Chapter 37 Rhiannon
Rhiannon
You’re worth running for.
My brain flatlines. Heart stutters. Every rational thought I’ve ever had packs up and fucks off.
I stand staring at him in the rain. He looks like a sad puppy—if sad puppies had jawlines that could cut glass and shirts going translucent enough to make a nun blush. Beads of water drip from his chin, his hair, his nose.
But there’s something else.
The air crackles—half storm, half heartbreak. Every drop of rain sounds louder than my pulse. Neither of us moves.
He’s physically shaking, with what has to be adrenaline surging through his veins like it is mine.
Time stands still. My heart thumps a steady rhythm as my body leans toward his, almost daring him to kiss me.
For a split second, it looks like he might not. He hesitates, leans away from me, and glances over his shoulder.
We’re both dripping, furious, hearts galloping like they forgot how to stop. My hand twitches. So does his. One wrong move, and I’m either kissing him or losing him for good.
When our eyes reconnect, he shakes his head once and opens his mouth. “Fuck it.”
He says “fuck it” like a prayer and a warning in one breath.
Then his mouth is on mine—hot, hungry, rain slick. His hand fists in my hair, and for a second, the whole damn world tips sideways.
When his tongue gains entry to my mouth, it’s as though a whoosh of fresh air fills my lungs. Our mutual, desperate need for each other taking over.
My chest loosens, my shoulders feel lighter, and I waste no time linking my arms behind his head and pulling him to me.
This kiss is different than the one in the ballroom in front of my family.
It’s our choice; we weren’t cornered or backed into doing it.
It’s enthusiastic, it’s consensual, and it’s hot as fuck.
His body is still holding onto stress, but it’s softer, his lips are more commanding than questioning, and his roaming hands move with such confidence my thighs clench.
It takes him a while to come up for air, and he dots kisses along my chin before nibbling on my earlobe. My lips are swollen, my lungs are wrecked, and I still want more. Always more.
“Does it count as breaking the rules if we’re out in public and there’s a chance one of the reporters from the party will take a picture of us kissing in the rain?” His eyes bore into mine with an intensity I feel all over.
“Fuck the rules.” I nuzzle my nose against his.
“That’s fighting talk, Morrigan. You might want to reinforce that boundary because—” A shiver claims my body, which stops him in his tracks.
He tugs his jacket tighter around my shoulders. “You’re cold. We should get you dry.” He cups my face, and I lean into his palm. “But I need to be clear, I want to break lots more rules tonight.”
That makes me smile. “You do?”
He nods.
“List them please.”
“Here? In the rain?”
I shrug. “We’re already wet.” There’s nowhere for us to hide from the downpour, so we just stand there getting soaked.
He clears his throat, scrunching up his face like he’s trying to remember the rules before he digs into his back pocket and pulls a piece of paper out of his wallet.
“You carry them with you?”
He nods. “Every day.”
I bet if it wasn’t so dark out his cheeks would be flaming red.
“Rhiannon, I contemplate breaking this stupid list of rules every fucking day. I need them with me to remind me of what they are, so I don’t fuck this up, fuck you up.”
There’s a lot of subtext to his statement, but I’m not ready to pull it apart.
“Rule number two, kisses for show. That wasn’t for show. When we get back to your house, or my house, I want to kiss you, and I want to use my tongue.”
I roll my lips. He’s quite a by-the-book gent.
“It’s after midnight, so we’ve already broken rule number six, but I want to add rules four and five for good measure.”
No sleepovers, and separate beds.
“Are you propositioning me, Robert?”
I need him to say it. I need him to say he feels what I feel, this flicker, this attraction, this desire to cross the line from fake into real, even though it feels like we already have.
He nods, brushing his cold nose against mine, but he doesn’t say what I need him to say. He doesn’t say: “I think we’ve both been at least bending, if not totally shitting on, rule number twelve. This doesn’t feel fake to me anymore, Rhiannon.”
But maybe he will tomorrow. Maybe for tonight, it’s enough that he’s here, he wants me, and he’s not selling me out to his boss for a quick buck or the fame and glory of bedding a professional rugby player.
I hold out my hand to him, a nervous flutter in my stomach driving me forward.
I’ve made up my mind to sleep with my fake boyfriend.
I’ll deal with the aftermath, whatever that might be, in the morning.
But as we get rejected by a taxi because we’re too wet for the driver’s back seat, wait for Sully to come pick us up, and make our way back to Larne, there’s a little voice in the back of my head that hopes he feels how I feel too.
Maybe Robert will want to make this a real relationship instead of a mutually beneficial agreement for a limited time only.
He holds my hand during the drive, our thighs pressed up against each other in an apprehensive silence while Sully quizzes us on our evening.
It’s not a good idea to tell Robert that I’ve officially crossed the line, and my feelings are on the wrong side of the rules.
Realistically, it’s still early days in our agreement.
It’s only July, and the season doesn’t start until September.
If we make things real now, and have a shot at a proper relationship, there’s every chance it could get messy, and we could end up undoing all the good we set out to do for both of our images.
If I tell him I have feelings, and he doesn’t… I gulp. The embarrassment is already hot under my skin.
Fuck.
The lights of the harbor appear at the end of the dual carriageway.
We’re almost home. I don’t have long to decide whether to get Sully to drop me off at my own house or leave me at Robert’s.
The more I let rational thought enter the equation, the more it cements the fact I need to be sensible, go home, rub one out with my vibrator, and wake up tomorrow with no regrets.
But the more I resign myself to that path, the more my stomach sinks. Wasn’t the whole point of my things-to-do-before-turning-thirty list to live for myself for a change? To figure out who I am, what I want, and do more things that I want to do?
Right now, I want to do Robert.
If I go home, I’ll regret it before my hair’s dry. If I stay, I might regret it tomorrow. But at least that regret will be warm, wet, and entirely my own fault.
So, when Sully gives me a sly wink in the rearview as I tell him I’m stopping at Robert’s, I blow him a kiss. “Don’t hate me ’cause you ain’t me, Sully.”
Robert opens my door and holds his hand out. “He can drop you home if you’d like.”
Sully wiggles his brows. “Yeah, you could always spend the night with me instead of Rob here.”
We all know Sully’s joking, but the animalistic growl catching at the back of Robert’s throat as he glares at his best friend takes the oxygen out of my body, replacing it with molten lava.
“If he takes you home, I’ll go with you.” Robert is very clear that no matter what I decide, he’s taking me to the door, be it here at his house, or at my own.
I grip his hand and glide out onto the street. It’s stopped raining, but we’re both still a little soggy. “And miss the chance for you to be my brew bitch for the evening? I think not.”
“He can’t make tea for shite, Rhiannon. You should get back in the car, and I’ll—”
Robert slams the door shut before Sully digs his own grave, then he flips his best friend the middle finger, slides his arm around my waist, and guides me inside his house.
Mistake or marvel? We’re about to find out.