Page 49 of Verses Of Us

He stilled, turning around slowly, his brow creased, his hands messy and sticky. “You’ve heard of boxty?”

“Yeah.” Alexis looked away, not wanting to admit the truth.

After he left, she’d obsessed over everything Irish, especially food. It became her rescue, her one link to him when the hurt was too much to handle.

The recipe for Irish potato pancakes had become her staple, and she made them so often, she became a master. She told people it was because she loved potatoes, but secretly, she’d believed it would keep Ciarán’s memory fresh in her mind. It was foolish, and all it did was add ten pounds to her body and make her miss him even more. Eventually, she faced her reality—Ciarán was gone and no amount of carbohydrates would change that.

His mouth slanted, but then he shrugged and returned to his meal prep. “Sadly, it’s not boxty. My grandmother wasn’t Irish.”

“She wasn’t?” Alexis moved to his side. The brown sauce bubbled, releasing a mouth-watering scent.

“No, she was Swedish.” Ciarán dropped the meatballs into the sauce. “And here I thought you knew everything about me.” He nudged her with his shoulder.

She poured them two glasses of wine. “I’m sure I don’t know it all.”

As she handed him his glass, he moved over. She saw it happen in slow motion, but wasn’t quick enough to react. Ciarán’s belt hooked the pan’s handle, sending it crashing to the ground with a loud metallic clatter. Meatballs and sauce flew everywhere, covering the floor and lower cabinets with a thick, brown goop. Fast on his feet, Ciarán jumped in front of Alexis, protecting her, but the apron, his pants and some of his shirt weren’t so lucky. He hissed.

“Shit! Are you alright?” Alexis hurried to find a dish towel.

Ciarán pulled his shirt away from his chest, fanning it, and looked down, smiling.

“I am. Didn’t burn.” Amused, he chuckled as she knelt down to wipe the sauce off the bottom of his pants. He stopped her, taking her hand. “Don’t bother. I’ll change. Do you have something I could borrow?”

“Don’t think I have anything in your size.” She turned off the stove. He dropped the pan into the sink and grabbed the roll of paper towels to wipe up the mess, while Alexis hurried to get the mop and bucket. She handed them to him.

“I’ll go check.”

She rummaged through her closet for anything that would fit. Tucked away on a top shelf, she found a large t-shirt left behind by an ex-boyfriend.

When she returned to the kitchen, a shirtless Ciarán waltzed across the room, mopping up the mess, whistling a tune. The sight made her smile, her body tingling when her eyes travelled across his wide shoulders and back, taking in the tattoos she’d only briefly noticed the night before in the dressing room. Swallowing hard, she exchanged the mop for the shirt.

“Thanks, love.”

The divine twinkle in his eyes electrified the air between them and she hurried to distract herself, dumping the dirty water down the drain.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him put the shirt on the counter. He stepped behind her, his half-naked body warming her back. When his breath tickled her shoulder, the empty bucket slipped from her hands into the sink. She turned around, glimpsing the remnants of their meal over his shoulder—the burnt sauce on the stovetop, the gooey drips down the cabinet doors.

“Think supper’s ruined?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

“I’d say so.” His deep, sultry baritone sent a shiver down her spine.

“I suppose we could order in…”

“Lex, look at me,” he ordered, pinching her chin and turning her head. Though she wanted to look at him, she found it impossible. “Alexis. Please.”

She obeyed the explicit command in his voice, sliding her gaze up to his, and met his cobalt eyes. Ominous, they ignited a fire deep down inside her belly that shifted their relationship into a new chapter.

Since day one, their path had led them toward this inevitability. Despite that, she was fearfully unprepared. She’d made excuses to avoid it, like their age difference and their situations in life, but now those excuses seemed insignificant. They were measly words, reasons without validity. And clear as day, she knew she couldn’t avoid the next step any longer.

After last night’s concert, Ciarán had released her throbbing need for him. But beyond the fears clattering in her mind, her willingness to endure the pain for the pleasure scared her the most.

Ciarán reached around her waist, his hips pushing her against the counter, wedging her hands between his chest and hers. She delicately ran her fingers over the soft hair that spread across his pecs, her lips parting when his mouth found her neck.

“Lex, I…” His words faded with his breath. The agonising sound of her name whispered against her skin made it tingle. All she managed in response was a faint moan, choked out from her tight throat.

Then, his teeth captured her earlobe, tugging gently, sending heat between her legs. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, her nails sinking into his soft skin, but hitting a wall of hard muscle. Faint freckles dotted his collarbone.

When his lips trailed along her jaw, her legs shook, forcing her to hold on to him even tighter, as if she might collapse. His grip on her hips tightened, slamming them against his. Now it was his turn to moan.

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