Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [103]
So it was just the two of us. Outside the room, Angus whined and scratched wildly. Cal didn’t seem to notice, just set me down, slid his hands up my face and stepped closer, erasing the space between us.
“He’s going to ruin that door,” I whispered as Cal nuzzled my neck.
“I don’t care,” he muttered. Then Callahan O’Shea pulled my shirt over my head and I stopped worrying about my dog.
Whatever urgency he’d felt before seemed to melt, and suddenly things moved in slow motion. His hands were so hot on my skin, and he bent to kiss my shoulder, sliding the strap of my camisole down, his five o’clock shadow scraping the tender skin there, his mouth hot and silky smooth. His own skin was like velvet, his hard muscles sliding underneath with hypnotic power.
Without me quite realizing that we’d moved, I found that we’d made it to the bed, because he was pulling me down with him, smiling that wicked, slow smile that caught me in the stomach. Then his hand moved to the waistband of my jeans, playing there before cleverly undoing the button. He kissed me again, hot and slow and lazy, and then he rolled over so I was on top of him, his big muscular arms around me, and I kissed that smiling mouth, slid my tongue against his. God, he tasted so good, I just couldn’t believe he’d been living next door to me for all these long, lonely weeks when there was this kind of kissing waiting for me. I heard him groan deep in his throat as he wove his fingers into my wet hair, and I pulled back to see his face.
“About time,” he whispered again, and after that, there was no more talking.
AN HOUR LATER, MY LIMBS were filled with that almost-forgotten, heavy sweetness. I lay on my side, my head on Callahan’s shoulder, his arm around me. I sneaked a peek at his face. His eyes were closed, those long, straight lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. He was smiling. Possibly asleep, but smiling.
“What are you looking at?” he murmured, not opening his eyes. Not sleeping, but apparently omniscient.
“You’re pretty gorgeous, Irish,” I said.
“Would it break your heart to hear that I’m actually Scottish?”
“Not if it means I can see you in a kilt.” I grinned. “Plus, then you’re related to Angus.”
“Great,” he said, still smiling. My heart expanded almost painfully. Callahan O’Shea. I was in bed, naked, with Callahan O’Shea. Pretty damn nice.
“Scottish, hmm?” I asked, tracing a line on his shoulder.
“Mmm-hmm. Well, Pop’s Scottish. My father was Irish, I guess. Hence the mick name.” He opened his eyes like a lazy dragon and grinned. “Any other questions at the moment?”
“Um, well…where’s the bathroom, Cal?” I asked. Not exactly the most romantic thing, but nature was calling.
“Second door on the left,” he said. “Don’t be long.”
I grabbed the afghan that had been neatly folded at the bottom of the bed and ventured into the hall, wrapping myself in the blanket as I went. There was Angus, asleep on his back in front of the fireplace in the living room, which was illuminated only by the kitchen lights spilling in. My dog was snoring. Good boy.
In the bathroom, I flicked on the light and blinked, then winced as I saw my reflection. Jeez Louise! A streak of mud lined my jaw, my forehead bore a red stripe from the twig that had caught me in the face, and my hair…my hair…it looked more like wool than hair. Rolling my eyes, I finger-combed it a bit, wet it down on the left side, took care of business and washed my hands. Noticed that my feet were rather dirty. Washed those, one at a time, in the sink.
“What are you doing in there?” Cal called. “Stop rifling through my medicine cabinet and get back to bed, woman!”
The mirror showed my grin. My cheeks glowed. I re-wrapped the afghan around my shoulders—modesty, you know?—and walked back down the hall to Callahan’s room. At the sight of me, he lurched abruptly into a sitting position.
“It’s the rain,” I said, running a