Page 77 of Sirens
Her words were a key turning in a lock, releasing parts of himself he hadn’t even realized were shackled. “Maggie, I—” He paused, the enormity of what he wanted to say looming before him like a precipice. “I’ve never been this reckless with anyone before. Hell, we didn’t even use a condom.”
“That’s okay.” She shrugged. “I have an IUD.”
His relief must have been apparent, because she giggled a little.
“Reckless is just another word for living, McGarvey.” Her smile was a crescent moon in the night of his uncertainty. “And I’ve got a feeling we’re going to do a little bit more of that with each other before we’re through.”
In the quiet aftermath of their confessions, the room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound their synchronized heartbeats writing a rhythm for a future uncertain but tempting as the dawn. Maggie’s head rested against his shoulder, her red hair a fiery contrast to the subdued tones of his living room—a vibrant reminder that life was meant to be lived in Technicolor, and Trent was suddenly eager to paint outside the lines.
He bullied Maggie off the couch and into his bed, their legs tangled beneath the cotton throw as they let the fireplace warm their bare skin and cool their ardor.
Her breath was a soft cadence against his neck, stirring something tender within him—something that felt suspiciously like roots taking hold in unexplored soil.
A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind of hush that spoke volumes more than words ever could. They were two souls, stripped down to raw desire and now wrapped up in the quiet understanding that what they’d shared transcended physical release.
As Trent held her, the reality of their bond—an intricate tapestry woven from heated glances, whispered innuendos, and now this—settled over him like a blanket. It was warm, it was protective, and damn if it wasn’t as scary as a chicken coop at a fox convention.
“Hey,” Maggie began, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “I can hear you brooding. What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” he lied, because how did one explain that he was wrestling with the fear of losing something he never knew he wanted until now? Instead, he steered them back to safer waters. “Just thinking about how I’m going to get you out of here without my neighbors starting a betting pool on our…extracurricular activities.”
She laughed, a sound that bubbled up between them like a clear spring. “Let ’em bet. I’ll throw in twenty bucks on us lasting longer than the milk in your fridge.”
“Bold move,” he teased back, even as his heart performed an odd little flip at the thought of a timeline extending beyond the confines of tonight. “But you’re on.”
The laughter faded, leaving a poignant stillness that stretched out like the rolling fields and primeval forests surrounding the town. There was an undercurrent of uncertainty there—a silent acknowledgement that they were standing on the edge of something deeper than either had planned.
“Whatever happens…” Maggie whispered, “I’m glad we did this.”
“Whatever happens,” Trent echoed, his jaw cracking on a yawn.
The world outside faded, leaving only the soft sounds of the fireplace, the evening wail of the wind through the marina.
For once, Trent McGarvey wasn’t thinking about appearances, about the meticulous order he so often clung to. All that mattered was Maggie—the woman who’d managed to unravel him with nothing more than a look and a challenge that he’d been powerless to resist.
FOURTEEN
Twist
A PIECE OF CITRUS ZEST (A THIN, CURLED SLICE OF A CITRUS FRUIT PEEL) ADDED TO A DRINK FOR FLAVOR OR DECORATION, EITHER IN THE DRINK DIRECTLY OR HANGING ON THE SIDE OF THE GLASS
The first thingMaggie noticed as consciousness crept back was the warmth radiating from the strong arm draped over her. The second: just how good the bazillion-thread-count sheets felt swathed around her naked body. The third: the faint scent of sandalwood. The fourth: the collection of classic novels lining the bookshelf across the room.
Oh, right.
McGarvey’s place.
A tiny smirk played at the corners of her mouth as she shifted her gaze to the painfully, impossibly beautiful man lying beside her. His deep chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his handsome face completely slack in sleep.
She had matched his passion, toe to toe—among other parts. Rode him like he was the last Harley out of the mouth of hell. Snatched his soul and sucked it dry like a soup dumpling.
Fucking took. Him. Out.
And somehow, draining enough intensity from him to allow him this kind of rest felt like doing something worthwhile. Something she could keep, even if she couldn’t keep him.
And looking at him, at the raw vulnerability stripped bare by sleep, she realized something new. A small flutter in her stomach as delicate as a moth, but no less real for its subtlety.
She wanted to keep him.
