Chapter 1 Willow
WILLOW
Three Days Earlier
“Should I go say hi?” I ask Cheyenne, my eyes glued to the tall blond, his smile easy as his hazel eyes dart from person to person in a circle of suits.
I avert my stare just long enough to look at her and see that she’s rolling her eyes as she sucks on a green curly straw, siphoning a margarita into her body as fast and direct as possible.
She shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, probably, because you’re staring and it’s weird, but also I thought this would be just girls.”
“And Dylan, you mean,” I say, pointing to her husband offhandedly.
“Right, just girls,” she quips with a grin.
She’s been with her husband since she was eighteen, and frankly, we’re all so close that I know it’s not the same as me meeting a guy on the cruise, but still…
if she gets some, it doesn’t feel fair that I have to be celibate for the sake of our group hang.
“You know, I know you mean it as a compliment, but it still hurts,” Dylan tells her, his voice clipped.
She whispers, “You and I both know how much of a man you are,” and Dylan gives me a satisfied grin as I mime vomiting.
“Okay, and with that, I’m definitely going to say hi.
” I slide off of my bar stool and as I stride toward the muscular man, I run through any ideas I have for a meet-cute.
I could run into him and spill my drink, ask him to buy me another.
Or I could…wait, what else could I do? I stop short, standing just feet away from him, and rack my brain for romantic comedy plots.
It’s been so long since I’ve approached a man. Usually, men approach me.
“Did you figure it out?” a voice says, and I look up to realize that the friendly man with the dirty-blond hair and chin like a superhero is looking straight at me, smiling a crooked smile, showcasing a dimple in the middle of his stubbled cheek.
“Um, figure out what?” I ask, smiling back, snagging my lip on my tooth and quickly looking down to fix it out of his eyeline.
“What you’re going to say to me. You were coming over to talk to me, weren’t you?
” His question is simple, and accurate, but his accent is Irish, disarming, and I’m suddenly embarrassed in front of this charming man.
I have half a mind to lie, to call him delusional.
Before I can, he sticks out a meaty hand, a hand almost as big as my face, and says, “Dr. Sean Byrne.”
Willow Byrne. I say in my head, practicing what it would sound like to be married to him. Married to an Irish doctor—my mom could finally relax about what a mess I am. “Willow Byrne,” I say confidently, sticking out my hand, and my face burns instantly as I realize my mistake.
My hand burns even hotter when he swallows mine in his and keeps his eyes on me, his grin never wavering. “Aye, I like the confidence. Will you give us a dance, then, future Mrs. Byrne?”
I nod numbly, my brain full of the cold alarm bells of my own humiliation, and our handshake turns into hand-holding as he guides me to the dance floor.
He gives Dylan and Cheyenne a thumbs-up, and I hide my face in his chest as he pulls me close to him, laughing affably.
He’s easy on the eyes, a doctor, charming, and funny… what is he hiding?
My brain is screaming at me not to get comfortable, like it always does whenever I start to feel like I might just like a man. Ever since my father left me, my sister Camille, and my mom for a secret second family, I haven’t trusted men.
But this time, it doesn’t matter. We’re on a cruise, and he’s obviously from Ireland.
I can just dance the night away, no complications, no attachments…
even as his arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me into him.
Even as I relax my cheek against the barrel of his chest and feel his heartbeat in my face.
Even as his fingers run through my hair and down my spine.
By the time he leans to murmur, “I have a private room,” I’m already warm all over.
I should stop. I should make a joke, run, anything but this.
The joke’s gone on too far, too long, and my friends are waiting.
But when he kisses me, slow and certain, I don’t.
My body betrays me, softening against him.
The music fades behind us as we slip into the hallway. The air is cooler here, and the music of the dance floor thumps in the background like a dream. Each step brushes his thigh against mine. His hand stays anchored at the small of my back like he’s guiding me somewhere I’ve already decided to go.
He clutches my fingers tightly and suddenly starts to run, and I run with him, my legs wild underneath me trying to keep up with him.
Until we’re at his door, and he’s lifting me off my feet, kissing me and pulling me into his hotel room, his big fingers already struggling with the small button on my jeans…
His hands are clumsy only because he’s in a hurry, and I’m not helping. I’m laughing too much, fumbling with lifting his tie over his head, getting it caught halfway.
