Bridget knew she’d taunted him into the rash decision to have sex, but she didn’t care. First, she desired him, and she’d been fantasizing about this moment since he’d set her on the pub cooler and kissed her senseless. Probably longer, if she were honest with herself. And second, if he was the Enemy at the Gate as she suspected and as Isis hinted at, then sex with him would unlock the curse.
Unlocking the curse meant a drain of Loman’s power, and should he show up to challenge or hurt any of them, he’d be weaker than when he started. Whatever it took to protect her family and friends, and by extension, Ruairí, from Loman O’Connor’s brand of evil, she’d do. Even if it meant shagging the one man she’d never been able to forget after.
“What are you waiting for? Start strippin’,” Ruairí demanded, three-quarters of the way to naked.
She couldn’t help it; she giggled. A surly Ruairí tickled her fancy. Yeah, and she might be warped in her thinking, but ruffling his feathers and causing this normally unflappable male to lose all sense of reason made her happy. Could be she enjoyed the challenge. Or it could be that, like many a woman, she wanted her man to lose all sense of decorum and go caveman over her.
When she didn’t undress fast enough for his peace of mind, he snapped his fingers and had them both stripped bare in the blink of an eye. Such effortless magic always left her breathless, or perhaps she was simply breathless seeing him without a stitch of clothing after all this time. Either way, she had to struggle to inhale a proper lungful of air.
He was magnificent. Perfect in every way that mattered. Looks, a fit body… Her gazed dropped to his rampant erection. And yes, that too.
“You certainly filled out since we were last together,” she said.
“I could say the same for you, but then it was harder for you to hide your figure over the years, so I didn’t miss much.”
For as irritated as he’d been when she suggested sex, Ruairí approached her with great care as if afraid to spook a wild horse. And perhaps the description was fitting because her heart was pounding madly in her chest and, as much as she desired him, she suddenly felt ready to bolt.
“It’s all right if you’ve changed your mind, Bridget,” he said softly.
Her eyes snapped to his. Tenderness was what she saw there. A calm acceptance that she might say no. No pressure. No expectations. Nothing but love.
It gave her the courage to step forward and into the arms he raised to hold her. Barefoot as she was, the top of her head only came to his chin, and he lifted her to make their lips align. She needed no encouragement to wrap her legs around his waist or to weave her fingers into his shaggy blond hair.
With a slight tug, she tilted his head back to kiss the line of his strong jaw and nip his chin.
“You’ve become bitey,” he teased. “I like it.”
“Good because I intend to bite you in all the proper places.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She emphasized the point by lightly biting the column of his neck then tracing the spot with her tongue.
“Mmm, that’s a grand place to start, mo ghrá.”
He walked with her to the bed, and using one arm to brace their weight and one arm to secure her against him, he lowered them on to the mattress. For the longest moment, he stared down at her, his eyes touching on every part of her face as if he intended to memorize every square inch.
Embarrassed by the scrutiny, she sandwiched his face between her palms. “It’s time to get to the snoggin’ part, love. You definitely excel at that.”
His wicked laugh curled her toes. “I excel at all the parts, Bridg. Or so I’ve been told.”
“I swear, if you bring up that minger’s name—”
He covered her mouth with his, slipping his tongue inside to steal the vinegar from her words, turning her sweet once more. As their kiss grew heated, she became familiar with this new lover, and he tasted of broken dreams and future promises. Passion and caring. He tasted of pure Ruairí, her first and only love.
His capable hands trailed up her ribcage, careful to apply the right amount of pressure to avoid triggering her giggles. Of course, he’d remember how ticklish she was, of the time when they’d first made out and how their necking session ended abruptly with her full-blown gales of laughter. A woman’s hilarity during hot and heavy petting tended to ruin the mood for most men. But he’d taken it in stride, never becoming angry as some men might, but he’d never tickled her again—unless it was intended.
She smiled at the memory.
Ruairí took his time exploring her breasts, tasting, teasing with his mouth and hands. Taking one beaded nipple into his mouth, he moaned in his pleasure, and she reveled in the sound, echoing her agreement. He’d once told her he could spend hours tasting her skin, suckling her breasts. And she always let him until he drove her mad with desire and her passion became too much, as was happening now.
Drawing his head up, she kissed him more fully, impatient for him to be buried deep inside her to wait any longer. And when he gave in to her unrelenting need and stroked her core, she surged upward and rubbed against the palm of his hand. Sitting back on his knees, he spread her legs wide and used the head of his penis to caress her folds, running the tip up and down until her body wept with her hunger for him.
