Chapter 11
Eleven
LUCY
C lover leaps down from the couch and starts barking at Killian when we enter the apartment. Ronan stands up from the chair, speaking in Gaelic. Killian replies in kind, and then Ronan leaves the room.
“He’s going to wait downstairs, watch the street,” Killian explains once Ronan is gone. He kneels, looking at Clover. “I guess you fear me now, huh, girl?”
Clover’s fur stands on edge, her little mouth opening and closing as she gnashes her teeth.
“It’s okay,” Killian murmurs. “I will not cause another scene. You’re a good girl.”
I watch in awe as Clover slowly moves toward Killian. It’s difficult to believe that this version of Killian is the same man who savagely beat Shane yesterday. He seems so much gentler, caring, and romantic. Clover is still growling as she approaches Killian. But when he strokes her, she settles down.
Killian sits on the ground and lets Clover climb into his lap, looking up at me with an almost boyish smile on his face, the lamplight dancing in his blonde-silverish hair. “Somebody has forgiven me. How old is she?”
“Nine,” I tell him. “She can be pretty grouchy with people. She hasn’t snuggled up to Ronan yet… oh, by the way, did you tell him we were in a relationship?”
Killian stands, smiling indulgently when Clover yaps to be picked up. He leans down and scoops her up. “No, why?”
“He just seemed super keen to make sure I knew he had a girlfriend and he would never try anything with your woman.”
“Is that what he called you—my woman?”
“Pretty much.”
“People have noticed a change in me,” he murmurs, walking over to the couch.
I sit next to him, my leg brushing against his. Just that, a simple brush of the leg, but it’s enough to make the tingles go into overdrive. I squeeze my thighs together, my sex aching, begging. Get a grip, girl…
“What sort of change?”
“Ever since I started coming here, I’ve gone from grumpy to… slightly less grumpy.”
“You’ve never seemed grumpy to me.”
“That’s because I’m with you.”
Clover wriggles and then hops down from the couch like she wants to give us some alone time together. His hand moves across the couch. I know where this is going to lead. Nerves twist through me. He knows how old I am, twenty-three… What would he think if I told him?
“I was going to make sure you behaved yourself,” I remind him.
“It’s difficult,” he admits, his voice husky. “And that’s an understatement.”
“Maybe some homework will help.”
I stand up, walking toward my bedroom.
“Giving me a perfect view of your perfect body won’t help.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Perfect, seriously?”
He looks at me with no sarcasm. “You heard me.”
“If we’re going to behave, you need to stop looking at me like I’m a pastry.”
“That’s impossible,” he says huskily.
I take my notebook from my bedside table and return to the living room. The whole time, his icy blues roam over me. I always wondered if he wanted me. Now I know for a fact he does. It makes me feel intoxicated. My body is screaming at me not-so-subtly to jump into his lap.
I’d sit facing him, grinding my groin against his, feeling his hardness as he pushes it against my sex. Then I’d tear off our clothes and, and… But that’s where the fantasies end. That’s where the anxiety gets involved, messing with me.
“How does this phrase look?” I say, sitting beside him and opening the book.
He takes it. Our hands brush, and neither of us moves. He looks dreamily into my eyes. He has this hungry energy, like he’s been starving for months, starving for me.
He leans down and presses his lips against mine. The moment sweeps me away, my heart beating with a frantic rhythm like raindrops against a cave’s entrance. He smooths his hand up my side toward my breasts. When he rubs the outside of my shirt, my nipples ache, feeling ultra-sensitive.
He groans, squeezing me with more possession. I put my hand on his chest, then breathlessly ask him, “Are you trying to make doing homework impossible?”
His eyes swim. He looks drunk. “You drive me wild. Let me look.” He glances at the book, then smiles. “Let’s hear you say it.”
I remember the video tutorials, the notes I’ve taken on accents, then say, “Tá tú mo slánaitheoir.”
“Close,” he says with a smile that bolsters my confidence. “But you just told me ‘You are my savior’ like it’s a fact. You don’t want to give me a giant head…”
“Well, if the shoe fits,” I tease, loving it when he laughs. It’s a great feeling.
