Текст книги "Loving Him Off the Field"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Twelve

Aileen spent the flight home ignoring Killian studiously. She spoke to a few other players, and even nodded in acknowledgement to him. He seemed hell-bent on doing the same, which was just fine with her. But she knew he watched her, followed her with his eyes. When Michael pulled her down to sit with him for a while—mostly to show her the newest game on his iPhone that had replaced his embarrassing Candy Crush addiction—she could see Killian scowl and look annoyed, though he tried to hide it by pretending to settle down for some sleep. When she got up to head back to her own seat in the media section just before take off, she risked brushing her hand over his shoulder and neck. She didn’t look back to see his reaction¸ but felt his stare all the way to her seat.

Part of her wondered if there was a scarlet Hoe stamped on her back. But since nobody mentioned it . . .

Back on firmer ground—both literal and metaphorical—she unlocked her studio apartment and headed in. With a brush of a kiss over the picture frame holding her family, she flopped into bed and groaned into the pillow. Her entire sleep schedule was thrown off whack now. And God knew, she needed sleep more than she needed to breathe. When her cell phone sounded with Bobby’s ringtone, she debated pushing it off the bed and onto the floor. But just her luck, it would break and she’d be forced to buy a new one since she was too broke to pay for the protection plan when she first got the thing for free with her upgrade. With reluctance, she answered.

“Hi, Bobby.”

“How goes the whale hunt?” he answered in lieu of greeting.

“Just call me Captain Ahab.” She rolled her eyes at the cheesy line. Bobby, however, had an appreciation for the cheesy, and he laughed.

“Got the footage from the weekend?”

“Yeah.” She’d spent half the night last night editing it in her hotel room. Too amped to sleep. Too close to running back down four flights of stairs and pounding on Killian’s door to have another round of amazeballs sex. “There are a few spots the tech guys will have to clean up. I couldn’t get it to completely isolate my voice, and it was so damn loud. But it was a fun one. Tailgating is never a hard assignment. Fun people.”

“Good, good,” he said distractedly. “Look, I need you to use what connections you have to worm your way in to another story.”

“I’m already using all my worm-skills right now with Killian,” she reminded him. Staring at the ceiling, she stretched her back. Airline seats were murder on the muscles. At least the flight back had been a smooth one. “I’m not really in a position to take on anything too involved.”

“Uh-huh.” The tone said I don’t care loud and clear. “Anyway, you’re gonna use whatever girlie skills you’ve got to get an in with Coach Jordan’s daughter.”

She sat up straight, sore muscles forgotten. “You scheduled an interview for me with Cassie Wainwright? Seriously?”

He made a disbelieving sound. “Don’t be stupid. They’re not giving any interviews right now. Not Jordan, not Owens, not Wainwright. They’re a tight-lipped ship. And since nobody can find Stephen Harrison, it’s pretty much a non-starter. But you . . .” He sounded positively gleeful. “You’ve got tits on your side.”

She stared down at her chest. “Not really.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he repeated. “You’re friendly with the guys, they like you. They see you as their little sister.”

All but one . . . There was nothing sisterly about the way Killian had treated her the night before.

“She’ll have seen you around. You’re about as non-threatening as possible. So use it. Take her out for a few cocktails. Play the ‘men suck’ card. Compare your most recent breakups. Paint her nails. Whatever. Girl shit. Get the story.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry, at what point did we get bought out by The National Enquirer? Because absolutely none of that sounds like my job description, or anything remotely close to what I would consider doing for a story.”

“Your job description is ‘get the damn story.’ That’s all. So, get the damn story. I don’t care how you do it. Everyone else has struck out, big time. But you haven’t even tried. If you use the sneak-attack approach, real sly-like, she won’t even see it coming.”

Aileen rolled her eyes now and settled back down. Worm-like, indeed. “To quote the great Bobby Mundane, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ She’ll have had media training by now, and she’s likely going through another crash course of it this minute. She’ll know I’m a reporter. And she doesn’t look like an idiot. In fact, she sounded pretty darn smart in that one interview they did when she came out into the light with Coach Jordan. Sorry, but she’s not going to fall for it.” And I’m not even going to try it.

She was persistent, and could be a little naggy if it helped. But deliberate misleading of a subject was something she wasn’t interested in. Nor was digging through trash or stalking from the bushes. There was no way she’d get any respect if she resulted to such low standards.

