Chapter Four #2
He answered with a soft, intoxicating laugh of his own.
The fire whipped in the silence between them, a subtle symphony of crackling and whispering set to a tempo of its own internal logic.
“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” His words were half-question, half-statement. His smile was fading now, his eyes serious.
“Does what bother me?” Aoife rested her drink on the counter.
“That I’m Halcin.”
What’s Halcin? A type of bartender? Aoife should have asked this aloud, but the wild pounding of her heart as he leaned closer made her not care about the answer.
“No,” she said. Breathless. “Should it?”
He hesitated, his jaw tensing. He relaxed, a small dimple in his right cheek as he smiled. “No. I suppose it shouldn’t.”
He rounded the bar, letting her see him in full.
He looked like a warrior prince in witness protection as a bartender with his tall, imposing stature and thick dark hair just long enough to run her fingers through.
And that hard body. Awash in tattoos. Aoife normally went for ink-free boys.
With glasses. And tucked-in shirts with belts. That’s what she was meant to go after.
This was so much better.
His gaze flitted over her body, his eyes of ice and shadow lingering on her collarbone (what if he kissed her there?), on her chest (what if he sucked on her there?), on her legs (what if he gripped her there?).
Aoife flushed at the images flashing through her head.
The intensity of them. The strength of them.
“This might be rather forward of me to say …” He reached out to her, taking her hand. Pulses of heat shot through her palm.
“I don’t mind forward,” she whispered, afraid if she spoke too loudly, she would realise this was all an illusion. All a lie.
He moved closer. Two steps too close for comfort. Or, maybe, two steps not close enough.
“Do you,” he said, “worship the God’s lust form?”
“I certainly could.” She exhaled her nerves.
“But you don’t normally.” He stopped approaching and Aoife felt heat roar inside her, demanding that she close the space between them and crash her lips onto his as if she were going to die tomorrow.
He took a single, agonisingly slow step towards her, the toe of his boot scraping the wood floor.
Her blood went hot as he reached for her cheek.
His fingers hovered so close to her skin she swore she could feel him, but he wasn’t touching her.
Not yet. The heat spread to Aoife’s collarbone, tingling in wait.
In want.
“I’ve been waiting for someone to worship with.” He swallowed hard. He leaned into her and then forced himself straight again. “But only if it’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true,” she said before she could stop herself. She would happily worship that body of his until the end of time.
The heat beneath her skin turned to boiling as he brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, the feather-light touch sending shocks through her, making her desperate for more. A sound like whistling wind whipped around Aoife. It was her own breath.
Calm down, woman. But she couldn’t. Didn’t want to. Not really. Who would want to when a lust god was standing within arm’s reach? Besides, she told herself, tempted herself, wasn’t this all a dream? This was all in her head, and her head was like Vegas. What happened in there stayed there, right?
Her thoughts stuttered, his cinnamon and vanilla scent stopping sensible words, any words, from forming. His smile was as cunning as his gaze, and Aoife barely had time to register he was moving even closer before his lips touched hers.
Need shot through her like lightning, her knees weakening. The warmth, the tenderness, the desire. His tongue flicked at her bottom lip and the lightning struck again. Her mouth parted and the moan that came through her lips was too loud to be hers … but it couldn’t have been anyone else’s.
Aoife couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed like this.
Probably because she’d never been kissed like this.
With such power and sincerity, not with fumbling awkwardness or lips that reminded her of a dead fish.
The fire in the hearth crackled and hummed, a hot and wild soundtrack to the feelings coursing through her.
Lust. Pure and unashamed.
Aoife worked her fingers into his thick hair, turning him slightly and pushing him back into the bar, the floorboards creaking beneath them.
He explored her mouth with eager flicks of his tongue, but that was far from all she wanted him to explore.
As if hearing her thoughts, he slid his hands down her ribcage, her skin tingling through her thick clothes.
He traced down to her ass, and Aoife gasped when her gripped her, her pelvis grinding into his.
He moaned, as if she’d just given him the best blowjob of his life.
She’d barely touched him.
That sound sent a thrill through Aoife. A man had never kissed her like this, touched her like this.
And certainly never reacted to her like this.
Aoife gripped his hard body, feeling the contours of his muscles through his shirt, wanting to draw that delicious gasp from him again.
She succeeded when she worked her hands beneath his shirt and ran them up his washboard abs.
His breath was hot on her neck, gentle kisses turning fierce as she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts into him.
Images flashed through her mind. Fantasies. What ifs. Him ripping off her dress. Kneading her breasts. Kissing her breathless. As if hearing her fantasies, he moved down, down, down until he was gripping her skirt.
Oh yes. God, yes. Lift the skirt, lift the skirt, lift the—
The hem of her skirt slid up her bare leg, hot and cold first hitting her ankles then her calves then her thighs. Aoife gripped him harder as she sucked in her breath, waiting for what he would do next.
Begging for him to do something next.
He spun them around, so her back was to the bar now, shoving aside a chair in the process.
A mass of errant darkness scurried out of the way.
Aoife’s heart skipped at the effortless way he manoeuvred her.
He brought his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, teasing her lips with his breath as his hand slid to her inner thigh.
Her clit pulsed in desperate need of touch, her pussy wet and eager.
Like a reckless woman. Like a fool.
The words crashed over Aoife like a bucket of water from the Arctic.
She was giving in to her baser desires. She wasn’t being logical enough.
Practical enough. She was being everything that would get her into trouble.
That had always gotten her into trouble.
Her mind scrambled for purchase, for sanity.
Yes, this might’ve all been an illusion …
but what if it wasn’t? An improbability, certainly, but not impossible. And if it was real, if she gave in …
Her hand slammed over his, stopping him from touching her between the legs. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t be this.
Never this.