Love on Loan – J.C. Hannigan #5
We made our way inside, finding a sea of people. The bar was full and all the booths were taken, there was barely even standing room. “It’s not usually this loud, or this busy,” I said, raising my voice over the din. Atticus nodded, considering our options.
He turned to me, lowering his head so that his lips were near my ear. “Did you want to go somewhere else? Somewhere quieter, perhaps?”
“Well, as far as bars go, this is the only one in town. Everywhere else is closed, but…” uncertainty made me hesitate.
“But?” Atticus’s eyebrows raised.
“We could go back to my place,” my face heated even as I tossed the offer out. “At least it’ll be quiet there.”
I didn’t normally bring men I barely knew back to my safe haven, but there was something comforting about Atticus. And I could tell from our few interactions together that he wasn’t the most comfortable in big social settings. I had a feeling that was why he didn’t often make author appearances.
“Let’s go, then.” Atticus nodded, holding his hand out for me. I took it, leading us back out the way we came.
Atticus drove us to my apartment, parking with my direction. “Ah, you live above the bookstore. Fitting.”
“Yeah, my parents own the building, so you can’t beat the rent,” I blushed. I couldn’t help but wonder what he thought of me.
I unlocked the side door, making sure it was locked behind us before leading the way up.
My apartment was located on the third floor above the bookstore and considered historic, like the rest of the downtown strip.
The windows were tall, letting in lots of light.
The floors were original hardwood, just like the bookstore.
It was a small, one-bedroom apartment divided by the island that made up one side of the tiny galley kitchen.
The exterior walls were the original exposed brick.
The living room had built-in bookshelves, full of books and things I’d collected over the years, and plants—so many plants.
Some were in pots on my shelves, their vines hanging down, and some were hanging in macrame plant hangers in front of the living room windows.
“It’s cozy,” Atticus said, taking it in as he removed his jacket and set it on the bar stool by the island.
There wasn’t enough space for a dining room or a table, so I mainly ate my meals at the kitchen island.
My place wasn’t big enough for large gatherings.
I hosted the occasional girls’ night with Mindy and our other friend Carolyn Mulligan, but aside from the three of us curled up on the couch with books and snacks, I didn’t entertain much.
I made my way over to the vintage bar cart I’d stumbled across at an antiques store a few years ago. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I liked the look of it and hadn’t wanted it to sit empty, so I kept it stocked with liquor and glasses.
“I’ve got gin, whisky, and wine,” I told him.
“Whisky would be great,” Atticus said.
“I hope honey whisky is alright with you,” I said, grabbing a couple of glasses and the spirit. Atticus watched me as I prepared our drinks, his eyes appraising.
I passed him his glass. “Here’s to…books,” I said, floundering for something to toast. Books made sense, given both of our professions.
We both took a heady sip, then Atticus grinned, watching as I tipped my glass and took another sip. “Here’s to sexy librarians with good taste in whisky.”
I nearly choked on it, the liquor catching in my throat. I coughed, setting my glass down, and Atticus came around the island, looking concerned as he patted my back.
“I’m sorry, was that too forward? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m okay,” I said, finding my voice. And I found as I looked into his whisky-coloured eyes, that I was okay. “Very much so.”
The guy I’d been thinking about incessantly for weeks now had expressed an interest in me, of all people. He was back at my apartment, and I knew that if I wanted to, I could let go and give into the desire I felt rumbling between us like a summer storm.
The look in Atticus’s eyes and the way his hand was still pressed against my lower back told me that he was very much interested in something happening between us.
I drew in a breath, aware of every inch between us and the electric tension that filled that space.
I put my hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles flexing through his sweater.
Atticus moved closer, lowering his face until our lips met in a tentative, but thorough kiss that burned through my veins.
Atticus
I’d been thinking about Arwen Love’s lips for the past few weeks. Kissing her was better than I could have ever imagined. She tasted of honey whisky and new beginnings—which was a strange thought for me to have.
I tugged her body closer to mine, basking in the mystical sensation of her in my arms. She melted into me, meeting my kisses with a curious kind of enthusiasm that only spurred me on. How could she feel like a promise for the future and taste like new beginnings?
