Page 8 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
I brought two back and handed one to Rory, which he graciously accepted.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. Look,” he leaned back and the air around me suddenly got cold. “I’m sorry for prying. I’m curious to a fault.”
I took a drink, relaxing slightly. “Nosy’s more like it.”
He laughed. “I’ve definitely been called that, but what can I say? You dangle such interesting information in front of me. It’s hard not to ask.”
I sighed. “It’s nothing really. I’m just not good. I’m a bit off-key. It’s embarrassing that it took me so long to figure it out.”
He studied me, then his mouth opened into a wide “Oh. I see. It was a boyfriend, wasn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, no one else told you that you were off-key, but then out of nowhere you’re being told that? How long were you a musician before your boyfriend started criticizing you?”
I hesitated. “A few years. But my ex was a musician— he knows his stuff. I was off-key. Played badly. Sometimes I didn’t even know anything was wrong, but then he’d dissect my entire performance, and I’d see the issues. Eventually, it didn’t make sense to continue, especially if I couldn’t get any better.”
“And you just believed him?”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do? He was the first person to actually show me what was wrong. It was probably why I could never get out of the bar scene.”
“Talent doesn’t necessarily mean you won’t be stuck in the bar scene. It’s an oversaturated field.”
“Well, all the more reason to stop.”
He started to say more but then stopped and took a drink. I copied him, leaning back on my couch. My body was stiff, anxious, and the alcohol wasn’t helping, but I still kept drinking.
Finally, Rory said, “There’s only one way for us to settle this. You should perform for me.”
I laughed. “No, that’s okay.”
“No, I’m serious. I’ll be as honest as possible. Your ex is just one person. That’s not accurate for a study.”
“But my friends?—”
“Could’ve been nice or they could have actually enjoyed your stuff. You won’t know, but I swear on all that is holy that I will be honest with you.”
I almost gave in. Almost grabbed my guitar hidden in my closet, the one I used late into the night when I knew I was alone, when my fingers ached for the strings, for that release of my soul.
But I kissed him instead.
It was slow at first. Tender. Tasting him. Learning the curve of his lips. The shape of his mouth. Then, I pushed him against the wall with a force that made his breath hitch, his body molding to mine as though we’d been made for this exact moment. His heartbeat palpable through the thin layers of fabric separating us.
I pulled away just long enough to see his eyes droop slightly, then his lips found mine, tentative at first. The kiss wasn’t hurried. It was a slow, deliberate exploration. His mouth was warm, his lips supple, and they carried a faint taste of the Belgian ale.
My hands were everywhere, my fingers tracing lines across his shoulders, his arms, then down his chest, setting every nerve alight. I lingered for a moment, my palm flattening against his racing heart, memorizing the rhythm, before trailing lower. My touch became more deliberate as his hand slipped down to mywaist. I pressed closer, my hips aligning with his, the heat of his body unmistakable even through the barrier of our clothes.
When my hand found his groin, I grazed his growing cock, testing the edge of his restraint. He gave a little moan, and I rubbed along the seam, teasing the sensitive length through the rough fabric, and I bit back a groan. It had been so long since I’d been with someone, and I wanted to hold this moment for just a little longer, feel that anticipation coarse through him.
I feather-kissed his neck, his scruffy jaw. He smelled like my lavender soap with a hint of his musk. It was sweet and spicy all at once.
Then he said in a throaty whisper, “You’re going to drive me crazy.”
I laughed softly and murmured, “Good.”
