Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(73)

He was starving for her, and she wasn’t pulling any punches, either. Mouth, tongue, teeth, all in a greedy feast of flesh. She wasn’t being sweet now, no, sir, and thank God for that. She shoved his jacket off, yanked his shirt out of his waistband and slid her cool hands up his hot sides, then went to the button of his pants.

He stopped her, pinning her hands by the sides of her face, and lowered his mouth to her neck. God, she tasted good, so many layers of flavor, the lemony soap, a hint of perfume, the taste of her skin itself. He released her hands and slid them down her sides, then up her front to cup her breasts. No bra, God, thank you. His thumbs teased over her nipples, and she bit down on his lip, reminding him of the hit he’d taken there earlier. Then her mouth opened and their tongues slid together, and his thigh was between hers, pressing hard, her dress riding up, and he was practically blind with lust now, just flares of light and the feeling of Jessica.

“Take your hair down,” he rasped, and she stepped away from him and reached to the back of her head. Her hair slid down around her shoulders, swinging, catching the faint light from the street.

Then she reached down, grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head in one glorious move.

No bra. White lace panties.

Black high heels.

He’d die if he waited any longer. With one quick move, he scooped her up, all that silken skin, her hair as cool as water, and carried her to the living room and dumped her unceremoniously on the couch, falling on top of her.

She was laughing now, and the sound...the sound just told him what he already knew.

He loved Jessica Dunn.

He always had.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“LOOK AT THAT SMILE. You’re gross.”

Connor looked up at his sister. “Now you know how I feel about you and Lucas.”

“So she finally took pity on you, huh?”

“Yep.” Quite a few times over the past five days, as a matter of fact. He grinned.

“Stop smiling! You’re disgusting. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

It was nine o’clock on Wednesday morning, and they were in O’Rourke’s kitchen. Connor was working on the paella, a spicy New Orleans–inspired dish with shrimp, scallops, crawfish tails, mussels, chorizo, roasted red peppers, red onion and garlic, and the smell was making him nearly drunk. He also had to start the soup, which would be French onion, because it was cold and rainy today, and he’d guess they’d sell out of both.

Colleen was taking up space. More and more these days. “You feeling okay?” he asked.

“I guess so. Kind of uncomfortable.”

“Got her name picked out yet?”

“You’re so sure it’s a girl, aren’t you?” She smiled. “We want the name to be a surprise.”

“And yet you’ll tell your big brother.”

“So Lucas thinks she’ll be Amelia, but I was thinking it’d be nice to name her after his mom. Isabelle. She died when he was little.”

“That’s beautiful, Dog-Face.”

She scowled at him. “I barely recognize you. You’re all cheerful and nice. It’s freaky. But listen, as long as you’re on a roll, and don’t be mad at me, because I’m pregnant and have horrible heartburn and you have to pity me. Dad’s coming in this morning to see you.”

“Why?”

“He has something to tell you.”

“What?”

“Let him tell you. I have to pee. This baby must have both knees right on my bladder. Besides, Dad just walked in. Bye. Be nice.”

She left, and Connor growled. Felt a pang of sympathy heartburn, which irritated him. He finished cutting the shrimp, then the sausage, then tossed them into the pot. Washed his hands carefully, twice. Wiped down the counter. He didn’t mind making his father wait in the least.

Then, with a sigh, he went into the restaurant. Pete was sitting at a table. “Hey, son,” he said, standing up. “How are you?”

“Fine. How are you?” Completely polite.

“Sit down, sit down.” His father gave him that laser-white smile. Connor waited.

“So. Uh, things are good? Colleen says you’re starting a brewery? That’s wonderful. Can I do anything to help?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, if you change your mind, or need financing, or... I’m here.”

Connor waited some more. Being the quiet twin had its advantages.

Pete O’Rourke took a deep breath. “I have some news. Good news, I think. Well, no, it’s definitely good news. Um... Gail is pregnant. It’s a boy this time.”

So that was why Gail looked like hell lately.

Connor waited to feel something. Nothing came.

He’d be thirty-three years older than this kid. Old enough to be the father. His father, odds were, would be dead by the time the kid graduated from college. Gail the Tail was pushing forty herself.

Oddly, the only thing he felt was pity.

“Best wishes,” he said.

“Son, I just want you to know that you’ll always be—”

“I’m not ten. There’s no need for a pep talk. I’ll be a good brother.”

“I already know that.” Pete looked at him, with difficulty, it seemed. “Connor, it’s just that ever since Savannah was born, there’s been this distance between us.”