“Try again,” he says. “‘An tusa mo shlánaitheoir?’”
“An tusa mo…slan-tah-hor?”
“Slánaitheoir. Say it with me— slaw-nih-hor. ”
“Slaw-nih-hor.”
“Better. Try again. Take your time.”
“An tusa mo shlánaitheoir?”
“That was perfect,” he beams. “Seriously, for a non-native speaker, that was brilliant.”
I smile. “Thanks, Killian. It’s so mind-boggling. Trying to get the accents and the grammar rules… yeah, it’s a lot. But one day, I’m going to speak it.”
He puts his hand on mine. “I know you will.”
When he gets that dreamy look in his eyes again, my temptation almost reaches boiling point. He looks at me like I’ve imagined he would so many times, like he could leap on me and claim me, smooth his hands up and down my body.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
He makes me feel so freaking playful. I pull a super serious face, staring into his eyes.
“Like a serial killer?” he teases.
I laugh loudly, causing Clover to leap up from her bed, grumble, then curl herself into a ball again.
“No, like?—”
He grabs my leg again, leaning close. “I know how I’m looking at you. Tú gach rud a shlíonaigh mé thú a bheith…”
He slides his hand up my leg, moving his lips to mine for another kiss.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“You’re everything I dreamed you would be…” Closer, closer. “Each morning, pretending it was casual, pretending I wasn’t aching to touch you, kiss you, pretending I could do the right thing and hold myself back. But now I’ve tasted your perfect lips.”
He kisses me passionately, his hand sliding further up my leg, pushing down with pressure that makes my head spin and my body surge with lust. But it intimidates me, too, because he feels like he’s ready to unleash his desire. He feels like he’s ready to take me into the bedroom and… expect things.
When he presses his hand on my groin, against my sex, one half of me wants him to keep going. One half of me wants him to rub until my lips ache and my clit throbs and pleasure scorches through me. But that intimidated feeling won’t quit.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, leaning back.
“I… I need help with another word. Can you tell me if I’m saying it right?”
He nods, a curious glint in his eyes.
I pick up my Gaelic book, flicking through the dictionary. "Maighdean."
He swallows, his body tense, his temples pulsing as if he's trying to restrain himself. "Why did you pick that word?"
I shrug, feigning innocence. "Maybe it was random."
"You want to know if you're pronouncing 'virgin' correctly," he growls. "Don't tell me there's no reason for that..." His hand remains on my leg, holding possessively. "Are you?"
I bite my lip, nodding. "I thought you should know."
"You don't have to be embarrassed."
I brush his hand away. "Who said I was?"
"You didn't have to say it," he snarls, taking my hand.
"I'm twenty-three. It's just never been the right time. I've wanted no one. But you, Killian, yeah, maybe I want that, want us. But I heard what you said. We can only have tonight. Is that what we're going to be, then, just fuck buddies for a night?"
I'm frustrated by the emotion in my voice, but it's been a stressful couple of days... heck, it's been a stressful year.
"It's okay," he says softly, pulling me into a hug. He smooths his hand through my hair. "Thank you for telling me that. It clearly wasn't easy. And no – I don't want you just for one night. I want you for much longer, for much more. But wanting isn't the same as something being possible."
"Could you stay?" I whisper. "But hold me, just be there for me?"
"It won't be easy," he says fervently. "Being close to you, touching you, but not... you know, touching you."
I clutch him tightly. "Is there a difference between touching and touching?"
"You know what I mean, a stór ."
A shiver of warmth runs through me. "That means 'my treasure,' doesn't it?"
"Yes," he says fiercely, a note of pride in his voice. "You're getting better."
"I'm trying my best," I mutter. "And not just with the Gaelic."
"I'll lie with you," he says. "But you'll have to scold me if my body gets ideas when I'm in bed with a curvy, beautiful, sassy, stubborn virgin..."
He takes my hand and walks toward the bedroom. Talking about bodies getting ideas... mine lights up as if this is going to lead somewhere nerve-wracking. But I don't let those negative thoughts stop me.
For so long, I dreamed of being with Killian. I just had no clue who he truly was.