Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(24)

“What is your problem?”

At Shannon’s sharp question he turned to see her standing there, holding her arms across her body against the chill. The stance made her cleavage even more distracting.

“What?” He tossed his butt to the ground.

She took a couple of steps closer. He could reach out and touch her if he wanted, run his finger down the cleft between her breasts. He clenched his fists.

“You have to know I’m interested. You act like you have some kind of claim or responsibility or I don’t know what. But then you ignore me—or you don’t, and you say what you said in there. What the hell is your problem?”

“No problem. Just not interested.”

Her brow creased at that, and her eyes narrowed. Then she surprised the shit out of him by taking the last step between them and grabbing his face in her hands. She leaned in and kissed him, her lips silky on his, her mouth open. She tasted of tequila. He felt her tongue tracing his lower lip. He hadn’t had a woman’s mouth—her tongue!—on his mouth in…Christ, five years? Since Holly would even let him kiss her like this? His cock turned to cast iron, heavy and hard, and it was all he could do not to grab her. But he didn’t. He didn’t grab her, or kiss her back. He sat there, feeling shocked and tormented.

When she pulled away, she searched his eyes for a moment. Then, with a sad little twitch of her lip, she nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” She turned and went back into the clubhouse.

Show sat on the table, his mind racing and his blood churning. He did not want that. He did not. He had nothing to give her, and he would not—could not—use her. She was more than that. He could only hurt her. He could only let her down. He was empty.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the image of her standing there with her cleavage over her arms and her nipples hard from the cold. He rubbed his mouth, trying to erase the lingering touch of her lips on his.

His cock throbbed, and his chest ached. Fuck. Fuck. He threw the empty Jack bottle, and it crashed on the lot at some distance into the dark.

Then he stood and stalked back into the clubhouse.

She was standing at the bar, between Vic and Havoc, doing shots. Bart and Len were at the bar, too, cheering her on. A bolt of anger tightened his jaw. Ten minutes ago she’d been pushing up on him—now she was taking all comers? He stormed over and grabbed her arm, pulling her through the Hall and away from his brothers before she could say or do anything to stop him. He got her as far as the dorm hallway before she could pull him back.

“Show! What the hell?”

He turned and pushed her against the wall. “I told you this was trouble tonight. You got no idea what you’re getting into out there.”

“What the hell do you care? You’re not interested, remember? You should remember, *. You just said it like a minute ago.” She shoved at him, but he still had her upper arms caught in his fists. Her chest was heaving, pushing her breasts against his chest with every inhale.

She was drunk—her eyes were soft focus, and her legs less than perfectly steady. He was drunk, too, for that matter. Only explanation for the insanity that had taken him over. But it had taken him over, and he finally gave up and just let it have him. He bent down and kissed her.

Drunk and angry, he didn’t come in gentle. His fists were still wrapped around her arms, and he pulled her up as his head came down, slamming over her mouth—her hot, firm, soft mouth. Fuck. After a moment of surprised stillness, she responded, opened to him. He took the offer and pushed his tongue between her lips. She moaned, and he felt the vibration of it against his tongue and straight down to his cock.

So goddamn long. Nine years since he’d f*cked a woman—since right after Iris was born, and Holly told him that sex had begun to hurt her. Five years since he’d kissed a woman. Nearly that long since he’d even been in the same bed with one. Eventually, when it became clear that Holly was permanently off limits, she told him she wouldn’t complain if he got head at the club. And he’d occasionally partaken, always feeling depressed and somehow degraded by it. Since Daze, though, he’d had no interest at all. Him and his hand, alone together.

But he was standing here, in the dorm hallway, leaning into this beautiful, soft, moaning woman, her tongue moving with his. He forgot his anger, his confusion. He forgot his grief. He forgot that he was empty. He let go of her arms and cupped his hands around her face instead, holding her mouth tightly to his. Her arms now free, they snaked up his chest and around his neck.

He broke away and looked down into her eyes. Big, deep blue eyes that sparked with wit. He’d always had a hard time meeting them—it felt like she could see deeper into him than he could stand. Now, they were half-shielded by her eyelids, rimmed with long, dark lashes, but they still bored into him.

“You look at me like you see something.” He drew his thumbs over her cheekbones and felt the swell as she smiled.

“I do.”

“No. Nothing to see.”

She blinked and her eyes cleared and opened fully. “That’s not true, Show. I see kindness. Strength.

And sorrow.” One hand slid from his neck, and she put her fingers over his mouth and through his beard.

“When I look at you, I can feel you. I don’t know why.” She’d slurred her words ever so slightly, but her gaze was steady and serious, and everything in his chest clenched.