Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Erin
I can’t stop looking at his hands on the steering wheel.
It’s ridiculous, really. They’re just hands. Large, scarred knuckles, a thin white line across his left thumb that looks like an old knife wound. The way his fingers grip the leather, confident and controlled.
But all I can think about is the way those hands felt cupping my face. The gentleness of his thumbs brushing away my tears. The restraint in his touch when I know, I know, what those hands are capable of.
I saw him fight. Saw him destroy a man with methodical precision.
And then he touched me like I was something precious.
The contradiction is doing things to me that I don’t fully understand.
“You all right over there?” His voice breaks through my thoughts, quiet and a bit amused.
I realize I’ve been staring. Heat floods my cheeks. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“You sure? You’ve gone all quiet.”
Because I’m imagining what it would feel like if you touched me everywhere else the way you touched my face.
I clear my throat. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
You. Your hands. The way you looked at me when you apologized. The way your voice went rough when you said you’d be taking off my bra.
“Nothing important,” I manage.
He glances at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Liar,” he says softly. “I’ll add lying to your punishment.”
My pulse kicks up. “I’m not.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Erin.” His voice drops lower. “Your cheeks go pink. You bite your lip. And you won’t look at me.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though it feels dangerous. “Maybe I just don’t want to tell you what I’m thinking.”
“Why not?”
Because it’s inappropriate. Because we’re not even married yet.
Because I shouldn’t be thinking about the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he handled those fighters, or the way his voice sounds when he calls me “love,” or what it would feel like to have his hands on my bare skin instead of just my face.
“Because,” I say primly, folding my hands in my lap.
He laughs, a real laugh, rich and warm. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
We pull up outside the McCarthy house, and he parks, but doesn’t immediately get out. Instead, he turns to face me fully, his arm draped over the steering wheel.
“Tell me something,” he says.
“What?”
“When I said I’d be taking off your bra soon enough—” His eyes are locked on mine, intense. “Did that scare you?”
My mouth goes dry. “No.”
“No?” He leans slightly closer. “Then what did it do?”
I should look away… should deflect. Should do literally anything except tell him the truth. I start mentally counting in my head, but pull myself back to the present. I want to answer him.
“It made me wonder when,” I whisper.
The air between us goes electric.
His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.
“Erin,” he says, and my name sounds like a warning.
“Yes?”
“We’re sitting in a car outside my family’s house, and if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off and closes his eyes. “Christ.”
“You asked! And you’re going to… what?” My heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it.
When he opens his eyes again, the look in them makes my stomach flip.
“I’m going to forget that you deserve to be courted properly. That this is your first date. That I promised myself I’d take things slow with you.” His voice is rough, strained. “That I’ve been raised to be a gentleman. I’m going to reach over there and—”
“And what?”
He makes a sound low in his throat. “You’re killing me, lass.”
“I’m just asking questions.”
“You’re playing with fire.” He shifts in his seat, and I notice his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the steering wheel again. “And you don’t even know it.”
“Maybe I do know it.”
His head snaps toward me. “What?”
I’m not sure where this bravery is coming from. Maybe it’s the way he apologized. Maybe it’s seeing him be gentle and fierce all at once. Maybe it’s just that I’m tired of being afraid.
“Maybe I know exactly what I’m doing,” I say, and I’m shocked by how steady my voice sounds.
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then he reaches over, so slowly I could stop him if I wanted, and cups my jaw with one hand.
And the buzzing in my head comes to a full, delicious stop. My eyelids flutter closed as he whispers, “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
I look up at him and swallow hard. “Then tell me.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “I want to kiss you properly. Not because you’re upset or because I’m apologizing. I want to kiss you because I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
My breath hitches. “So do it.”
“If I start—” His thumb stills. “If I start, I won’t want to stop at just kissing.”
“Good.”
“Erin.”
“I’m not a child, Cavin. I know what I want. And we’re going to be married.”
His hand slides around to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. “You seemed scared back at St. Albert’s. Now you’re looking at me like you want me to ruin you.”
The words should shock me, should make me pull back. Instead, they send heat pooling low in my belly.
“Maybe I do,” I whisper.
He makes that sound again—half groan, half growl. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Instead of answering, he pulls me toward him. The center console is between us, awkward and in the way, but I don’t care because his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is nothing like the one at the school.
That one was apology, desperation, promise.