Ruairí bent and touched his tongue to her, sweeping it along her opening and stopping only when he touched her clit. When she arched into him, she could feel his lips curl into a smile as he sucked on the tiny bud.
She cried out in her pleasure, greedy for more.
And he gave it to her. Fingers, tongue, penis, whatever she demanded in every way she demanded until she was mindless. Using her feet to propel her lower half up, she met each of his forceful thrusts with a moan and a plea for more.
She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she held back, afraid to expose that part of herself. And when she looked up into his loving eyes, she couldn’t look away.
“Come for me, mo ghrá. Come with me.”
No further coaxing was needed, and she threw her head back as she cried out. He pumped harder for a few more seconds then shouted her name as he crested the wave with her.
As their bodies cooled and their hearts returned to a normal rhythm, she lay beside him holding hands and waited for the magic to sweep through her.
And waited.
And waited some more…
“It didn’t happen.” Disappointment rode her harder than Ruairí had ten minutes before.
His blond head came off the pillow, and he lifted up to rest on one arm, staring down at her in horror. “You didn’t come?”
“What?”
“Get off. You didn’t get off?”
“Oh!” She laughed. “Of course I did. How could you not tell?”
“I… well… I thought… but sometimes a woman fakes it.” A blush colored his cheeks, and he’d never looked more boyish and adorable.
“Oh, Ruairí. Yeah, and I doubt any woman has ever faked it with you.” She caressed his cheek. “Never change.”
A frown marred his brow. “I thought you hated me the way I was.”
“When did I say that?” She dropped her hand and scowled.
“Well, not in so many words, ya didn’t, but it was implied.”
“Never once have I asked you to change who you are. Sure, and I don’t like what you consider little white lies, and I’ll rip your beating heart out with my bare hands if you lie to me again, but never have I asked you to change who you are here.” She patted his chest. “I like you just the way you are.”
He laid back on the pillows and grinned. “This feels like a Bridget Jones moment.”
With a laugh and a quick peck on his lips, she said, “You’re a right tool. And I’m going to ride you mercilessly about the chick flicks you watch.”
Taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingertips. “I don’t care. For you, I’ll take a ribbin’. What didn’t happen, then?”
“This.” She wiggled her fingers. “The return of my magic.”
He rolled on his side and propped his head on one hand. “It’s because you refuse to open your heart to me, mo ghrá.”
“What?”
“Think about it. What was Isis sayin’ to you today? Something about you needin’ to open your heart for it to happen?”
Gobsmacked, her mouth fell open at the simplicity of the solution. “That’s it, then. I thought it was a simple shagging. Opening the gate, so to speak.”
Ruairí began to laugh. Deep, booming guffaws that irritated her to no end.
“Sure, and what are you laughing at?”
“Your face!” he crowed.
“Get out.”
“Bridg—” He couldn’t quite muffle his continuous chuckle.
“No. This is no laughin’ matter. I’ve need of the magic to defeat Loman.”
Her comment sobered him. “Then I hope you never get your magic, because you’ll not be goin’ up against my uncle. I don’t want you within a mile of that fecker.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Ruairí O’Connor, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”
“You’ve a death wish, woman! If you think for one bleedin’ moment that any of us will let you confront him, you’ve lost your feckin’ mind, ya have!”
He’d worked himself up to a full steam, and Bridget decided to let him have his say. She intended to do what she intended to do, and he’d not stop her, but if he felt better venting, she’d let him.
“He’s dangerous, and he eats little girls like you for breakfast,” Ruairí said. In his frustration, he began jerking on his clothes, glaring at her all the while. “Of all the foolish, most asinine—”
She sat up and let the sheet drop to her waist, resting back on her hands.
He trailed off as his fiery-hot gaze locked on her bare breasts.
Bridget almost laughed at how easy he was to distract, glad to see nothing had changed in seventeen years and the technique she employed to shut him up still worked.
Trailing one fingertip between the valley of her breasts, she gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Sure, and what was it you were sayin’?”
“You’re an evil woman.” Reluctant admiration replaced his dark scowl. “And maybe you are a match for Loman.”
She grinned and patted the spot next to her. “Come back to bed, love. We’ve an entire night ahead of us.”
He dove atop her, and she giggled as he felt up all the right places.