Page 89 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

“Candace,” I say softly, my voice barely audible over the waves. “What is it, baby?”

She stiffens, her head snapping up, and her glare could cut through steel. She wipes at her face quickly, as if trying to erase any evidence of tears, then stands, her movements sharp and deliberate.

“You don’t get to call me that. Not now, not ever. What the hell are you doing here?” she bites out, her tone cold enough to make me flinch.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply, my hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace. “But I figured you wouldn’t answer.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she turns and starts back up the hill, her steps unsteady but determined. Stiletto Louboutins aren’t exactly made for negotiating sand dunes or walking on the beach.

“You sure you don’t want a hand?” I call after her, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at my lips.

“Go to hell, Ryan,” she snaps without looking back.

I follow her anyway, keeping a few paces behind, watching her ass under that pencil skirt sway in a way that makes me hard as a rock. God, I dream of her ass, but I dream of her tits and pussy, as well. She fights her way up the incline without so muchas a stumble. That’s Candace for you—stubborn as hell, always refusing help even when she needs it.

When we reach the road, she heads straight for the limo, her heels clicking against the pavement with every furious step. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t look back, just slips inside after the driver opens the door.

I stand there for a moment, debating whether to let her stew, but I can’t help myself. I round the limo and open the passenger door, climbing in without asking for permission.

The driver doesn’t react, his face as impassive as ever. Candace, on the other hand, shoots me a withering glare but says nothing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

For now, I let the silence linger. She’s mad as hell, and I’m not in the mood to pour fuel on the fire—yet.

The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, ready to snap. The driver starts the engine.

“Don’t,” I growl.

The driver sits back. I’m not so stupid as to believe this will end up with us in bed together so I don’t intend to be separated from my bike. The tension is thick enough to choke on. I can’t take it anymore.

I turn to face her. “You threw your scotch in my face,” I say, breaking the quiet.

Her head snaps toward me, her eyes blazing. “I wish it had been gasoline and that I’d had a match.”

I let out a low whistle, shaking my head with a faint smile. “That bad, huh?”

She doesn’t answer, just turns away and glares out the window. Her fingers dig into the leather seat, and I can see the effort it’s taking for her to keep from saying more. I lean back, my arm resting along the top of the seat, watching her, studying her. She’s always been fire and steel, but this? This is something else. This is next level.

“Why are you so angry, Candace?” I ask quietly, the question hanging in the air between us.

Her jaw tightens, her gaze still fixed on the darkness outside. “It’s too late, Ryan. Too late for explanations, too late for apologies. It’s all just… too late.”

I tilt my head, watching the way her chest rises and falls, the rapid rhythm betraying the storm beneath her calm exterior. “Is it too late for… other things?” I ask, my voice low, almost a whisper.

She turns then, her eyes locking onto mine, and the look she gives me knocks the breath right out of my lungs. It’s anger, yes, but it’s something else, too. Something deeper. Something raw.

For a second, the world holds still. I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly I’m leaning forward, my hand sliding up to press the button that raises the privacy barrier between us and the driver. As the soft hum of the partition settles into place, I reach for her, hauling her over the small space that separates us.

Her lips crash into mine, and the kiss is nothing like the ones I remember. It’s hard, fierce, fueled by years of anger and frustration. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer even as her teeth nip at my bottom lip, and I groan, deep and low, as the fire in her ignites something in me I thought she’d long ago buried.

I pull her onto my lap, my hands sliding up her thighs, hiking up her skirt as I feel the heat of her body pressing against me. She breaks the kiss, her breath coming fast, her lips swollen and wet as she glares down at me.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she snaps, her voice trembling with fury and… something else.

“Right,” I murmur, my hands gripping her hips as I pull her down against me, stealing another kiss before she can argue.

The limo sways slightly as we move together, the heat between us building to a fever pitch. Clothes are pushed aside,her skirt bunched around her hips, my shirt shoved open. Her nails rake across my chest, leaving marks I’ll feel for days, and I love it. Every moment of it. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s nothing like what I remembered or imagined—because this isn’t about love. It’s about years of unresolved tension, of hurt and desire colliding in a storm neither of us can control.

Her body arches as I slip my fingers into her pussy to find that place inside her, wet and waiting. She’s biting down on her bottom lip—she never was one much for foreplay, but then when we were kids, neither was I. I slide another finger inside her, the slickness making it easy for me to pump in and out. Her walls clench around me and I can’t help but groan at the tightness.

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