Bobby sighed. “Rogers, I’ve been trying to help you. We’re losing clicks. Piss ant–sized blogs are popping up all over the place. Every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks if they can afford to buy a domain, they can run a sports blog. Shit’s gotta be more impactful than how many marshmallows can Michael Lambert stuff in his big mouth.”

“Hey, people loved that video.”

“If you don’t come up with a Cassie Wainwright or Killian Reeves–size story, you’re done.”

The finality, the absolute calm with which he said it, froze her blood. “Bobby, what the hell? I do my job, I’m good at it. Those other guys are just rehashing anything people can see on ESPN. People are at the website because of what I do.”

“Sorry, kid.” As if the half-hearted apology was enough, he hung up without a good-bye.

Aileen seriously debated throwing the phone against the wall . . . but that damn the protection plan. Instead she placed it with deliberate care on the nightstand, then threw the pillow instead. It hit with a soft thump and fell harmlessly to the ground. Not half as satisfying.

Walking to her desk, where her laptop sat, she plopped down in the chair. “Mom? What the hell do I do now?”

Her mother didn’t answer, of course. Just smiled back from the safe confines of her picture frame. Still vibrant, young, and blessedly alive. At least in memory. She looked like Aileen, aged another ten years or so, but had carried a ruthless pit bull mentality for journalism. Even her father had been in awe of her mother’s tenacity. It’s why he’d married her, or so they said.

“Your job was easier, you know that, right? Without the Internet competing for people’s attention, you journalists had it easy. There were reporters, and there were news anchors. End of story. How the hell did I manage to get trapped somewhere between the two, and yet not at all close to either? And does this job suck as bad as I think it does?”

The photo provided zero wisdom.

“Well, I’m talking to a picture again, so my sanity is once more up for debate.” She settled back in the chair and booted up her computer. “Not to mention, I slept with the subject of my current story. Yeah, sorry Mom.” Even as she added the apology, her mouth curved in a hint of a smile. Apologizing to her mother’s memory for having sex was just this side of giggle-worthy.

Her phone rang again. A quick glance at the screen told her it was Killian. She debated answering, then let it go to voicemail. She had to get her head screwed on straight to deal with him, and she was nowhere near that place yet.

Sleeping with a subject. She’d say it was a rookie mistake, but even a rookie wouldn’t be so stupid. And worse than that—sadly, there was a worse—she was starting to care for him. Having sex was one thing. If they were both adults about it, they could laugh it off as a stress-reliever, agree it was good and move on. She could do her job and be objective, despite having slept with him.

But the feelings . . . there was no changing that.

She forced back the rising panic when her phone rang once more, and once more Killian’s name flashed. This was so not the time for drama queen theatrics. Swallow it down, get the job done, and move on. It’s what a professional would do.

With a calm she was still struggling to feel, she answered with a cool, “Hello, Killian.”

* * *

Killian paced the parking lot beside the trails, doing one more rotation around his car, then turning to stare off into the scenery as someone—clearly not Aileen—pulled into the parking lot. With his shades and shorter-than-expected stature of an NFLer, he got off easier on playing the disguise card. People didn’t seem to recognize him often in public. A fact for which he was eternally grateful.

The car pulled up, but didn’t turn off its engine. He wasn’t about to look and tempt fate, though. When it pulled away again without ever cutting the engine, he assumed it must have been someone who pulled over to check directions. But the tap on his shoulder made him jolt.

Aileen sucked in a surprised breath and hopped back. “Sorry, sorry.” She grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t realize you were so into contemplating the universe. Thought you heard the car pull up.”

“I did.” He looked around, didn’t see her horrifying beater anywhere. “And heard it leave. Did you walk here or something?”

“Cab.” She lifted one shoulder. “Car decided to roll over and play dead . . . except not playing. So it’s public transportation for me for a while.”

He would have ran out to get her in an instant if she’d just called him. Instead, she wasted what were clearly precious resources on a cab. He wasn’t sure if he should be glad she was independent, or offended she never considered asking him for help.

“I’ll take you home.”

She hesitated, only a second, but he saw it. “Okay.”

He despised that second. That one moment of hesitation told him everything he needed to know. She wasn’t fine with what had happened in his hotel room, but was doing her best to pretend like she was. Damn it, this awkwardness wasn’t okay.

“Come on.” He took off on a low-paced jog, checking to make sure she followed.

She was rooted to the spot in the parking lot, arms folded.