This one is hunger. This one is heat.
His lips are firm, demanding, and when I gasp against his mouth, he takes advantage, deepening the kiss. His hand tightens in my hair.
My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer, even though we can’t get much closer with the stupid console between us.
He pulls back just enough to mutter, “Fuck this,” before opening his door.
Before I can process what’s happening, he’s around to my side, pulling open my door and reaching for me.
“Come here,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I let him pull me out of the car, and then my back is against the side of it, and he’s crowding into my space, one hand on the car beside my head, the other still tangled in my hair.
“This,” he says roughly, his forehead against mine, “is what happens when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you trust me. Like you want me. Like you’re not afraid of what I am, and marrying me isn’t the worst.”
“I’m not afraid, and that’s still to be determined.”
He chuckles, but his mouth is on mine again, and any response I might have had dissolves.
He kisses like he fights—with precision, control, and devastating effectiveness. His teeth catch my lower lip, and I make a sound I’ve never made before, something between a gasp and a whimper.
He pulls back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I grab his shirt and pull him back. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
The please does something to him. I feel it in the way his body goes taut, the way his breathing gets rougher.
“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters against my mouth. “Absolutely fucking kill me.”
His hand slides from my hair down my neck, my shoulder, coming to rest on my waist. Even through the fabric of my dress, I can feel the heat of his palm, the slight pressure of his fingers.
I want those hands everywhere.
The thought should embarrass me. Instead, it makes me arch into him, pressing closer.
He groans. “We need to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re in a driveway. Because if we don’t stop now, I’m going to forget every good intention I have.” He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are nearly black with desire. “I’ll put you in the back of this car and make you come apart until you can’t remember your own name.”
The image that creates—his hands, his mouth, the leather seats—makes my knees actually weak. My pulse flutters.
“And that would be bad because…?” My voice comes out breathy, barely recognizable.
He laughs, but it sounds pained. “Because you deserve better than a quick fuck in a car, lass. We may have met when we were teens, but we don’t have to act like them.”
Now I’m the one giggling through my disappointment.
“You deserve…” He cups my face again, gentle despite the hunger in his eyes. “You deserve everything. Slow, sweet, proper. Not me losing control like some teenager.”
“What if I don’t want slow and sweet?”
His eyes close. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You really are trying to kill me.”
“I’m being honest.”
“I know.” He opens his eyes. “And that’s exactly the problem. Because when you’re honest like that, when you look at me like you’re looking at me right now, all I want to do is give you everything you’re asking for.”
“So give it to me.”
“Not tonight.” His thumb brushes across my cheek. “Tonight, we’re going to get you into comfortable clothes, eat some curry, and I’m going to learn everything about you that I should have learned years ago, instead of being a cruel bastard.”
“And then?”
“And then, when the time’s right, I’m going to make good on every single thing I’ve promised you tonight.”
I shiver.
“Cold?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then why are you trembling?”
Because you’re looking at me like you want to devour me. Because I can still feel where your hands were. Because I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you right now, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“Just excited,” I manage. “About the curry.”
He laughs, and the tension breaks just enough. “About the curry. Right.”
But he doesn’t move away. His hand stays on my face, his body still close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“For the record,” he says quietly, “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you right now.”
My breath catches. “Really?”
“Really.” He leans in, presses one more soft kiss to my lips. “And that terrifies me almost as much as it excites me.”
“Why does it terrify you?”
“Because wanting someone this much gives them power over you. And in my world, that’s dangerous.”
I reach up, covering his hand with mine. “I won’t hurt you.” I don’t want to. Only cruel people desire pain for others, and I’m not cruel.
My phone buzzes with a text, loud and insistent. I watch his eyes flick to it then back to me again.
“It’s nothing,” I whisper. If I tell him it’s Bridget, he might start to ask questions. And if he knows something’s wrong…
Something shifts in his expression, leaning into vulnerability I’ve never seen before.
He nods slowly, then steps back, breaking the contact between us.
The loss of his warmth makes me want to pull him back.
“Come on,” he says, his voice still rough. “Let’s get those clothes before I change my mind about being good.”
He offers me his hand, and I take it, letting him lead me toward the house.
But I can still feel the imprint of his body against mine. Can still taste him on my lips.
And I absolutely know that this is just the beginning.
Whatever’s building between us isn’t going to stay controlled for long.
And I can’t wait for it to break.