Chapter Eight
Shamus wasn’t happy about being frogmarched to his room but Ethan wasn’t in any mood to indulge him, even if he was one of the pub’s paying customers. He was edgy and tense from the surge of testosterone that had jettisoned into his system.
Between having Shane Gallagher back in town and Delia’s custody threats, his patience was stretched to the limits. Add to that his recent slip with JJ and things were about as fucked up as they came.
He took a couple of moments, after he’d seen a profusely apologising Shamus to bed, to find some calm. The night air was cool and he sucked in some deep breaths as he leaned on the railing overlooking the main street. The street he knew like the back of his hand. The street where he, Marcus, Jarrod and JJ had played as kids, running races between the pub and the police station. Where he’d first kissed Delia. Where his father had been knocked down and killed by a hit-and-run driver.
He breathed in. And out.
So many memories—good and bad. It was his street now. His duty to keep it safe. And he didn’t take that lightly.
And where JJ was concerned he never would.
When he stepped back inside the French doors he felt calmer. JJ was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, her back against the end of the bed as if she’d lost control of her legs after the drama was over and just slid to the ground. He sat down next to her stretching his legs out in front.
“You okay?” he asked, trying not to notice how much skin was exposed by her chosen position.
She nodded. “Thanks, yes. Sorry about the false alarm.”
“No,” he said and he caught and captured her gaze. “That’s what I’m here for.”
She looked at him for the longest time and then gave a self-deprecating laugh as she ran a hair through her loose brown curls. “I’ll be jumping at shadows next.”
He grabbed her hand. “You’re shaking,” he said and he tucked it into his, holding it between his palms, rubbing it absently.
“Reaction,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking about that night …” she snatched her hand back.
Ethan had too. The image of her in the hospital always at the back of his mind. “I wish I’d been there for you that night.”
She gave a half-hearted laugh. “So do I.”
He shut his eyes, guilt running a spike through his chest. Guilt that he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him, guilt that she never blamed him.
“I can’t bear the thought of what he did to you.” He lifted a hand that was also less than steady and brushed it across her eye, down the slope of her cheekbone remembering the ugly bruising.
“Hey,” she said softly. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”
Ethan nodded. He knew that—rationally. But he’d known that Shane had pushed JJ and shoved her against a wall only two weeks before that. He’d helped her move her stuff to the pub an hour later. “I should have been more vigilant.”
Maybe if he’d escorted Shane out of town, instead of just threatening him with bodily harm if he didn’t clear out, JJ wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital, Shane’s fist marks all over her face.
He stroked a finger over her eye, the one Shane had blackened. Her eyelashes were soft against his thumb pad, as was the skin covering her cheekbone. The same cheekbone that had shattered like an eggshell beneath the back of her ex’s hand.
God, she was beautiful. Why hadn’t he ever noticed that before?
“You weren’t to know,” JJ whispered. “I didn’t think he’d come back and do that. I had no idea he was capable of …”
She stopped as his thumb stroked lower to her mouth and he ran it over the top lip near the corner where it had swelled and split courtesy of Shane’s knuckles. Her mouth was so sweet, so perfect. He remembered how it had tasted the other night. How it had opened and given without question.
“Ethan,” she whispered.
The movement of her mouth was mesmerising. His pulse thudded hard in his chest as the need to kiss her mouth, to assure himself that the ugly image of it being shattered and swollen was only in his head. That she was safe. That he would protect her.
He just wanted to be sure.
To know.
But the second he pressed his lips to hers, and she whimpered and opened to him, it became more than that. The thud behind his ribs became a roar and his senses filled with the taste and the smell and the sound of her, and he needed more.
He needed all of her.
He reached for her, pulling her up and over him until she was straddling his lap, her kisses deep, greedy, sucking away all his air. Her breasts flat against his chest, her hips grinding against his, rubbing hard along his erection. Making him feel good, making him feel needy, making him want more.
He groaned and bucked up into her. And when she sucked in her breath and moaned in appreciation he swallowed it whole, plundering her mouth, demanding all of her, wanting her tongue and her sighs and her deep, wet whimpers.
The hard jut of her nipples grazed his chest and he needed to touch them. To taste them. His hands skated up under her shirt. Her skin was warm and real. So was the dip of her waist, the ridges of her ribs and, finally, the warm naked swing of soft breast and hard nipple.
She cried out, her hips bucking as he brushed a thumb over the turgid peak and he muttered, “Fuck, I want you,” against her mouth.
“Yes,” she said and arched her back, pushing herself into his palm, begging with her body, telling him what she wanted.
And he was about to do just that. Push her on her back, throw caution to the wind. Do what they both wanted. Give in to this crazy thing happening between them. But a loud crash right beside them had him rearing up, displacing her as he leapt to his feet, body on high alert, the cop inside going into combat mode.