“What?”

Her freckled face screwed up in an adorable, stern line. “I’m not jogging.”

“You wore sweats,” he pointed out helpfully.

“These are yoga pants, not sweats. There’s a difference. And I told you before, bowling is as active as I get.”

The moment the words left her mouth, her ears flushed and she looked ready for the world to crack open and swallow her whole. He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. Walking toward her—stalking, really—he watched her eyes widen in surprise. As he gripped her arms gently and pulled her close, he leaned in and whispered, “I’d say we were pretty active last night.”

“Look at me, I can jog!” She took off on a sprint toward the trail.

With a chuckle, he followed easily, enjoying the chase.

* * *

She made it an entire ninety seconds before the stitch in her side forced her to slow from the bear’s after me sprint into the I do this all the time jog, which quickly morphed into the I’m an out-of-shape slob shuffle. Killian’s light footsteps approached from behind. She fought the urge to throw out an arm and attempt a quick judo chop to the throat.

“Done running already? The Surgeon General recommends sixty minutes of—”

“Bite me.”

His smile told her more than she needed to about where that suggestion sent his mind.

“Stop it,” she hissed.

He shrugged, holding his hands up in an I’m not doing anything bullshit gesture.

He taunted her. He taunted her by merely existing. She ignored him and kept walking, as if it had been her idea the entire time to go for some exercise, and he was the one horning in on her workout hour. He kept pace with her, slowing down as she did, speeding up when she felt a burst of energy . . . which was rarely.

After what she estimated to be about twenty minutes, she halted and leaned forward with her hands on her knees. She gasped a few breaths, then tried to speak. But her lungs weren’t in the chatting mood, and so she focused on sucking in more air.

One large hand smoothed over her back, rubbing with the lightest of touches. “Slow it down. Gulping in air will only make you lightheaded. Stand up, come on all the way . . . there. Now in through the nose. The nose.” He tapped the aforementioned body part with one finger. “In through here, out through the mouth.”

When her lungs seized in a vice-like grip, she panicked and wheeled her arms around, as if that would help. God, she was going to choke. Choke on fresh air. What the hell kind of irony was that? But the more she tried, the harder it was to bring new air into her lungs. Frightened, she dug in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, but his hand stilled on hers. The other cupped her chin and brought her face up to look at him.

He was watching her with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. As if she were the goal post and he had no choice but to make the winning field goal. Total focus, absolute concentration.

“Breathe. Come on now. You’re fine, I promise. I won’t let anything happen.” He used the heel of his hand to cover her chest, where her lungs worked frantically. “You can breathe, you’re just blocking it.” He pulled her in close, so their fronts were melded together. The pressure against her front seemed to help, as if the touch were a physical reminder to keep working. Keep breathing in air to push the pressure away.

A pair of joggers passed by, slowing down a little to watch. One, a man in his forties, stopped completely. “Hey, is she okay?” He took a few steps over, but Killian waved him off.

“She’s fine. Just pushed it too hard. Thanks.”

Sensing she was in capable hands, or maybe just not wanting to get involved, the pair continued on.

After a minute of more steady breathing, he guided her off the path and over to a tree to lean on for support. She glanced down and choked out a laugh.

“What?” He looked around, and didn’t see what she did.

“This is our tree,” she croaked out. “You know, from the last time.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Damn good tree. Always there when you need it.”

She rested heavily against the rough bark. Sure. Damn good tree.

He smoothed her hair from her face. What strands hadn’t already been slipping from the crappy ponytail she’d pulled it into before leaving her apartment were now flying around her face from her first—and last—run. “Aileen . . . why’d you run?”

“I thought . . . that’s what . . . people did here,” she said slowly, using deep breaths between the words.

“Most people don’t come to the trails to sprint hell for leather, like they’re running to catch a bus. Especially when the most workout they’ve done recently is—”

She glared at him.

“—pick up a bowling ball,” he finished innocently.

She pushed at his shoulder. He didn’t budge.

“Come on, that was a good one.”

His boyish grin, so satisfied with himself, had her fighting a grin of her own. In these unguarded moments, it was all she could do not to yank his mouth down on hers and show him exactly how irresistible his true personality was. How much he shined when he opened himself up to someone else.

Journalistic integrity, Aileen . . .

Okay, another tack. She waited for her heart to slow to something resembling a human’s heartbeat, instead of a jackrabbit’s, and asked, “Is it my day, or yours?”