“Hold still,” I scold, even though I’m grinning like an idiot.
“You first,” he shoots back, catching my chin between two fingers and kissing me so suddenly I forget what I was doing. His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of whiskey and something minty. His stubble scrapes my skin in a way that makes me want to get closer, not pull away.
The shirt finally falls open, and I press my palms to his chest, feeling the heat of him through the cotton of his button-up. He’s solid under my hands, every inch of him carved and warm, and I think, God, this man is going to ruin me.
His hands find my waist again, thumbs brushing under the hem of my top, and he lifts it in one smooth pull. The rush of cool air on my skin is replaced by the weight of his gaze.
“Christ, you’re a sight. Beautiful,” he says, the word wrapped in that accent, like it’s worth more than when anyone else says it.
I roll my eyes because I don’t know what else to do with the sudden twist in my stomach, but before I can laugh at him, he bends his head and presses a slow kiss just below my collarbone.
The button on my jeans gives way under his fingers, and then they’re sliding down my hips, dragging my underwear with them.
I step out of them, kicking them aside, and we both take a moment to look at each other.
He looks at my thick thighs and the patch of freckles on my pelvis, and I look at his broad shoulders and smooth chest dusted with light hair.
I look at that faint vee that disappears under the waistband of his slacks, and I want them gone so I can see where the vee ends up.
He must read my mind because he reaches for his belt, but I slap his hands away and undo it myself, making him watch as I pop each button, as I slide the zipper down slow enough to make him huff out a laugh that sounds like it’s coming from deep in his chest.
The slacks pool at his ankles, and then there’s nothing between us but the heat of our skin. His hands come back to my face, gentler now, as though he’s savoring the pause before we give in completely. His lips brush mine once, twice, then deepen the kiss until my toes curl against the carpet.
He walks me backward until the back of my knees hit the bed, and I go down with a soft bounce, pulling him with me. His weight is perfect—solid, heavy, anchoring me to the moment. His thigh wedges between mine, and I can’t stop the small sound that escapes me when I shift against him.
“That’s it,” he whispers, and I feel it more than hear it, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
My hands roam—his back, his sides, the dip of his waist—mapping him like a new land I’m claiming.
His mouth trails down my throat, over my chest, and lingers above one of my nipples before his tongue finally, mercifully, flicks over me.
I arch into him, and he smiles against my skin like he’s been waiting for that.
His hand slides lower, slow and sure, until his fingers slide into my slick, warm spot. He moves two thick fingers inside me with a rhythm that makes me forget every reason I had to keep my distance, my hips moving without thought, chasing the pressure he gives so well.
“Sean…” It comes out as a breath, and his head lifts, my nipple between his teeth. There’s a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. He lets go of my nipple and, still pumping his fingers into me, he lifts onto his heels so he’s above me, holding his cock at my entrance.
I watch him, waiting for him, enjoying the sensation of his fingers but wanting to feel his member. Finally, I cry out a single, “Please!”
That’s what he wanted. When he slides into me, it’s all heat and stretch and the dizzying realization that I’m letting this happen with a man I met less than an hour ago. And yet, it feels like we’ve been moving toward this since the moment our eyes met.
His pace starts slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing how I feel around him, but when I hook my legs around his hips and pull, he groans and gives me more. The bed creaks under us, the air between us thick with heat and the salt of our skin.
I match him move for move, my nails digging into his shoulders, my breath catching every time he hits the place that makes my vision blur. He says my name like it tastes good in his mouth, like it belongs there.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek, and I realize my lips are still parted like I might say something. But instead I take his thumb into my mouth and suck. His eyes darken and he plunges into me harder, pushing my head against the headboard.
The world narrows to the sound of his breathing, the feel of his body against mine, the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps, sending me over the edge with a rush that steals my voice. He follows a heartbeat later, his hips stuttering, his forehead pressed to mine.
It’s supposed to be nothing—a cruise fling with a doctor, a big, burly blond Irishman, just one night. But the way his fingers trace slow patterns on my back, I have the sinking feeling it won’t be that simple.