Page 42 of Small Town Firsts
Oh, yeah, I was a femme fatale—obviously—with a silky robe sticking to every roll and bit of pudge. So hot.
This sucked.
I blew out a breath and opened the door. Steam furled out behind me as the raspy voice of Dermot Kennedy flowed out with it. I’d forgotten to turn off the music while I’d been angsting about my lack of clothes. It was a favorite song of mine and I didn’t want to think too hard about how it reminded me of Ronan.
The rasp.
The deepness.
The passion and watery tones of the music mixed with the epic, rolling layers of longing and building drums.
He stood in the dim light of the hallway wearing one of my frilly aprons around his wide chest. A cast iron frying pan was in his hand with a towel around the handle. The scent of garlic and basil, tomatoes, egg, and cheese made my stomach roar even as my breath backed up in my chest. This big man had carted me around half the evening, and now he was in my kitchen cooking for me.
I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done anything for me, let alone make me a meal.
Or worry about if I was hurting—body and mind.
His dark gaze swept down my body, lingering at my legs peeking from the lavender robe, before returning to my face. The pan clattered back to the stove and the heavy thud of his boots shook me out of my stupor.
My eyes suddenly pricked and I rushed out of the bathroom to my bedroom, leaving puddles in my wake. I slammed the door to my bedroom and collapsed against it. My chains and earrings rattled on the jewelry organizer on the back of the door. I quickly straightened before everything fell off. I bent to pick up a few necklaces and tucked them back into their felt envelopes. “Get it together, Webb.”
I huffed out a breath and tried to calm my racing heart.
It was just dinner.
And maybe a bang—no matter what he’d said in the truck.
Yes, it would be a very good bang. If not for the sheer size and scope of how we fit together, simply because it had been a damn long time since I’d had time for sex.
I want to know where and how many freckles you have. How you moan when I slide into you.
Who the hell talked like that? Or one better—who didn’t sound ridiculous when he said it?
“Kira?” He knocked softly on the door.
“I’ll be out in a second.”
“You sure you’re okay? I can go if you really want me to.”
“No.” The word flew out of my mouth with a sharpness I didn’t mean. I clenched my hands and evened out my voice. “No. I’ll be right there. I just need to get dressed.”
“Personally, I like the robe.” His voice was gravelly and low. “No need to change.”
My hand was on the knob before I knew it. This seduction scene would only get more awkward if I kept thinking about everything. What to wear, what to do with him, what did this mean?
Overwhelm became overload and I opened the door.
Cotton and denim-clad man filled the doorway. The silly blue gingham apron didn’t take away from the sheer hotness factor. His hair was damp around his temples from the humidity and probably the stove. The small braids he tended to wear to tame some of the volume of his curls only added to the wildness of him.
I reached up to finger one of the small beads at the end of a braid. A symbol was carved into the forged silver. I was pretty sure it was a rune, only reinforcing my Viking nickname for him.
He caught my hand and turned it so he could brush his lips over my wrist. “My Ma likes to think she’s protecting her sons and daughters.”
“Do you believe?”
His dark eyes were heavy-lidded as he spoke quietly. “I believe in her, so I guess so.”
What must that be like? To believe and love someone like that? There was no love lost between me and my mother. The only thing that linked us was biology and a name that meant even less in Turnbull.