He blinked, and it was as if she could see him mentally taking a huge step away from her. For the best. Still hurt. “I’m not sure anymore. It’s . . . someone’s.”

She laughed. “Bunch of professionals, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll call today a wash and start tomorrow. You can have it, though I’m still not sure what you’re up to and why you want interview days with me.”

He watched as she straightened and took a few wobbly steps. His hands were by his sides now, but his alert posture told her if she started to pitch forward, he’d catch her without hesitation. “I’d feel better if you came back to the apartment with me. You’re a little shaky right now.”

“No, I’m good. Besides, you have to take me to my place anyway,” she reminded him, then took a chance and headed back to the path without any support. He didn’t argue when she turned back toward the parking lot. “Just watch to make sure I get inside my door, if you’re worried. That should satisfy your manly complex.”

“I don’t have a manly complex. I have an I give a shit about you complex.” He all but growled it, but she heard him clearly enough. “Is it so hard to believe I’d care about another human being?”

“Hard to believe you’d care about a journalist. Just think, if I stroked out, you’d be free and clear.” She said it lightly, with no malice, but his hand viced around her wrist and forced her to stop her slow trek. “What?”

“Don’t joke about shit like that. It’s not funny.” He was staring at her as if he had blinders on, oblivious to the world around. A jogger approached, slowed, then sighed and detoured around their statue-like bodies. She heard him grumble something about them being assholes before he continued.

“It was a joke,” she said slowly, tugging a little on her arm. He didn’t relent. “I’m sorry, it’s just a saying. I didn’t mean . . .”

He shook his head, then kept walking beside her. But she could tell he wasn’t happy with her.

Why had she made the joke in the first place? Death had never been an amusing topic for her, especially after her parents’ crash. All the sudden, she felt the need to make an awkward pun about dying? What was wrong with her?

She felt uncomfortable, that’s what. She was on shaky ground with Killian. Journalist/subject? Friends? More than friends? She’d let the lines blur in that hotel room in San Francisco, and that was her fault.

But worse than that, she wasn’t sure anymore where she wanted the needle to officially land when the fuzziness had cleared.

Chapter Thirteen

Killian approached the sad row of apartments. Each one looked more decrepit and ramshackle than the last, until she pointed to the final building on the right. “That’s me. I’m on the top floor.”

He glanced around, unimpressed by the area. A few beer cans littered the parking lot, the grass was either burned out or completely missing in patches, and . . . was that a bong, just sitting under that bush? Christ in-between the uprights, the place was filthy.

“Lived here long?” he asked in a neutral tone as he got out of the car. He hurried around to open her door, still concerned about how bone-white she’d turned after exerting herself on the trail. She was a bit too shaky for his taste, even half an hour later.

She raised a brow as she opened the door herself a second before he could reach it. “About three years. Why?”

“Nothing. Just curious.” He hovered, there was no other word for it. But he refused to be anywhere but right next to her, in case she actually did pitch forward and try to face plant on the cement sidewalk. He kept his hands to himself, however. That seemed to be where the trouble with Aileen always began. Touching.

She laughed, a little huff of breath. “Just curious, my ass. I know it’s a dump. But I’m saving up. Eventually I want to buy a condo, so while I do that, I put as little money as I can into rent and as much as possible into savings for my down payment. It’s an eyesore, but it’s not like I own it, so I don’t care if it looks run down or grosses people out.”

“Is it safe?” He avoided touching the railings as they went up. They were rusted. “I mean, ever had problems with break-ins?”

“Once, about a year ago.” She took her key from her jacket pocket and opened her door. “But then again, anyone can get broken into. I figure once in three years isn’t that big a deal. They got my spare change jar and my cell phone charger, sans cell phone. I’d had my laptop and phone with me, luckily. The TV was one of those old tubes, too heavy to grab and run. I basically live like a broke college student, so there’s next to nothing to take.”

She swung the door wide open, and he saw she wasn’t kidding. The entire apartment was likely less than five hundred square feet. And other than the bathroom, it was all one big room, studio-style. Clean, functional, but worn down in a way that had nothing to do with housekeeping and everything to do with the age of the building, and the clearly second-hand furniture.

He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and run—not walk—to the nearest safe apartment complex and deposit her there. But there was no way she’d allow it. And he had no right. He took a few steps in and nodded, glancing around. “Not bad.”

