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Maybe it’s the whisky, maybe I’m just really fucking lonely, maybe it’s because it’s Christmas, and you’re supposed to be charitable on Christmas, or maybe it’s because I just figured out this is what I actually need. No, it’s definitely the whisky. I just consumed three-quarters of a coffee mug, so my judgment is severely impaired. I’ve already said things I’d never normally say, so my inhibitions are gone. It’s guaranteed the whisky.
And just the whisky.
Blame it on the whisky then, like the classic rock or country song, but I turn away from staring at the dishwasher. I step towards Feeney and gently take her by the waist. I don’t grab her; I’m not an ogre. As soon as my hands move to her hips, which are both shapely and tiny—so feminine and delicate—it makes all the achy bits of me ache that much worse, and whatever she was going to say stops mid-sentence. Her breath catches in a ragged gasp, and her hands land on my chest, but she doesn’t push me away. Her fists ball in my t-shirt.
Her face tilts up, shocked, inquisitive, and confused, but her eyes—eyes so green they’re like a field of swaying green grass, grass as tall as a person’s waist and as thick and lush as velvet—are huge and dark, the pupils liquid with sudden desire.
I do blame the whisky because it only intensifies the loneliness I feel—the needs I’ve denied for so long that I forgot all about them. The whisky makes me feel human again. It makes me feel like a man with men’s needs. It makes me feel more like an actual human and less like an empty shell of a thing. It makes me hurt, it makes me want, and it even makes me hope.
Feeney says nothing, but her lush pink lips part in invitation.
I know this isn’t the solution she had in mind, this wasn’t what she was thinking when she walked into the kitchen, and this isn’t pity. She’s not letting me do this because she’s sorry or any of that nonsense. This is a moment. One of those classic moments that everyone talks, writes, and sings about. It’s sudden like fire. Like a downpour from a storm that blew up out of nowhere, one second the sky blue and clear, and the next instant, the storm driving down.
I shouldn’t do it, but I do. Because of the whisky. Because it’s been two years since another person even bothered to touch me, even in passing, because I’m lonely, and because I’m broken. Because…because…because I want to. Because of all of it and everything.CHAPTER 13FeeneyI know a bad idea when I see one.
This. This is a bad idea.
A bad idea that I can’t stop. It came out of nowhere, as bad ideas often do. It crouched down, waiting, and then it sprung. I don’t feel trapped, and I’m not pressured. This isn’t forced.
When I wrap my arms around Luke’s neck, yeah, it’s a bad idea, but it feels good. He’s warm and strong. Ultra-manly. All rock-hard muscle, straining tendon, and hot, silky skin. I press in against him, seeking his warmth—all of him with all of me. That’s what I want—his massive chest, huge shoulders, lean waist, and strong legs.
He bends his head, and I close my eyes, but when I feel his muscles tighten under my fingers and the rest of him tense, I realize he’s hesitating. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want to do this, but rather, he’s worried I don’t want him to. That it’s not right, that I’m his nanny, and blah, blah, blah. I know that. But right now, I don’t care. It’s wrong, but what bad idea isn’t?
So, I reach up and cup Luke’s face. His cheeks are bristly with stubble, and my fingers burn just touching it. I’ve never actually touched an unshaven face before, I realize. A thrill shoots up my arms and rockets straight to the tight coil of sudden need lodged in the pit of my stomach. My thighs burn, and yeah, it’s just my thighs. I’m leaving my lady cave out of this one because this is just a kiss, it’s Christmas, and I guess we’re two lonely people, two lost souls, and…and… and whatever.
We’re doing this.
I drag Luke’s face to mine, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His lips land on mine, and it’s warm. So warm. Also, so strong, and so, so soft? God, they’re so soft. I didn’t know that a man’s lips could be this soft. He’s a good kisser, an expert kisser. He makes me want to open my mouth, makes me want to taste him, and makes me furious with sudden want and the need to writhe up against him. He makes everything in me pulse and throb, and he makes me feel frantic, like I did when I thought that opossum had died, but also wildly joyful, like when I realized it hadn’t indeed kicked the bucket at all.
