Page 59 of Irish Rebel
“I’ve some experience with them.” He glanced at his pickup as they turned toward his quarters. “If you’ve a yen for a drive, you can climb up into the lorry, but I’d need to shovel it out first.”
She huffed out a breath. “That, Donnelly, wasn’t the most romantic of invitations.”
“Secondhand lorries aren’t particularly romantic, and I’ve forgotten where I parked my glass coach.”
“If that’s another princess crack—” She broke off, set her teeth. Patience, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to spoil things with an argument. “Never mind. We’ll forget the drive.” She opened the door herself. “And move straight to dinner.”
He caught the scent as soon as he stepped inside. Something aromatic and spicy that reminded him his stomach was about dead empty.
“What is it?”
“What is what?” Then she grinned and sniffed the air. “Oh, what is that? It’s chili, one of my specialties. I put it on simmer before my last class.”
“You cooked dinner?”
“Mmm.” Amused, and very satisfied by his shock, she wandered off into the kitchen. “I didn’t think you’d mind, and I knew we’d both be hungry by this time.” She lifted the lid on a pot, gave it a quick stir while fragrant steam puffed out. “It’s the kind of thing you can just leave and eat when you’re ready, which is why it appeals to me. Oh, and I brought over a bottle of Merlot, though beer’s never wrong with chili if you’d rather.”
“I’m trying to remember the last time someone cooked for me—other than your mother and someone who was related to me.”
Even more pleased, she turned to slide her arms around him. “Haven’t any of your many women cooked for you?”
“Now and then perhaps, but not in recent memory.” Because they were alone, he took her hips, brought her closer. “And I certainly remember none that smelled so appetizing.”
“The women? Or the meal?”
“Both.” He lowered his mouth to hers, allowed himself the luxury of sinking in. “And it reminds me I’m next to starving.”
“What do you want first?” She grazed her teeth over his bottom lip. “Me, or the food?”
“I want you first. And last, it seems.”
“That’s handy, because I want you first, too.” She drew back. “Why don’t we clean up? I could use a shower.” Laughing, her hands holding his, she pulled him out of the kitchen.
She’d brought over a change of clothes as well. It gave Brian a start to see her casually pulling on fresh jeans. Her hair was still wet from the shower they’d shared, her skin rosy from it. And, he noted, a bit raw in places because he hadn’t shaved.
But the wild love they’d made under the hot spray in the steamy room wasn’t anywhere near as intimate, anywhere near aspersonalsomehow as her having a clean sweater lying neatly folded on the foot of his bed.
She reached for it, then glanced over, catching him staring at her. “What is it?”
He shook his head. There wasn’t a way to explain this sense of panic and delight that lived inside him while he watched her dress. “I’ve rubbed your skin raw.” Reaching out, he traced his fingertips over her collarbone. “I should have shaved. You’re so soft.” He murmured it, trailing those fingers up over her shoulder. “I don’t know how I manage to forget that.”
When she trembled, he looked up into her face. For a moment she saw the need flash back into his eyes, glinting like the edge of a sword. “Now you’re cold. Put your sweater on. I’ve got some ointment.”
The hot edge faded as quickly as it came. It was frustrating, she thought as he rooted into a drawer, that the only time he really broke the tether on his control was when they made love.
He got out a tube and since she’d yet to put the sweater on, squeezed ointment onto his fingers and began to gently rub it on her abraded skin. She recognized the scent.
“That’s for horses.”
“So?”
She laughed and let him fuss. “Does this make me your mare now?”
“No, you’re too young and delicate of bone for that. You’re still a filly.”
“Are you going to train me, Donnelly?”
“Oh, you’re out of my league, Miss Grant.” He glanced up, cocked a brow when he saw her grinning at him. “And what amuses you?”