She snorted and toed off her shoes, kicking them toward the end of the bed. He followed suit, though he placed his own running shoes near the door. “You don’t have to take your own shoes off. I’m not a dirt freak.”

“Habit.”

“Well, it’s cool if you want to keep them on. It’s not a great place, I know that. It’s pathetic. I mean, you don’t live in a palace or anything—”

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured with a smile.

“But I know it’s better than this. Some of us just don’t have the golden foot.”

He fought back the pang of guilt over that comment, joking though it was. He’d always felt a tinge of conscience about making the kind of money he did . . . for kicking things. It just seemed so absurd, especially since he had never been that little boy in Pee Wee football dreaming NFL dreams and wishing for a pro jersey. “Yeah, well, I’ve got the golden foot, you’ve got the golden pen.”

“Keyboard, but same thing.” She grinned and sat at the edge of the bed. It creaked a little. “Thanks for the ride home. I didn’t look forward to eating Ramen for a week to compensate for the taxi home.”

He sat beside her without thinking. It wasn’t like there was a sofa for him to use, anyway. “Why didn’t you call me and ask me to come bring you out there?”

“You were already at the trails. Plus, you were a little short with me on the phone,” she added with an accusing look. He flushed a little. He’d definitely been short. But that had been deliberate. He’d been afraid if he’d stayed on the line longer, he’d have said something embarrassing.

Like . . . I miss you.

Jesus, he was a mess.

They sat a moment longer in silence, until he couldn’t take it any more. “Today’s a wash, right?”

“Mmm,” she said, nodding, looking at the closed front door.

“It’s not your day, or my day.”

“Mmm.”

He faced her. “What the hell does ‘mmm’ mean?”

She turned her head to look at him, their mouths inches apart. There was an amused gleam in her eyes as she raised one brow. “Mmm.”

He’d show her “mmm.” He cupped the back of her head and crushed his mouth down on hers.

* * *

She was seeing stars. First, she thought it was because their lips had met with such an explosive collision, they were from the pain. But no, as her lips moved with his, opened, parted to let his tongue dance inside, she realized there was no pain.

Then her lungs started to burn, and she realized she’d been unconsciously holding her breath. She tore away and gasped for air, one hand clutched to her chest. How the hell did he do that? Quite literally rob her of air?

“Hey, hey.” He rubbed soothingly over her back. “What’s going on? Are you getting sick? Is that why you’re having trouble breathing? Asthma. Do you have asthma? An inhaler?”

The actual answer—you took my breath away—was so corny and pathetic she wouldn’t even let herself think it again. So she fought for indifferent and went with, “Eh.” It was all she could choke out while gulping in new, life-giving breaths.

“You’re starting to freak me out. Should I take you to the ER or some clinic or something? Maybe it’s bronchitis.” His face pulled in such an expression of concern, she couldn’t hold back the smile.

“It’s not bronchitis,” she said quietly. “It’s stupidity. I shouldn’t have sprinted earlier, and I’m still paying for it now.” When he raised a brow, she added sheepishly, “I forgot to breathe when you kissed me.”

He absorbed that for a moment. Then a proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Made you forget to breathe, huh? That’s a new one to add to my resume.”

She kicked at him, but he pushed her flat to the bed and pinned her easily. She didn’t bother fighting. If he wasn’t in the mood to let her go, he wouldn’t. And at this position, she could feel his erection pressing heavily against her hip.

“You’re sure you’re not sick?”

She nodded, forcing her lungs to work slowly, methodically, to pull in the air. No more gulping like a landed trout.

“And I didn’t hurt you.”

She shook her head.

“Then you’re going to lie there while I make sure you’re okay.” One large hand skimmed down her ribcage, then back up to rest on her sternum. “I won’t be responsible for you keeling over.”

“I’m not going to—” She nearly bit the finger he pressed against her lips, but just sighed instead and kept breathing deeply. And really, she did have her breath back . . . mostly. But the deep breathing, slow and steady, was relaxing her. Maybe this was what people did during yoga. Was the breathing why everyone carrying yoga mats looked high on endorphins?

“Just lie still.”

She shook her head and tried to sit up. “I’ve got my breath, I’m okay. Just embarrassed.”

He didn’t bother asking her again, just pushed gently until she was flat on her back, her feet now suspended off the floor. He leveled his body over hers, keeping his weight on his knees and forearms. The position was sensual, and yet not quite sexual. His eyes were filled with concern, and his brown hair flopped across his forehead as he examined her face.

