Chapter 10
brENNA
A few weeks ago I would’ve never guessed that I would be sitting here in the parlor room with Cormac laughing.
The monster is nothing more than a fucking teddy bear.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him again as someone who would do me harm.
After our walk, we made our way back into the house, but I was so keyed up that I couldn’t just go back into my room. I asked him if he wanted to sit and talk some more.
Of course he thought I was just humoring him and told me right away that I didn’t need to sit with him if I didn’t want to. The surprise on his face when I told him that I did want to sit with him and that I was interested in learning more about him was endearing.
We talked more about what was going on in life, the fact that there were no TVs in the home, and the fact that he’s never had a funnel cake.
Cormac seems to have missed out on so many things in life.
Instead of focusing on the tragedy of that, I focused on the fact that there are so many things that we can do together.
It’s not until we started talking about some of the embarrassing things his brothers have done over the years that we started laughing like hyenas. He has so many stories about Killian it almost makes me sorry that I’m an only child.
I heave in a breath and grab my stomach as I try to inhale. “He really did that? I don’t believe it.”
“He did. Then he whistled and tried to walk away as if everyone didn’t just see him. He’s a character for sure.” Cormac chuckles deeply before he picks up his glass and takes a sip of the whiskey he has next to him.
I wipe at the corners of my eyes and focus on the bottle. I’ve had alcohol before but not to excess. I never really had the taste for it. Tonight, I think I want to indulge a little bit.
“May I have some of that?” I point to the bottle next to him.
His eyes jerk down and then back up to me, a little surprise on his features. “Sure.” He grabs a clean glass and pours me a healthy amount.
I get up from where I’m sitting and walk over to him, taking the glass from his hands and taking a sip. It tastes like warm cinnamon, a little sweet; there’s no bite like I’m used to from the alcohol I tasted back in my homeland. Before I can stop myself, I drink the whole cup down.
“Whoa, easy there. You want to sip that slowly,” he warns, narrowing his eyes on me.
“Cormac, I’m as Irish as they come. A little alcohol won’t do anything to me.” I hold my cup out and wait for him to pour me some more.
“If you say so.” He pours me another healthy cup.
I don’t drink this one as fast but still faster than him.
The third time around I don’t wait for him to pour me another cup.
I get up and do it myself. By the time I get to the middle of the third cup, I realize that I might have just messed up.
The world starts to spin slightly, and everything is becoming funnier than it once was.
Even the way he looks at me is making me feel good.
Thankfully I have enough wits about me to keep the conversation going at a simple pace.
What I don’t expect is how much the alcohol is lowering my inhibitions.
Things I would’ve never thought to ask anyone slip out of my mouth without hesitation.
“You told me earlier you’ve never had a girlfriend; why is that?”
He gulps down another swig of his drink, and the smile dips a little from his face.
“That’s a silly question. You know damn well why I never had a girlfriend.”
I blink a few times and look around the room as if the answer would somehow pop out from the shadows.
“I don’t. You are cantankerous for sure, but after a little while you seem to be an okay man. I’m sure there’s a woman somewhere who would chance having a few conversations with you.”
“It’s not my personality that puts the women off,” he snaps at me. He’s getting upset, but the alcohol has given me a bravery I didn’t have before. I don’t back down from the line of questioning.
“What is that supposed to mean? Is there something else stopping the women from getting to know you?”
“Brenna. I don’t want to talk about this. You know why. It’s my face.” He mutters and looks away from me, something he does often when he starts to feel embarrassed.
I stare at him for a second. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten about the scar on the side of his face. It has already become just another part of him. It didn’t stand out to me anymore.
I let out a sigh and do my best to walk over to him steadily. It’s harder than I want to admit. I slide onto his lap, and he jerks back as if he weren’t expecting me to do that.
I grab hold of his chin and turn his face to look at me.
“Cormac, there is nothing wrong with your face. You have a scar. Millions of people have scars. Millions of people have scars and still find love and get married. People with scars become male whores. Don’t you know the running joke?
