Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
CHARLES
The space between us disappeared in a heartbeat.
Eamon’s lips found mine with a hunger that took my breath away, his hands cupping my face like I was something precious and fragile. But there was nothing fragile about the way he kissed me, desperate and consuming, three days of tension and longing poured into a single, perfect moment of contact.
I’d been kissed before, obviously. In fact, I considered myself somewhat of an expert since I really, really liked kissing.
But I had never been kissed like this. Never with this kind of raw intensity that made my knees go weak and my brain short-circuit.
Eamon kissed like a man who’d been starving and had found sustenance, like he wanted to devour me whole and savor every second of it.
God, he was beautiful. Up close like this, I could count the dark lashes that framed his incredible green eyes, could admire the irresistible dimples in his cheeks.
His stubble scraped deliciously against my skin as he deepened the kiss, and when his tongue traced along my lower lip, I opened for him without hesitation.
He tasted like the wine we’d shared at dinner and something uniquely him that made me dizzy with want. His body was solid against mine, all hard muscle and warm skin, and when his hands dropped to my waist and pulled me closer, his hard cock pressed against my hip.
“Charles,” he breathed against my mouth, my name sounding like a prayer, and I nearly came undone right there.
My hands seemed to move of their own accord, sliding up his chest to tangle in his dark hair. It was softer than I’d expected, silky between my fingers, and when I tugged gently, he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat shooting straight to my groin.
We stumbled backward until my legs hit the couch, Eamon’s mouth never leaving mine as his hands roamed my body with increasing boldness. When his fingers found the hem of my flannel shirt and slipped beneath it to touch bare skin, I gasped and arched into the contact.
His hands were rough with calluses but gentle in their exploration, mapping the planes of my chest like he was trying to memorize every inch of me. When his thumb brushed over my nipple, I moaned into his mouth and pressed closer, desperate for more contact, more friction, more of everything.
“Fuck, you’re so bloody gorgeous,” Eamon murmured, his accent thicker than I’d ever heard it, and the raw appreciation in his voice made me feel like I could conquer the world.
His mouth moved to my neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of my throat, and I tilted my head back to give him better access. When he found that sensitive spot below my ear and sucked gently, my hips jerked forward involuntarily, seeking friction against his thigh.
This was happening too fast and not nearly fast enough. I wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted to map every muscle and scar and imperfection until I knew his body as well as my own. I wanted to strip him naked and worship him with my mouth until he forgot his own name. I wanted—
“Wait,” I gasped, my hands flat against his chest as reality crashed over me like a bucket of ice water. “Wait, we can’t—”
Eamon pulled back immediately, his breathing harsh and his eyes dark with arousal, but he didn’t try to convince me otherwise. “What’s wrong?”
“We can’t do this,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “We shouldn’t. You’re on duty. This is your job, protecting me. I don’t want you to get in trouble with your supervisors and mess up your career.”
Something flickered across Eamon’s face—surprise, maybe, or gratitude that I’d been thinking of his well-being even in the middle of this. “Charles—”
“I’m serious.” I stepped back, putting some much-needed distance between us before I lost my resolve entirely. “I won’t be responsible for you getting fired or disciplined or whatever happens to cops who sleep with the people they’re supposed to be protecting.”
Eamon stared at me for a long moment, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. I could see the internal struggle playing out across his features—desire warring with duty, want battling with obligation.
“You’re right,” he said finally, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t apologize,” I interrupted. “Please don’t apologize for that. I want it too. God, I want you so much.”
The admission hung between us, raw and honest, and for a moment, we looked at each other with naked longing.
“So what do we do now?” Eamon asked quietly.
I glanced toward the fireplace, where the flames were still devouring the wood Eamon had chopped earlier, oblivious to the emotional chaos they’d witnessed. “We could…dance some more? If you want to.”
Relief flooded his expression. “I’d like that.”
This time, when he took me in his arms, the mood was different—still intimate, but softer, more tender than desperate. We swayed together in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the crackling of the fire and Eamon’s quiet humming.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I said eventually. “Something real.”
Eamon was quiet for so long that I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, almost wistful.
“I grew up poor,” he said. “Really poor. The kind where you wore the same clothes until they fell apart and considered yourself lucky if there was meat on the table once a week.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“It was, and it wasn’t.” His hand moved in slow circles against my back. “We didn’t have much, but we had each other. My ma could make anything grow in that little patch of dirt behind our house. Flowers, vegetables, herbs for cooking and healing. She had the greenest thumb you’ve ever seen.”
He spun me slowly, and I caught a glimpse of his face—soft with memory, younger somehow. The love in his voice when he talked about his mother made my chest tight.
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was, and that’s the truth. She used to say that music and growing things were the only real magic in the world.”
His accent was slipping again, but I didn’t mention it.
I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t an act for an undercover assignment.
Somehow, he was Irish, though why he was trying to keep that a secret, I wasn’t sure.
The way he talked now was the real him showing through the careful facade he usually maintained.
“I see baking as magic. You start with something so simple, like flour, butter, and sugar, or a bit of yeast, and then you create the most amazing things by adding a few ingredients. Even watching dough rise is like magic to me. It never gets old.”
Eamon made a humming sound deep in his chest. “I can see that. Did you always know you wanted to be a baker?”
“From when I was eight and received a kid’s baking set from Santa.
” I chuckled softly at the memory. “It was from my grandmother, who loved baking as well. She and I had baked cookies together for the first time, and she was so delighted I loved it that she got me a little kid’s baker’s hat and apron, plus some cookie shapes and baking tins.