“You seem like you’re okay. How many fingers am I holding up?”

She paused, waited, then smiled. “That would be none, because your hand is still on my chest.”

He shifted until the guilty hand cupped her breast through her T-shirt. “How many fingers now?”

She moaned a little while he pinched her nipple. “Feels like five,” she breathed.

“Passed the test.” He kissed her again, and she slipped into the warm, waiting waters of lust with him. Ignoring responsibility, journalistic integrity, and anything else the outside world could throw at them, she imagined them wrapped in a cocoon of their own making.

His tongue stroked hers gently, his hand roaming between her breasts, running up to cup her cheek, then back down again to lift her shirt. But he didn’t pull it off all the way. He bunched it up around her breasts, keeping them hidden still. His mouth left hers and cruised down to her stomach, where his tongue began to trace a pattern.

She laughed. “What are you doing?”

“Connect the dots.” He lapped a long line under her belly button. “It’s my new favorite game.”

“Freckles,” she grumbled. “Kids used to tease me in school. Said I never actually tanned, my freckles just ran together in the summer.”

He smiled against her stomach and took a quick nip that made her suck in her breath. “I love them. It was the first thing I noticed about you.”

“Was that before or after you labeled me a big groupie ho?” she asked, and giggled when he squeezed her hip.

“It was what made me slow down and answer you. You caught me. Nobody else has. Not for a long time.” His voice drifted off, and she wasn’t sure if it was a memory, or a hurt that did it. Either way, it was as if he mentally checked out for a moment. Then, with more vigor than before, he pulled at the waistband of her yoga pants and tugged until they pooled at her ankles, stuck at her worn tennis shoes. A few quick moments later and he had her stripped from the waist down.

She almost pulled off her own shirt while he toed off his shoes, then remembered she was wearing the world’s ugliest, oldest sports bra. Nasty. She couldn’t have had the foresight to put on a cute bra to meet the guy she’d slept with? What was wrong with her?

Oh, right. She didn’t own any cute sports bras.

Aileen sat up and pointed toward the bathroom. “Condoms. Go get them.”

He blinked, then pushed at her legs, widening them. “In a minute.”

She would never be able to concentrate on the sexy times before the sexy time if she was worried he’d see this gross bra. She snapped her knees shut. “Get them now, so I’m not thinking about it later.” When he hesitated, she batted her eyes. “Please?”

He grumbled, but took off to the tiny bathroom. It wouldn’t take him long to search. Wrenching her arms up and around, she slipped off her T-shirt and bra in record time and stuffed the offending piece of stretched elastic and holey fabric under the bed a mere second before Killian popped back out.

“If they were ever in there, they must have gotten up and jumped out the window or something. I couldn’t find them.”

She laughed and rolled over to open her nightstand. “Stupid me, forgot I put them here instead.” Yesterday . . . when she’d come home. For luck, she’d told herself, all while cursing her thoughts. She tossed the box at his chest and grinned. When he frowned at her, she opened her legs as he’d wanted her to earlier. His eyes tracked their movement. “Now, where were we?”

* * *

She was totally naked now, and he had no defense against her. That tiny freckled body called to him like a siren. He tossed the box of condoms to the corner of the bed and crawled back up to meet her, draping her legs over his shoulders as he went until he was eye to eye with her core.

As he blew cool air over her heated skin, watched the slick lips of her sex flex instinctively, he smiled. This was what he wanted. Freckles, at his mercy, with no way to squirm out of his reach. Lowering his mouth to her sex, he licked in a slow, deep motion.

“Ki—Killian,” she gasped, her fingernails scraping over his shoulders, trying for purchase and failing. Her arms were too short to reach. “Killian, get up here.”

“Hmm?” He rumbled it, knowing she felt the vibrations while he licked and sucked at her clit. “Sorry, what? Can’t hear you.”

“Yes you ca—oh!” She shrieked as he nipped her inner thigh. “Oh, my God, that was a bite!”

“There’s more where that came from if you don’t settle down and let me work.”

“What are you, a vampire?” she grumbled. But when he pushed into her with one finger, then two, each thrust of his hand timed with the circling of his tongue, she moaned. “I don’t care what you are, just don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t . . .” Then her words all bled together as she came. There might have been mention of the holy trinity, some cursing and a few nautical terms tossed in for variety.