It took a few seconds to compute that the French door had slammed shut. His rocketing heart rate dropped down a few notches and he ran a hand through his hair as he realised how close he’d come to doing the very thing he’d insisted only a few nights ago never happen again.
Realised how badly he ached just to do it anyway.
He looked down at her, her chest heaving, her mouth wet and lush from their kisses, a lock of hair falling in her eye, a look of confusion that just about undid him.
“I’m sorry, I …”
What? What, idiot? What can you possibly say to explain this?
“That shouldn’t have happened. I—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, glaring at him with wounded eyes, her voice unsteady as she drew up her knees and pulled her T-shirt down over the top of them, right down to her ankles. “Just don’t.” She looked at the floor, hugging her knees hard. “Go back to bed, Ethan.”
“But I—”
“Ethan,” she said, her head snapping up, her voice strident. “Get out. Just go.”
For a moment he was torn. She looked hurt and angry and wretched and worn out and it was all because of him. Hell, she looked like she was either going to get her gun and shoot him or burst into tears. And JJ never cried. Not even when her face had been a black-and-purple mess after Shane’s beating.
But what could he say to make it better? He didn’t understand any of this.
Was she angry at him for kissing her?
For stopping?
Or was she merely frightened and this was reaction setting in?
He didn’t know. He just didn’t know.
He felt helpless. And, if it wasn’t for the giant erection inside his boxers, he’d also feel completely impotent.
So he did the only thing he could do—exactly what she wanted. “I’m sorry,” he said and turned and walked away.
An hour later JJ was still lying awake in the dark, the street lights from outside casting their usual milky pall inside the room. She rolled to the other side again, the bed springs sounding like clanging chimes of doom in the quiet, chronicling her sexual frustration.
She was burning up. She had a fever that was off the charts and it was
all Ethan’s fault. For touching her face like that. Looking at her mouth like that. Kissing her lips like that.
Stoking the low burn of flame, which had been building for days, to a raging freaking inferno.
The throb between her legs had become a wild primal pulse, demanding release. She couldn’t think of anything else as her body demanded fulfilment. To be touched and stroked and filled until the tension coiling tighter and tighter snapped, arcing through her, white and hot and sharp like the crack of a whip.
She sure as hell couldn’t go back to sleep.
And she’d been doing so well. Ignoring the demands of her body as the sexual strain of their cohabitation built. Determined not to take the easy way out. To leave a fully charged Dennis in his drawer. To tough it out like a grown woman, not a horny teenager.
But damn it, she didn’t start this tonight. She hadn’t asked him to haul her into his lap or kiss her or fondle her breasts. She hadn’t forced the I want you out of his mouth. She hadn’t been in control of his lips or his hips or his hands.
But she had been a willing participant.
She rolled back to her other side as the images of their frantic passion undulated through her head and stroked hot urgent fingers across her belly. Undiluted lust surged into her veins, mixing with the primal beat of her heart to form a wild sexual cocktail. Making her drunk. Making her edgy.
Christ! He couldn’t start something like that, drop a match on ground so tinder dry and combustible from neglect and years of dry spells, and then just walk away with a sorry as she burned right in front of him.
Her gaze fell on her bedside drawers.
Screw it. If Ethan wasn’t going to see it through then she would.
She yanked the top drawer open and felt around for Dennis, finding his firm silicone length within seconds. She wrapped her fingers around the veined girth. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t hard male flesh. It wasn’t Ethan. It wasn’t the man she loved. But she needed to do something or she was going to stalk out to the couch and truly disgrace herself.
JJ pulled Dennis out of the drawer, testing the settings as she impatiently kicked the top sheet off. Her hands were trembling and she was so freaking hot as her heart rate trebled, burning like wildfire through her veins.
She didn’t care that, with no bedroom door, Ethan could walk in on her and see everything. Hell, at the moment she couldn’t have cared less if the entire pub had bought front-row tickets and hot-buttered popcorn. She just needed to do this.
To get it done.
She needed to release the tension. Take the edge off. And then maybe it would stop taking over her entire freaking life. Leave her able to concentrate on other things.
She lifted her hips and pushed her underwear down, used her feet to push her pants all the way off, the scrap of white cotton just too hot against her fevered skin. She drew her knees up then let them flop to the side, her thighs spreading open.
Her heart pounding in her ears JJ reached down, steadied the vibrator against the aching flesh between her legs and pushed it inside her. She gasped as it sank quickly to the hilt, easily lubricated by juices flowing hot and free. She gasped again as the clitoral massager furrowed through the slick seam, parting her, hitting its mark with pleasurable precision.
She paused for a moment, trying to steady the thud of her heart, which bounded through her head and ears with all the power of a sonic boom. It would not look good tomorrow if Ethan found her stroked out on the bed, a hot-pink vibrator called Dennis her cause of death.