The very next day, I begged my mom to bake something, and we made chocolate chip cookies together.
I never stopped, and within months, I made far more complicated things than my mom or my grandma.
I baked my first wedding cake when I was fourteen, for my cousin, and that was that. I never wanted anything else.”
He was quiet for a while, but it felt comfortable as we continued to sway to the soft music still playing on his phone. “The baking might be magical, but so is what you make people feel.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You bring joy to weddings, birthdays, or other special occasions. That’s magical too. That something you create can make people feel good.”
The simple observation hit me harder than it should have. Trust Eamon to see the poetry in what I did, to understand the real reason I loved my work. “Not many people understand that.”
Eamon’s arms tightened around me. “You’re extraordinary, Charles. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.”
We danced until the fire burned low, sharing stories and comfortable silences in equal measure.
I told him about my dreams of expanding the bakery and adding a little café, maybe writing a cookbook someday.
He told me about places he’d traveled, describing landscapes so vividly I could almost see them myself.
“I was in Swedish Lapland once, during the winter,” he said, his voice taking on that dreamy quality it got when he was remembering something beautiful.
“Miles and miles of nothing but snow and pine forests, so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat. But then, at night, the aurora borealis would come out to play—these curtains of green and gold light dancing across the sky like some kind of celestial ballet. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.
Made me feel small and infinite at the same time, if that makes any sense. ”
The way he described it, with such reverence and wonder, made me want to see it through his eyes. “It sounds incredible.”
“It was. The kind of place that changes you, you know? Makes you realize how vast the world is, how much beauty there still is to discover.”
“I’ve never traveled much. Mostly, just in the Northeast, and my parents took me to Disney as a kid. Oh, and Justin and I went to Mexico once for a vacation. It was fun, though I’m not really a beach person.”
“Maybe one day, you’ll get the chance,” Eamon said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
With each story, each shared memory, I felt myself falling deeper. This wasn’t merely physical attraction—though god knew that was still simmering under the surface. This was something infinitely more dangerous.
I was falling in love with Eamon O’Rourke.
The realization should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like coming home.
When we finally decided to call it a night, I hesitated at my bedroom door. The thought of sleeping alone, of losing this closeness we’d built, made my chest ache.
“Eamon,” I said, then stopped, unsure how to voice what I was thinking.
“Yeah?”
“Would you…? I mean, if it’s not too weird or unprofessional…” I took a breath and tried again. “Would you stay with me tonight? I know it sounds stupid, but I’m still kind of scared, and it gets really cold up here at night, and—”
“Yes,” he said simply, cutting off my nervous rambling.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll stay with you.” His smile was soft, understanding. “If that’s what you need.”
We both knew it was a flimsy excuse. The cabin had perfectly adequate heating, and the immediate fear of Carlo had settled into a manageable background hum of anxiety. But I needed this—needed him close, needed to pretend for one night that this thing between us was real.
And from the look in his eyes, he needed it too.
The bathroom was barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but we managed to brush our teeth side by side, bumping elbows and sharing the tiny mirror.
It was absurdly domestic, more intimate somehow than our passionate kissing earlier.
When Eamon caught my eye in the mirror and smiled around his toothbrush, foam at the corners of his mouth, my heart did a little skip.
This. This was what I wanted. Not just the heat and desire, but the quiet moments, the everyday intimacy of sharing space with someone who cared about you.
In the bedroom, Eamon hesitated for a moment before pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the body I’d been fantasizing about since I’d watched him chop wood earlier.
His chest was broad and defined, scattered with dark hair that trailed down toward the waistband of his jeans.
When he unbuttoned those too and stepped out of them, revealing black boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination, I had to force myself to look away before I did something stupid like reach for him.
But when I glanced back up at his face, he was giving me the same appreciative once-over as I changed into sleep pants and a T-shirt, his eyes lingering on my bare chest before meeting my gaze with a heat that made my mouth go dry.
We couldn’t. I had to keep telling myself that. We really, really couldn’t.
We settled on opposite sides of the narrow bed, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. For a few minutes, we lay there in awkward silence, both of us hyperaware of the other’s presence.
Then Eamon shifted, his arm coming around my waist to pull me closer. “Come here.”
I went willingly, curling against his side with my head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong beneath my ear, and his hand came up to stroke my hair in slow, soothing motions.
“Better?” he asked softly.
“Much.” And it was. Despite everything—the danger we were hiding from, the professional lines we were dancing around, the growing certainty that my feelings were far deeper than they should be—I felt safe here in his arms.
His arms tightened around me, and I felt him press a soft kiss to the top of my head. “Sleep, love. I’ll be right here.”
As I drifted toward sleep, warm and safe in Eamon’s embrace, one thought echoed through my drowsy mind.
I wished this could be real.
I wished the danger would disappear, that Eamon’s assignment would end, and that somehow we could build something genuine together.
I wished I could wake up every morning in his arms, cook breakfast for him in my own kitchen, introduce him to my parents as my real boyfriend instead of my protective detail posing as my fake boyfriend.
I wished I wasn’t falling in love with someone whose entire identity might be an elaborate lie.
But wishes were dangerous things, and I was already in far too deep to protect myself from the inevitable heartbreak. For now, though, I had this—his arms around me, his heartbeat beneath my ear, and the illusion that we were two men sharing a bed because they wanted to be together.
It would have to be enough.