Page 21 of Driving Whiskey Wild
“I’m sorry you lost your father.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “That must have been awful for you.”
“It was. My biggest regret was that I was living in Boston at the time. He worked at the power plant and there was an electrical misfire or something. They classified it as an industrial accident. I guess they were lucky no one else was hurt.”
He pulled her into an embrace, wishing he could have been there for her when she’d lost him. “Are you okay here? Being back in town?”
“Yes. I needed to be here, closer to Penny.” She pushed away, busying herself with the washcloth again, but as she washed him, her touch changed.
No longer was she washing him with a corner of the cloth. She spread it over her hand, bathing him from shoulder to shoulder, slowly and sensually, furtively glancing up as she moved over his chest and down his ribs. Her eyelids grew heavier, and he wasn’t sure she realized it, but she moved closer, until the space between them was barely big enough for her hand. Desire filled the space between them, growing hotter with every stroke, but the conflict in her eyes told him she was struggling—to decide if she should go for it or ignore it, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her, either. And when he rested his fingers on her hips, she trapped her lower lip between her teeth, inching even closer.
That subtle, telling move brought their mouths a whisper apart. Their gazes locked, lust pulsing between them like a drum. He wanted to tell her it was okay. Just let go. Surrender to me. The urge to take was strong, but his desire not to screw this up was even stronger.
The tip of her tongue swept along her lips, and he gritted his teeth.
“We should…” She nibbled on her lip again. “Um. Let’s check out the cut on your stomach.”
She crouched before him, and holy mother of God, seeing his blond angel crouched in front of his cock shoved all the ugly thoughts of war and flashbacks aside. The therapists had never shared this tactic with him. Wanting Finlay Wilson was magic. When she put one hand on his stomach, the other on his thigh, balancing as she inspected his wound, he clenched his teeth harder.
She squinted, her lips twisting in contemplation. “That definitely needs some attention.”
Fuck yeah. She had no idea how dirty his thoughts could be.
She reached for the washcloth, and he caught her hand. Their eyes connected and the temperature spiked. Her eyes turned midnight blue, and the pulse at the base of her neck throbbed erratically. The hell with the cuts. He wanted to seal his mouth over that frantic pulse and drive it up even higher.
She licked her lips again, and he placed his other hand on the back of her thigh, bringing her closer. Sparks showered around them, sizzling and popping, but neither one said a word. He fought the need to kiss her, wanting to stay on this emotional high with her, suspended from the rest of the world forever.
She didn’t say a word as she reached for the washcloth and carefully cleaned the cut. The energy between them shifted again, spiking hotter, delving deeper, as if their confessions had bound them, creating a pulse all their own. Every swipe of the cloth against his skin brought more awareness—of her stilted breathing, stolen glances, her legs brushing against his inner thighs. He wanted to feel her legs against his bare skin, to have her hot little hands all over his body, healing his fractured soul.
“Okay,” she whispered, and set the cloth down. She patted the area dry with a paper towel, her face a mask of attentive sweetness.
She reached for the ointment, and he ran his fingers along her arm from elbow to wrist. She stilled, her hand inches from the ointment, her soft exhalations filling the silence. He pressed his thighs tighter against her legs and traced the curve of her hip with his other hand. She tensed at the first stroke down her thigh, but she didn’t look away, a whirlwind of emotions passing between them. Wordlessly, she reached for the ointment again.
He wanted her to reach for him, but he knew that wasn’t her way. She was like a scared rabbit coming out of its hole, then retreating, only to return and sniff the air, inching closer until she trusted him completely.
He watched as she applied the ointment to his wound, admiring her for so many reasons. She wasn’t living her life angry at the world for stealing her father and her man away, or walling herself off for fear of being hurt again.
“How do you do it?” The question came unbidden.
She picked up a bandage. “Clean out your cuts?”
“No, Fins. How’d you move past the hurt? You’re so happy.”
“Now? Sure, but back then? I cried a lot, talked my friend Izzy’s and Penny’s ears off. I cooked and baked enough food for a small army, and I prayed a lot. I’m not religious, but I thought if I sent positive, loving thoughts into the universe they would somehow make it back to Aaron and my dad. And you know, I was so young. Twenty-one when Aaron died, and then we lost my dad a couple years later. Time may not heal wounds, but it allows for perspective. I’m thankful I had them in my life.”