When she felt steadier, she reached down again and flicked the switch on to the top power setting. An involuntary whimper escaped her mouth as sensitised tissues practically convulsed from the sudden sensation and she bit into her bottom lip to stop herself from crying out at the torturous friction.
She shut her eyes, willing herself to relax. It had been so damn long and she’d been holding herself so tense for the last few days she’d never uncoil at this rate. She breathed in, deep and slow through her nose, and let it gently escape from her mouth. She forced her hands, scrunched into fists beside her, to relax. Willed her buttocks to settle further into the mattress. Allowed her thighs to loosen and fall completely apart.
She hissed under her breath as the slow deep prod of the vibrator, angled to hit just the right spot, started to work its magic on her. It wasn’t the varied buck and thrust of a man but as she was all set to explode, JJ didn’t think her vagina was going to be that fussy.
She concentrated on the clitoral attachment whirring and vibrating in the general vicinity. It had slipped from its initial perfect position and JJ squirmed and shifted a little, angling her hips, seeking a better position. After a few seconds the stars seemed to align and she groaned under her breath as both the inside and outside movements hit their mark a little better.
She slid her hands up under her shirt, pushing it right up to her neck, exposing her flushed skin to the cool air. Her nipples ruched in response and her internal muscles tightened. JJ ran her fingers lightly over the tight tips and her belly clenched.
She whimpered a little.
Yes. Yes.
Images rose in her mind and drenched her fantasy in the heady scent of reality. In Ethan. Touching and licking and sucking her breasts. Grazing his teeth against the nipples. Making them hurt so damn good.
JJ pinched and rolled her nipples between her fingers. The stimulus caused a delicious friction deep inside her and she muffled a gasp.
She was close, so close.
And she wanted it now, damn it. Wanted it yesterday. Wanted it five bloody nights ago.
But it just wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed him. Here with her. Touching her breasts, buried inside her. She tossed her head from side to side at the frustration of it all, her eyes fluttering open.
And her gaze connected with Ethan’s.
Her breath caught in her throat, her hands froze on her breasts. He was watching her, and in that split second of silent communication she knew he knew he’d been spotted.
Her immediate reaction was to launch herself for the sheet, cover herself. But there was just something about his stillness, his intensity, that stopped her.
Like he wasn’t even breathing.
He was standing in the doorway, his shoulder shoved against the jamb, his chest bare, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. And even though his dark eyes were cloaked by the night, she could feel them on her, watching her. Feel them stroke across her breasts. Fan down her belly. Settle between her legs.
She sucked in a breath at his boldness, his voyeurism. Her nipples tightened unbearably as her pelvic muscles tingled and clamped around the hardness nestled inside.
His gaze wandered back up her body and zeroed in on hers, holding it. He held it as he pushed off the doorjamb and prowled towards her, slow and steady. Held it as he stood looking down at her, not saying a word. Held it as he sat on the bed beside her.
And there was no embarrassment there, no shame. Just naked male appreciation. Lust. Desire. Sex.
The tingle intensified.
“Ethan,” she whispered, unable to bear the weight of his silence. “I—”
“Shh,” he whispered, interrupting her.
And then his head was lowering—oh so slowly—his mouth inching steadily towards hers. When his lips touched hers the tingling became extreme and when his hands pushed hers aside to fondle her breasts, stroke the nipples, it became a freaking tsunami of sensation so sharp and sweet she wasn’t even in her body anymore.
And between the buzz and prod and rub of the vibrator and the touch and taste and smell of him infusing her senses she shattered into a thousand pieces in one cataclysmic second.
She could vaguely hear herself crying out a primal bellow against his lips, which opened greedily. She wrenched her mouth away as her body bucked and writhed, because she just couldn’t get enough air, and he placed his forehead on hers, his hands still on her breasts, squeezing and kneading and stroking.
&nb
sp; “Yes,” he whispered as she whimpered and clawed at his arms. “God, yes …”
The orgasm tugged and pulled at her relentlessly, tossing and turning her until she didn’t know which way was up. But he was there with her, whispering words of encouragement and she clung to his arms, anchoring herself in the maelstrom.
And even as it abated, the urgent waves coursing through her body slowly releasing her from their grip, he stayed, his forehead on hers, telling her it was okay, hushing her, soothing her. Kissing her lightly on the eyelids, the cheek, the mouth.
He stayed kissing and murmuring until her breathing was normal and her pulse had settled. Until the very last twinge had died away. He even flicked the vibrator off and pulled it out. And instead of the usual empty, dissatisfied feeling after a session with Dennis she felt utterly sated and somehow more empowered, more female than she’d ever been.
And then he was standing, turning, leaving and she wanted to tell him not to. To stop. To turn around. To come back. Lay with her. Hold her.
But tiredness—overwhelming tiredness—pushed deep into her marrow and she could barely lift her head off the bed let alone talk. And then he was gone and she barely had enough energy to pull up the sheet before she plunged head first into the sleep of the deeply sexually satisfied.