Page 43 of A Trap So Flawless

I want to taste the rain on his skin.

It’s that last, immediate desire that obliterates all the rest. I push the handles of the bag up over my wrist so that my hands are free. My fingers slowly rise. They brush Darragh’s jaw, silken water contrasting with the gentle scrape of stubble there. Shirtless as he is, I see the way every part of Darragh’s chest, abdomen, and arms go harrowingly taut at my touch.

“What are you doing?” he asks gruffly. I’ve confused him. Knocked him off guard. It doesn’t happen often. His eyes search my face with something close to desperation.

“I just wanted to see if it was true,” I say.

“If what was true?”

“That you weren’t really made of sugar.”

Before he can reply, I slide my hands down to his neck, rise up on my toes.

And kiss him.

Apart from the way I feel the tendons in his neck snap and bulge with a suddenly terrible tension, Darragh doesn’t react to my kiss at all. Not at first. He remains unmoving as I explore the still shape of his mouth with my own, tasting water and whiskey and him.

But when my tongue dares to nudge the seam of his closed lips, he shudders, pulls back a little, then growls, “I know you’re not feeling well, pet. But if you keep this up…” His eyes are dark and ravenous. Like his very gaze would swallow me whole if it could. “Then I am going to fuck you anyway. Whether you’re in pain or not. Whether you complain or not.”

It’s a warning I should heed. A chance to run.

Someone sensible would grab it with both hands.

I grab him instead.

This time, his mouth is hot and hungry and open. His tongue invades my mouth, and desire for him hits my bloodstream like a drug.

What is wrong with me? What has he done to me?

To make me want him this badly?

Rain pummels me anew as Darragh drops his shirt. His hands go to my ribs, my waist, my hips, his touch terrible and urgent. When his hands reach my ass, he squeezes, then hoists me up against the soaking wall of his body.

Instinctively, my legs spread as I’m held aloft. My thighs lock around his waist, my pussy throbbing at his belly. Despite Mamma’s near constant comments about me needing to drop a few pounds, Darragh holds me as if I weigh nothing at all, his arms like iron around me. He never takes his mouth from mine as he walks us towards the door. I close my eyes and focus entirely on the molten claiming of his kiss, because even though I know he could drop me on my ass in a puddle at any moment, I don’t think he will.

Somehow Darragh manages to keep me held up against his body with one arm while his other hand fishes keys from his pocket. He leans me against the door as he unlocks it, trapping me between the wood and him. I think the door is unlocked now, but he doesn’t open it yet. He takes a moment to keep me pinned there, adjusting our positioning so that his crotch is aligned with mine.

Oh, God. He’s so hard. He groans into my mouth and grinds against me.

Heat, and a fresh wave of cramping, grip my pelvis.

I’m not sure if it’s only from the medication, or…

Or if I want him so badly it’s making me hurt.

The door swings open, and I gasp, swinging with it. But Darragh’s still got me. He elbows the door shut behind us both. Just before it closes, I catch a glimpse of his white shirt on the pavement. Abandoned in the rain.

There are boxes in the doorway. Dimly, I remember Darragh saying something about new clothes. He sets me down between the cardboard cubes and for some bizarre reason starts dumping out their contents. Sweaters and dresses and makeup and shoes fall like the rain outside.

My stomach drops. He has enemies here as surely as he does in Toronto. There could be anything inside one of those boxes.

“Are you…” I’m shivering. “Are you looking for a bomb?”

At that same moment, he seizes on something from the pile and yanks it out.

It’s not an explosive device.

It’s a box of condoms.

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