My Life in Shambles(20)

He raises his brow. “I saw a red door and I had to paint it black,” he says as he unlocks his door and we step inside.

He flicks on the lights. Even though it’s sparsely decorated with white walls and lots of wood and metal accents, the place is warm and inviting against the cold outside.

“Do ye want a drink?” he asks as he shucks off his jacket and gestures for me to give him mine. I’m momentarily speechless as I attempt to take off my coat, I’m so damn distracted by the clingy fit of the navy Henley he’s wearing. It molds to his form like clay and it takes everything in me to take my eyes off the breadth of his muscles and meet his eyes.

“I have white wine,” he adds as he hangs up my coat beside his, his heated gaze coasting over my body momentarily, setting my skin on fire. It seems he may have the same problem with me.

I nod, anxiously rubbing my lips together as he walks across the open plan room to the kitchen. Even though I’d been drinking all day, even though it’s nearly one a.m., it’s like I’d sobered up in an instant.

“Please,” I say and watch as he takes out a bottle of wine and gets two wine glasses from the shelves and gives us both a generous pour. In this warm light away from the bars and dark restaurants and clubs, he looks different. Better somehow. In the darkness you have to fill in your own blanks on what someone’s eye color really is, the tone and texture of their skin, the shape of their hair. In reality, Padraig looks even sexier than the shadowed man I’d been with all evening. It’s like he’s finally real, not something I’d conjured up from smoke.

I have a lot of things I want to say, things I probably should say to fill the silence in the room. There’s a dull thud in my ears like the nightclub still lives on. I want to ask him how long he’s lived here, if he owns it, if he likes the neighborhood, if he decorated it. Anything. Small talk, I guess.

But I don’t. I just stand there in my rainbow sequined dress and watch him as he brings the glass over to me.

“We don’t need to say cheers again,” he states, raising his glass. “Let’s just drink to January first.”

“To January first,” I say quietly before taking a long sip of the cold wine. It enlivens me, brightens something inside and then I’m nervous all over again.

Probably because as I drink my wine, Padraig is standing in front of me, his eyes burning across my skin, skipping along each feature as if he’s taking a photograph with his mind, something he can pull up later.

I can barely swallow the rest of drink. The cold wine turns to heat in my belly and then all those raw cravings I had before return. My nerves dance and leap, letting loose butterflies that have no place to go.

He cups my chin with one hand and leans in, kissing the corner of my mouth slowly then tasting the wine on my lips with his tongue.

I surrender to him, my mouth open and wanting and so damn needy. I nearly drop the glass.

“Come with me,” he whispers as he pulls away, taking the glass out of my hands and placing both on the kitchen island. He takes me by the hand and leads me up the narrow staircase to the second level. There’s a landing and a short hall and he guides me into the darkened bedroom at the end.

Holy shit.

I keep telling myself not to be so silly about all of this, that I’m saying yes to new adventures, and that includes sex with this Irish rugby star, but fuck if I’m not dying inside at how real this is. Especially as he walks over to the middle of the room by his king-size bed and takes his shirt off.

In a way, I wish he’d turned on a light so I could really take him in. The only light in the room is coming from the window, a cool light that bounces off the snow, illuminating the sides of him. But it’s enough. I see the sculpted ridges of his abs, the sinewy muscle of his strong forearms and biceps, the wide expanse of his chest. He has some tattoos like Sandra predicted, but not a ton. I wish I had time to get to know them all and the history behind them.

I know I’m standing here and just drooling over him, not even making a move to undress myself while he’s now undoing his pants until he’s just in his boxer briefs.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks me, his voice playful.

“Can’t seem to help myself,” I manage to say. The words barely make it out of my throat, and my breath hitches as he strides over to me.

“It seems like ye might need some help with this,” he says, leaning over just enough to grab the hem of my dress and slowly start pulling it up off my body. I dutifully raise my arms and then remember I didn’t have to wear a bra with this dress. My breasts bounce free, and with the dress over my face, obscuring my vision as he continues to pull it up, I feel more exposed than ever.

Then I’m gasping for air as I feel his hands brush over my nipples that were already hard as pebbles.

“You might just have the most gorgeous tits I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, pulling the dress off the rest of the way and throwing it to the ground.

I peer through the strands of my messy hair and watch as he cups my breasts before lowering his head and running his lips over the swollen peaks.

“Fuck,” I swear, forgetting how to breathe as every part of my body vibrates from his lips.

“That’s coming,” he says, taking one nipple in his warm mouth with a long hard suck that almost unravels me like a spool of thread, while his hands travel down my bare sides, coasting over my skin, barely touching me and yet I can feel the heat radiating from his palms.