Page 29 of The Distiller's Darling

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“Thank you for doing this,” Iain said, the pad of his index finger tracing over the design Naomi had created for Whitman’s Revival. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again. You kind of ghosted me.” They were in her kitchen once again, this time sitting across from each other at her table discussing the logo and branding package he’d just signed a contract to hire her to develop. Finally.

He glanced up in time to catch her looking away guiltily. “Yeah, about that—”

“I’m not asking you to explain yourself. I get it. We had some fun, and now it’s time to move on.”

Naomi’s eyes came back around, the guilt replaced with what Iain thought looked a whole lot like contemplation. “Funny you should mention that.”

“Funny how?”

“I was thinking,” she said, her finger swirling a pattern on the table that separated them. “You’re leaving in two months, and it would be a shame if we didn’t spend that time ... hanging out.” Her eyes bored into his, as if daring him to misunderstand what she was inferring.

His lips quirked up into a smirk. “Why, Miss Klein, are you asking me to fuck you senseless until I board a plane back to Ireland?”

She tossed him a wicked smile full of promise. “You have to admit; we’re pretty damn good at it.”

“The best,” he agreed. He felt his chest sawing in and out as his breathing became deeper and more labored. Iain couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such heady anticipation. Oh, wait, yes, he could. It was that night in San Francisco when he and Naomi had practically run from that dive bar to his hotel. He’d been so ready for her that he’d ripped her dress off before the door to his room had locked behind them.

“So, what do you say, Brennan? You want to spend the next sixty days seeing how many orgasms we can give each other?”

That was all the invitation Iain needed. Abruptly, he stood, his chair scraping over the black-and-white-checked linoleum and then crashing to the floor. He stalked around the fifties-style diner table and fisted his hands in Naomi’s hair. He bent at the waist and let his lips hover scant centimeters from her parted ones. He could feel the warmth of her breath mingling with his own. “What do you say we get started on that now?”

She licked her lips. “Yes, let’s.”

Permission granted, Iain’s mouth crashed down onto Naomi’s with a fierceness he hadn’t anticipated. He knew he’d been craving another taste of her, but he hadn’t realized just how much until their tongues twisted and slid together. He groaned and took their kiss deeper. Naomi wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer, as if she wanted to climb him like the oak tree in her front garden.

They broke apart, and Iain sucked in a lungful of air. “Bedroom. Now.”

She hopped up onto the table and shook her head. Reaching for his belt buckle, she said, “Kitchen. Now.”

“So demanding,” he chuckled, letting her fingers work their magic. When she wrapped them around his cock and stroked upward, her thumb coasting over his crown, he hissed, and his head fell back with a moan. God, this woman knew exactly how to get him going.

Naomi wrapped her long, lithe leg around his hip and tugged him forward. “I want you inside me.”

All at once, realization hit, and Iain paused his forward momentum. Flattening his palms on either side of Naomi, he groaned—and not the kind that usually preceded having sex. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.” They’d used the one he carried in his wallet the last time he’d been here, and when she’d kicked him out afterward, he hadn’t gotten around to replacing it. Hadn’t seen the point, really.

Naomi studied him intently for a few charged beats. “I don’t have any either. But I have an IUD, and I get tested three times a year whether I need to or not. I’m clean.”

So was he, but … damn.

Naomi’s words—her offer—rattled around inside his head. The only time he’d ever gone without protection was his first time. After which he’d spent two solid weeks convinced life as he knew it was over. It wasn’t until his girlfriend—who’d also been a virgin—had told him she’d had her period that Iain had been able to breathe again. He’d promised himself he’d never put himself through that again.

But this was different. Wasn’t it?

He and Naomi weren’t two awkward teenagers fumbling around in the dark while their parents had dinner upstairs, and he certainly wasn’t a two-pump chump anymore either. That had been the worst part of that whole ordeal; he hadn’t meant to come in Mary. He’d thought he had plenty of time to pull out once he’d gotten her off. That was the Catholic way, after all. Unfortunately, things hadn’t quite gone according to plan, and he’d been wrapping it up ever since.

Could he do this? He trusted Naomi. And that was the craziest part of all. He did, absolutely. He hadn’t known her long, but he knew deep in his gut that she wasn’t lying just to get him to fuck her. Back home, that wasn’t always the case. His name—and the sizable fortune that went with it—was a hell of a motivator for a particular kind of person. Ones he usually tried to stay far, far away from.

“Never mind,” Naomi said, breaking into his thoughts. “Forget I said anything.” She looked embarrassed by his silence, and Iain realized she must have taken it as rejection. She dropped her leg and tried to slide away.

“Don’t move; I’m thinking.”

She sighed. “Iain, if you have to think that long about whether or not you want to go bare, it’s not the right decision. Don’t worry about it. It was a dumb idea anyway.” Pasting a fake smile on her face—he’d seen her real one, and this wasn’t it—she tried to lighten the mood. “Let’s go in the living room. There are plenty of ways to get each other off without having sex.” She waggled her eyebrows, and he almost believed the act.

But the thing was, he didn’t want her going down on him. Okay, sure. He’d love that—some other time. Right now, he wanted to make her feel good, and hopefully recapture some of the spark they’d lost.

“I like you here just fine.” He nuzzled the spot just behind her ear that he knew turned her on.

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