“But there’s no music.”
He had a point, so I took out my phone and picked a song from my vast music library—the one modern invention I had wholeheartedly embraced. Carrying music with me at all times? Sign me up.
Once it started playing, I put the phone down and turned back to Charles.
“Now,” I said, stepping closer until we were nearly touching, “put your hand here.” I guided his left hand to my shoulder, then placed my right hand at the small of his back. “And let me lead.”
We started simple, swaying to the rhythm of the song, letting our bodies find the natural flow of movement. Charles was tense at first, trying too hard to anticipate my next move, but gradually, he began to relax into my guidance.
“That’s it,” I murmured, pulling him slightly closer. “Feel the music.”
His eyes never left mine, dark with concentration and something else—something that made my breath catch in my throat.
Slowly, carefully, I began to add simple steps. Nothing fancy, just the basic box step my mother had taught me in our kitchen all those years ago. Charles followed my lead with surprising grace, his body warm and pliant against mine.
“You’re a natural,” I said, and meant it.
“I have a good teacher.”
We were moving like one now, our bodies pressed close enough that I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. The hand I’d placed at his back had somehow migrated higher, my fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
Charles’s eyes had gone dark, his lips slightly parted ashe looked up at me. We were close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his blue eyes, count the freckles scattered across his nose.
“Eamon,” he breathed, and my name sounded like a prayer on his lips.
I leaned closer, drawn by a force stronger than gravity, stronger than duty, stronger than any warning Gabriel had ever given me. Charles’s hand tightened on my shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed as the space between us shrank to nothing…
The fire popped loudly in the grate, sending sparks up the chimney, but neither of us moved away.
This was it. The moment I’d been fighting against since the day I’d met him. The point of no return.
And I couldn’t make myself give a damn about the consequences.
SEVENTEEN
CHARLES
The space between us disappeared in a heartbeat.
Eamon’s lips found mine with a hunger that took my breath away, his hands cupping my face like I was something precious and fragile. But there was nothing fragile about the way he kissed me, desperate and consuming, three days of tension and longing poured into a single, perfect moment of contact.
I’d been kissed before, obviously. In fact, I considered myself somewhat of an expert since I really, really liked kissing. But I had never been kissed like this. Never with this kind of raw intensity that made my knees go weak and my brain short-circuit. Eamon kissed like a man who’d been starving and had found sustenance, like he wanted to devour me whole and savor every second of it.
God, he was beautiful. Up close like this, I could count the dark lashes that framed his incredible green eyes, could admire the irresistible dimples in his cheeks. His stubble scraped deliciously against my skin as he deepened the kiss, and when his tongue traced along my lower lip, I opened for him without hesitation.
He tasted like the wine we’d shared at dinner and something uniquely him that made me dizzy with want. His body was solid against mine, all hard muscle and warm skin, and when his hands dropped to my waist and pulled me closer, his hard cock pressed against my hip.
“Charles,” he breathed against my mouth, my name sounding like a prayer, and I nearly came undone right there.
My hands seemed to move of their own accord, sliding up his chest to tangle in his dark hair. It was softer than I’d expected, silky between my fingers, and when I tugged gently, he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat shooting straight to my groin.
We stumbled backward until my legs hit the couch, Eamon’s mouth never leaving mine as his hands roamed my body with increasing boldness. When his fingers found the hem of my flannel shirt and slipped beneath it to touch bare skin, I gasped and arched into the contact.
His hands were rough with calluses but gentle in their exploration, mapping the planes of my chest like he was trying to memorize every inch of me. When his thumb brushed over my nipple, I moaned into his mouth and pressed closer, desperate for more contact, more friction, more of everything.
“Fuck, you’re so bloody gorgeous,” Eamon murmured, his accent thicker than I’d ever heard it, and the raw appreciation in his voice made me feel like I could conquer the world.
His mouth moved to my neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of my throat, and I tilted my head back to give him better access. When he found that sensitive spot below my ear and sucked gently, my hipsjerked forward involuntarily, seeking friction against his thigh.
