined. We have survival skills, combat skills, stamina. You couldn’t ask for more in a wedding planner,” I teased.
“If I need you to do any combat with the bakery about the cake, I’ll let you know. Do you prefer hand to hand or do you need like a machine gun?”
“Either way is fine,” I said. “How’s your breakfast?”
“Insanely good. Thank you for cooking.”
“Thank you for staying,” I said. “It was nice.” That was the worst understatement in the world, but I had to play my cards close to the vest for the moment.
“It was,” she said lightly. “So while I’m planning the wedding—which by the way it is killing me not to do the photos myself—"
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because I’m the maid of honor!” she said a little indignantly.
“So it’s more important to Elise to make you wear a hoopskirt and stand at the altar than it is to have spectacular pictures of her wedding day?” I asked.
“Hoopskirt? Okay, Rhett Butler, I gotta have tax money to save Tara. I’m not wearing a hoopskirt, and I’m interested to know where you get your idea of current fashion from. I’m thinking not Vogue.”
“Bridesmaid dresses are ugly.”
“That’s usually the case. But not this time. This time Elise is the b
ride and she got to pick. So she chose a shocking bright yellow. That’ll look amazing with—dark hair, right? Because I’m not a Barbie blonde, and I think that’s the only coloring that can get away with dressing like a sunflower.”
“I’m sure you’ll look great in spite of the ugly dress.”
“I’m not sure she knows it’s going to be ugly. She probably thinks it’s great.”
“What would you wear if you had a choice?”
“Probably shorts and a tank top, flip flops. Or this. I mean, you cannot beat this canoe advertising O’Shees Pub.”
“Ha ha,” I said flatly, “So you have everything under control? Need any help with food? Because the pub occasionally caters events.”
“I don’t think the pregnant bride can choke down any shepherd’s pie right now. She wants seafood. I was going to check out the restaurant we’re doing a campaign for, but then of course, I witnessed a drug deal and threw everyone’s life into chaos,” she said.
I covered her hand with mine. “It’s going to be fine. Do you want to go check out the seafood place today? Sample some possible menu items for the reception?”
“You don’t have to hold my hand.”
I picked up her hand and kissed it, “What if I like holding your hand?”
“I’ve got the wedding stuff covered. Tell me about the bachelor party. How many strippers did you book?”
“Zero. Bren would kill me. He just wanted something low key. We’ll probably grill some steaks, have a few beers.”
“Elise said pretty much the same thing. They are really in sync. I would have thought she would want some elaborate tea party with china dishes and little finger sandwiches with the crust cut off and somebody to play the cello in the background. But she was all, oh let’s just get our nails done for the wedding and have some lunch. It took the pressure off me for sure. Not that she has a ton of friends around here. It’s gonna be me and Brandi and, like, our new secretary from the agency maybe.”
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