Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(60)

I open my eyes to catch a glimpse of River’s bare and perfect backside a second before it disappears into his boxer briefs. The morning sun shines through the window beyond him. It’s nine thirty and I knew he’d have to leave to get to work. But it leaves a hollow ache in my chest all the same.

I’m addicted to him. I certainly acted like it last night. And this morning. Twice.

The truth is, I’ve never felt even remotely like this about any guy before. That’s kind of scary, seeing as I’ve had three long-term relationships and I had actually convinced myself that Aaron was it for me.

It scares me that he could have been. That I might not have ever known what this feels like.

“I can take those stitches out for you, when they’re ready. If you want,” I offer, my voice scratchy.

He peers over his shoulder at me, flashing a smile more devastating today than it was yesterday. “Better your hands than Rowen’s.”

“Did your doctor tell you when they could come out?”

He picks his jeans up off the ground, the curve and ripples of his stomach bringing back flashes to last night. I squeeze my thighs together with the memory. “A week or so.”

“So . . . Wednesday. It’s a date.” That’s two days from now. I hope I see him before then. I’d be quite happy to spend the next six days in this bed with him. I don’t need to see any cliffs or quaint Irish towns while I’m here.

He stretches across the bed, leaning in until his face is only inches away from me, whispering, “That sounds like a very romantic date,” before stealing a deep kiss, his tongue prodding. I give it access. Happily. I didn’t even do that for Aaron, my fear of foul morning breath outweighing desire every time.

I trace the big tattoo—kind of like an eagle but not quite—on his chest with my fingertip. River’s the first guy I’ve been with who’s had any sort of tattoo. I’m not the kind of girl to swoon over them. But now . . . I’m attracted to anything and everything River-related. “Do you really have to go?” I hear myself murmur, my voice pleading and annoying and . . . I don’t care.

Seizing my fingers and kissing them once before letting go, he stands again and pulls his jeans on. “I do. Rowen’s got class on Mondays until one.”

“Right.” Rowen mentioned something about taking summer business classes at one of the universities. I hesitate. “What about you? And college, I mean.”

“Me and college?” He sighs. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what I’d do. Plus, Delaney’s will get passed on to me, to own and run. I have a responsibility to keep it alive.”

I frown. “Really? Just you?” That hardly seems fair to his brothers.

“Tradition says it always goes to the eldest, to keep the feuds to a minimum. My uncle Thomas—the one killed in the riots—was supposed to inherit it, instead of Da. Their other brother—Uncle Samuel—would be helping run it, but he passed on when I was ten. Tumbled down a flight of stairs one night, drunk. That was the end of him.”

I gasp. “That’s . . . horrible!”

“Yeah, well, it happens,” River says casually, as if he made peace with it long ago. “And he had no family of his own, so running Delaney’s is all on Rowen and me now.”

“But, you’re not the oldest, are you?”

“No . . .” River’s forehead puckers. “Aengus isn’t interested.”

There’s something very wrong with this brother. I can feel it in the air every time River mentions him. But I don’t like that feeling, so I change the topic back to us. “So, after Rowen finishes class . . .”

He yanks his shirt over his head with a smile. “Then we’ve got the after-work crowd.”

“And after that?”

“After that . . .” He dives back down for another kiss. “I’m coming to get ya.” His lips stretch into a smile, even pressed against mine.

“That’s right. You are.”

He breaks away, pressing his forehead against mine. “You’re far too good for me, you know that, right?”

“Like Charles Beasley and Marion McNally?”

He chuckles. “See? You’re hooked. You’re going to be begging me to tell you that story again.”

“At least twice a week, at bedtime.”

With a heavy sigh, he stands and stretches, peering down at me, a strange look on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just . . .” He hesitates. “I wish you didn’t live so far away.”

“I know. I’ve been trying not to think about that,” I admit, chasing away the sadness that comes with the reminder. I haven’t completely dismissed the notion that came to me last night while resting against his body, to just stay in Ireland for the next three months. It is crazy, of course, and my conscience was quick to remind me that I promised myself not to abandon my plans for a man ever again. I’m trying to ignore that little voice for the time being. Besides, now that I’m out of the sex haze, I realize that it’s not something I can decide today. Or even suggest to River. For all I know, this thing between us is so appealing to him—and to me—because I’m leaving on Sunday.

Still, knowing he’s at least thinking the same thing brings me comfort.