Was my reaction just wishful thinking? A product of being in Hartwood Creek, with its lore of love magic? Was my brain short-circuiting because it’d been far too long since the last time I’d touched a woman?
I didn’t know, nor did I care. I just wanted to keep exploring this feeling between us. I wanted to keep losing myself in the heat of her touch, in the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips—just as soft as I’d expected.
Arwen sighed as I deepened the kiss. Her hands came up to my chest, her fingers clutching the buttons of my cardigan, tugging me even closer to her. My hands were busy exploring her curvy hips, ready to pry those jeans off her.
Part of me thought I should break the kiss, ask her if she really wanted to proceed, but before I could she started unbuttoning my cardigan, and my button-up shirt, sliding them open so she could press her hands against my white tank.
My erection pushed painfully against the zipper of my jeans, eager to get closer to the source of my desire. I couldn’t help but dry hump her, like we were two horny teens and not at all adults in our thirties.
The thought was enough to give me pause. How old was she? She had one of those faces—a natural, timeless beauty. I suppose she could be in her twenties or her thirties.
“Shit, Arwen. How old are you?”
“Thirty-three,” she replied a little breathlessly, frowning. “Why?”
“Just making sure,” I let out a sigh of relief.
“How old are you?” she asked, curiously tilting her head.
“Thirty-eight,” I answered before I went back to devouring her mouth.
My hands moved to her ass, and I gripped her, hoisting her up on the counter. Arwen let out a squeak.
“You okay?” I asked, needing to confirm.
She nodded eagerly, pushing my cardigan and button-up off my arms. I let them fall to the floor and tugged my tank over my head, practically preening under her greedy gaze as she took in the sight of me.
“Holy…” she murmured, her eyes widening with appreciation. Her gaze dropped to the waistband of my jeans. She licked her lips, then interrupted her own perusal to kiss me again.
I could not get enough of her. But I was a gentleman, and I’d let her take the lead.
After several long, hot minutes of frantic kissing, Arwen broke away and started unbuttoning her own cardigan, letting it fall to the counter behind her before she tugged her T-shirt over her head, revealing her lacy white bra and knocking her glasses askew.
She fixed her glasses, peering at me while biting down on her lower lip.
My hands went up to cup her heavy breasts with appreciation and fascination. I rolled my thumbs over her nipples through the fabric, delighting in how they hardened into tight little points beneath my touch.
“Jesus, Arwen,” I murmured, shaking my head as if to try and break myself of the spell she had me under.
Only, I didn’t want to break the spell. I lowered my mouth, tugging the lace down enough to free her nipple before drawing it into my mouth. I sucked, letting my teeth graze before licking it with the pad of my tongue.
Arwen threw her head back and moaned, her hands coming up to grip my hair.
I paid homage to her breasts, licking and sucking and tweaking, while she whimpered before me, a beautiful melody I couldn’t get enough of.
My hand drifted down, reverently stroking her smooth skin until I reached the junction between her thighs. I pressed my thumb against her centre.
Arwen’s hips moved, as if seeking more pressure and friction.
“Please, Atticus,” she begged. And I knew exactly what she wanted.
I stopped long enough to unbutton her jeans and tug them off while she lifted her hips, helping me remove them. I tossed them to the ground, eyeing the matching panties she wore, and licked my lips.
“God, you’re stunning,” I told her before dropping to my knees in front of her.
Parting her thighs, I brought my mouth to her sex and pressed a heated kiss to it, loving the whimpering sound she made.
Tasting her through the lace, I decided that I needed no barriers.
I pulled aside her panties and tasted her for real—the sweet flavour of her hitting my tongue and invading my senses.
I ate her like I’d been denied a meal for far too long, and couldn’t hold back on ravaging the delicious treat in front of me.
My cock was impossibly hard and begging for attention—for release—but I ignored it, giving my focus to the sounds Arwen made as I pleasured her with my mouth.
Lost in the sounds she was making and the way she tasted, I could have happily stayed on my knees in front of her, feasting for all of eternity.
I added a finger, stroking her in time with each pass of my tongue, then added a second one, stretching her just enough, letting my tongue play with her clit as I worked her into a frenzy.
She came on my tongue with a startled cry.
“I need you inside me, now!” she panted, peeling her panties off and tossing them aside.