Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(59)

“What do you want?” I ask softly.

A weak chuckle escapes him, his head falling back onto the headrest for a moment. “Do you really need to ask?”

Reaching over, I turn the key and the quiet rumble dies.

Heat flashes in his gaze as he turns to look at me. Hand-in-hand, we walk toward the cherry-red door, the only sound my beautiful but painful heels clicking against the concrete.

“Thank God we’re home.” I groan, my fingers twisting the deadbolt shut once inside. “These shoes are killing me.” They looked so perfect, sitting next to the dress at the boutique where I bought the outfit.

River steps in close and leans forward, peering down at them. “Those shoes?”

“Yes. They’re pretty, but they—ah!” River suddenly slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Gently, of course, one arm gripping my thighs. A breeze against my skin warns me that my dress is likely hiked far above any respectable level, but there’s not much I can do about it at this point. Besides, it really doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’ll be losing it entirely soon enough, a prospect that leaves me with nervous flutters in my stomach. The good kind, this time.

“These are pretty,” he agrees, carrying me up the stairs through my playful shrieks. He needs no directions to my bedroom, where he flicks on the muted bedside lamp. Strong hands somehow gracefully maneuver my body off his shoulder, setting me down on the bed. His fingers skim the length of my legs, from my thighs down to my ankles, hooking around the heels to flick them off. They thump against the hardwood. “But you’re right. Completely impractical.”

His eyes have changed color—from that lush, bright green to a much darker shade. A fact I realize as he stretches out on top of me, forcing me down onto my back. His gentleman’s hesitation in the car earlier is gone, replaced with a confidence that provokes.

“So is this,” I whisper, curling my fingers around his shirt, desperate to admire his muscular body again. He lifts his arms above his head, allowing me easy access to slide the material over his head, tossing it on the floor. Giving my hands access to his chest, his skin hot to the touch.

My heart races.

He simply watches my face as I roam his upper body, propped up on one elbow to allow for it. “What happened here?” I trace a long, thin line over his top rib.

“A scuffle between me, my brother, and a fence.”

Of course. I shake my head. “Who won?”

“Some would say my brother, but I’d say the fence.”

“Rowen?”

His fingers slide gently along the curve of my neck. “Aengus.”

That elusive older brother that he doesn’t like talking about. I continue my wanderings, to a scar on his collarbone. “And here?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “A scuffle between, me, Aengus, and a hay wagon.” His head dips, warm breath skating across my skin. “The wagon definitely won that one.”

I start laughing—a deep belly laugh that cuts off with a light gasp the second his mouth finds my neck. I lose all interest in my investigation, happily roping my arms around his body.

He tenses, suddenly, as my nail catches a stitch.

“I’m sorry.” I completely forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he murmurs, grasping first my one hand, and then the other. Kissing my fingertips one at a time. “But you do have nails, so . . .” He threads his fingers between mine and pins both of my hands above my head. And he stares down at me, his erection pressing hard against my thigh. “I could just lie here like this all night.”

I’m pretty sure that I can’t, not with this intense ache between my legs. “Liar.” I lift my head off the bed to skim my tongue over his lips in answer, teasing him. He groans, forcing my head back into the pillow as his tongue slides into my mouth with a deep, warm kiss and his body shifts to grind against me.

This connection between us is so much more intense than last night, now that I’m sure.

I’m so very sure that I want this, and him.

So sure that I curl my shoulder when his hand slips under my back to unzip my dress. So sure that I help him by tugging it up and over my head as he kneels, watching. So sure that when he slides my panties over my hips and all the way down my legs to my feet, his gaze taking in my body without shame, I reach for his belt buckle, his button, his zipper, slipping my hand into the front of his jeans to grasp him before he’s had a chance to touch me so intimately.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken the lead on that.

River seems to like it, though, helping by peeling the rest of his clothes off, giving me free access. Only he’s not patient. With a gentle but aggressive move, I find myself lying on my back again, with his mouth and reverent hands wandering over every square inch of my body, inside my body, touching me with more skill than I’ve ever experienced before. In fact, every other experience I’ve had pales in comparison to the one I’m sharing now with River.

By the time I hear the tear of a foil wrapper, I feel like I’ve been waiting an eternity.

By the time he pushes into me—such a full, wonderful sensation—I feel like I’ve known him forever.

And by the time our raspy breaths slow, our limbs coiled around each other, our bodies sated and spent, I’m thinking of cancelling plane tickets and spending the next three months exactly like this, with River.