Women love a man with scars. Makes you look like a bad boy.
We just can’t resist.” I toss my head back and joke-laugh.
“Don’t do that. I don’t want your pity.”
Now I force myself to get serious. I raise my hand, but before I have a chance to touch him he jerks away. I keep my gaze focused on his, letting him know without words that I don’t mean him any harm. Lowering my hand even more, I press my fingertips on his scar and gently caress him there.
“Cormac, you give this scar a life of its own. A life it doesn’t deserve. This scar doesn’t make you the man that you are. It’s a part of you. You as a whole. Only a small piece of you. There is no reason someone wouldn’t be able to see past it to see who you are.”
His eyes darken, and he lowers his hand until it’s lying on my thigh. “Can you see past it?”
“I barely remember it’s there until you bring it up. I don’t see the scar when I look at your face. I only see you, Cormac. Just you.”
“That’s unbelievable,” he whispers as he looks up at me.
“Really? Now what can I do to make that believable for you?” I whisper back before I lean forward.
The cinnamon of my breath mixing with his.
There is a subtle undertone in the air between us.
Something that smells of fire and smoke but not enough to alarm.
Just enough to make me feel soothed. This is him, all of him.
Instead of pressing my lips to his, which I’m guessing he is expecting, I move my lips upward and press the gentlest of kisses on the very edge of the scar that he’s so ashamed of.
His body shudders and his grip on my thigh tightens. He doesn’t say anything in return, just holds his breath waiting for me to react to what I’ve just done.
I scoot closer in his lap and press another kiss to the scar, this one more fully on the area. I do this over and over until I hear him moan. I wonder if anyone has ever shown this part of his body any love before. I’m assuming no if he’s telling me he’s never had a girlfriend.
He didn’t ask, so I didn’t have to tell him that I’ve never had a boyfriend either.
It’s not because of what I looked like but more so because of who I am.
Most of the men in my town were too afraid of my father to ever even try their luck with me.
And the men that I was able to be around never looked at me like a conquest or a prize thanks to my smart mouth and the fact that they knew if they even smiled in my direction my father was liable to slit their throats.
That’s not to say I’ve never had the company of a man. There were a few one-night stands that I managed to get away with. None of them ever left me satisfied, and I often found myself questioning what the big deal about sex was.
I raise my other hand to the other side of his face before slowly letting my fingers slide up into his newly trimmed hair. I tug on the strands slightly as I kiss my way across his face and press my lips on the other side.
The space between my legs is moist with desire and arousal. I can feel his cock getting hard beneath me. He wants me. I want him to want me. The most surprising part of this whole night is the fact that I want him too.
I don’t know if it’s because of the drink I’ve had tonight or the fact that I feel closer to him today than I have since I’ve met him, but I don’t want this night to end without knowing what it feels like to have his hands on my body.
“What are you doing?” he questions when I pull back a little.
“What I want to… unless you want me to stop, then I will.” I make a move like I’m ready to get off his lap, but he holds me still.
I’m playing like I’m in control. But the reality of it all is I don’t want to stop.
I shouldn’t want him like I do. I’m his prisoner.
Maybe this is some sort of Stockholm syndrome I’m experiencing, but the more I learn about him the more I feel for him.
“No, don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop.”
That’s it for me. If I thought I had any willpower left, hearing him so vulnerable ripped the last shreds away.
I gasp and press my lips to his. He groans deep and wraps his arms around my body, pressing me tighter against him.
Our lips move against each other’s as if they were made to be tangled in this dance. Our tongues dart out and caress each other.
We breathe each other in until I’m dizzy from the experience and I have to break away.
He doesn’t let up. Instead, he moves his mouth to the side of my face and does a much better job of what I’d done earlier.
I know he told me that his sexual experience was limited, but right now it feels like I’m being worked over by a master of the craft.
I don’t question it. Instead, I close my eyes and let him have his way with me.