She put the bandage down and said, “I’m afraid to put that on your cut.”
She was as adept at changing subjects as he was. He understood that. Sometimes enough was enough. Beating things into the ground wouldn’t bring people back.
“It’ll stick to the hair on your stomach and hurt like crazy when you take it off.” Her eyes widened. “I could shave a path around the cut.”
“Real men only shave for tattoos and blow jobs. Get up here.” He motioned to his lap.
“Why, Mr. Whiskey, are you getting frisky with me?”
He lifted her onto his lap, guiding her legs around his hips, and ran his hands along her outer thighs. Her cheeks heated, and he loved that about her. The women he’d been with had never blushed. They’d never felt real either. They were a means to an escape, a release, while Finlay…She was the only reality he didn’t want to escape.
“Don’t worry, lollipop.” He wound his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer, speaking directly into her ear. “I’m not asking you to blow the whistle or ride the train.” He slicked his tongue along the shell of her ear, earning a lusty moan. “I just want to taste you, get a little sugar rush to hold us over.”
He sealed his mouth over the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, and a sexy little gasp slipped from her lips as he took a long, sensual suck. She inhaled a series of sharp breaths as he loved his way along the column of her neck to the other side.
“You’re so sweet,” he said between tastes. “So perfect, lollipop, but I need your mouth on me.” He told himself to slow down, but she whispered, “Yes,” silencing his thoughts altogether.
She bowed toward him, pressing her sweet center against his hard shaft. He pushed one hand up her thigh, and when she ground harder, he slipped his long fingers beneath her shorts. The scratch of lace pulled a groan from his lungs as he filled his palm with her tempting bottom. His emotions reeled, as he groped and kissed, sucked and nipped, and the real world failed to exist. His hands were everywhere at once, caught up in the spiral of desire, on a mission to feel as much of her as he could. He pushed under her sweatshirt, palming her breasts as they rose with her heavy breaths. Her sexy moans and whimpers drove him out of his fucking mind. He rocked his hips, and she pushed her hands into his hair, grinding harder, kissing him deeper. She was too much, too good, too willing, filling him with all that sweetness.
He tore his mouth from hers, needing to see her beautiful face, to make sure he wasn’t imagining her eagerness, wasn’t forcing and taking, too caught up in her to catch her signals. Her lips were swollen from their kisses, her cheeks pink and scratched from his beard. It probably made him an asshole, but he loved knowing she’d feel his mouth on hers tomorrow.
“Kiss me,” she pleaded, and lowered her face toward his again.
The kiss started out soft, sweet, but within seconds they were eating at each other’s mouths, ravenously taking and giving in equal measure. Greedy sounds slipped between them like they’d both been waiting years for this connection—and in his case, he’d waited a lifetime. He claimed her neck again, loving the way she quivered and shook with each stroke of his tongue.
“I’ve got to feel you against me, Fins.” He rose to his feet with her in his arms and laid her on the lounge chair, coming down over her.
She was so small, so feminine, his protective urges surged, and he was getting too carried away. He forced himself to move beside her. They lay facing each other, kissing and smiling. Jesus, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled when he’d kissed a woman. The last time he’d cared.
He ran his hand down her leg, and words poured out. “I love your legs. Your soft skin.”
He hooked his hand beneath her knee, bringing her leg over his, her knee resting by his hip. Oh yeah, that was nice. All her softness pressed against him. She arched forward, rubbing against his cock, and he lowered her onto her back and gazed into her eyes, overwhelmed by the trust and emotions staring back at him—for him.
He wanted to be the man she counted on, to see that trust in her eyes always. To be the man who would be there for her when she hurt and when she celebrated. And he had a feeling Finlay’s life would be full of celebrations, because she didn’t wallow, didn’t let the darkness overtake her. She was open and caring, and that trust just about did him in. Bullet knew all about trust. It was the very foundation of his being. His brothers at arms had an unbreakable trust, and the club brotherhood and his blood family lived and breathed by that bond. He wanted that with Finlay, and he knew it all started now.
