Dead of Eve (28 page)

Good lord. “Maybe they’re like mosquitoes, only biting certain people. Maybe I exude an odor that attracts them.”

“I’m going to wet the tea.”

The blankets seemed to move under the writhing red bodies. A shiver ran through me. “Something stronger than tea.”

He held up a bottle of Bushmills and patted a stool by the bar. I sat and he filled our tumblers. “Can ye have children?”

My nerves resurfaced. “That’s…what? What the hell does my fertility have to do with our insect problem?”

He passed me a glass. “I’ve wanted to ask ye since I met ye. I decided to come out with it straight away.” He sat next to me. “I know it’s not an easy question.”

No, it wasn’t. But I kept nothing from the man. “I had an IUD implanted three years ago. It’s like ninety-nine point nine nine percent effective against pregnancy. And no periods, one less thing to worry about. I should get two more years out it.”

He traced the lip of his glass. “So if it was removed. Ye could get pregnant?”

Fear and curiosity collided, wrestled. What sort of divine notions had hatched in that mercurial brain of his? Was he going to offer fatherhood? For a child I couldn’t have and didn’t want? “Conception maybe. But pregnancy to term? Or a baby that lives after it inhales the virus? Just because I’m immune doesn’t mean my child would be.” The reminder of my A’s final hours wrenched my gut. “Why?”

“The Shard. They’ll pursue this option.”

Oh. The last human woman begetting children. Yeah, that would be a coup. One that ran a chill through me. Maybe I’d agree to be a guinea pig in their research, but I’d die before I’d bring a daughter into a world rife with rapists.

I swilled the contents of my glass and met his heavy gaze.

“Ye know it’s different now.”

“You’re referring to this sign”—I gestured to the bed—“from your god? Now you’re suddenly released from your vow?”

“I den’ know. I asked for a sign and the aphids’ predator rains down upon us. Perhaps, it’s a blessing from God.”

Oh, my sentimental Irishman. “It’s frigid above the freeze line. Bugs come inside, drawn to the warmth.”

“Maybe.” Thoughts swirled through his expression. “Regardless, I’m bound to ye.”

I leaned away. “That’s not necessary.”

“I’m not asking. Nor am I asking for the same in return. We no longer live in a world that accommodates traditional sensibilities.”

What the hell was he getting at? He was bound to me, but wouldn’t sleep with me?

He drained his tumbler. “And I will kill any man who tries to own ye like a thing to possess.”

I straightened. “Not if I kill him first. And for my part, I’m not a whore.” Between Jesse’s disappearance and Roark’s celibacy, I faced a future of abstinence.

He jerked my stool between his legs and planted his palms on my hips. “No. Ye are hallowed.” He touched his forehead to mine and brushed a thumb over my lips. “Times are different now.”

First my fertility. Then my fidelity? I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.

He stood, the Bushmills bottle tucked under his arm, and walked to the stereo. He held up a CD. “Flogging Molly?”

To my silence, he nodded to the bed. “Or ye could snuggle with your bugs.”

I grabbed my empty tumbler and joined him on the couch.

The whiskey flowed for the next couple hours. We avoided further discussion on sex, the Shard, or beetles sent from God. Instead, we shared stories about our families growing up and our experiences during the outbreak. And I told him about my nightmares with the Drone.

“I felt his name when we encountered the messenger bug.”

“That’s why ye jumped off the bike.”

I nodded.

“Ye think this…Drone is real? And he’s looking for ye?”

I shrugged. “Colorful delusions have become my norm since the outbreak.”

He pulled my legs across his lap and bent over me. His lids hung heavy over cloudy eyes. I nursed my own buzz, but he was hammered. He set his glass on my chest, its amber dram sloshing on my shirt. The glass bottom moved over my scar.

“Tell me how that bloody butcher died.”

I unfolded my memories of Dover Port while massaging the frown lines rutting between his brows. Then I told him about the basement in Pomme de Terre. Despite my taut throat, I recited the events in a toneless monologue.

He listened without interrupting, but the muscles jerked in his clamped jaw. His arms around my legs turned to stone. “And ye den’ remember wha’ happened to Joel?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”

He studied my face with eyes that penetrated a hole in my defenses. “Ye never cry about this, about anything you’ve been through.” His brows gathered. “Ye think emotions are useless to survival.”

Christ, he knew me well. “I’ve learned the hard way.”

He pushed off my legs and staggered to his feet. “Then let’s not get weighted down with them.”

Relief washed over me. He stumbled to the stereo and punched a button. His voice warbled through the basement as “Rebels of the Sacred Heart” kicked off with the vocals.

He turned to me and winked, his beautiful voice hitting every note. Then he set down his glass and prowled toward me.

“Tipsy much?” I hollered over the feel-good Irish chords.

He swayed over me. “Rubbered. Blootered. Pole-axed”—he swished a finger in the air—“Monkeyed. Rat-arsed. But tipsy? Naw.”

I ducked under him and stood. “We should get some sleep. Separately.”

“Away on a’ that. Sing with me.” He followed me around the couch, belting lyrics to the rafters.

Holy fuck, he was adorable. His roughened lilt, the cleft of his stubborn chin, the way his boyish smile turned my hardened heart into butter. In matters of intimacy, he was just a boy.

I powered off the stereo mid-verse and tugged him back to the couch.

He fell against me and gripped the back of my thighs. His hands inched up and cupped my rear. “Give me a snog, love.”

“A what? Never mind.” I wrestled his hands away. “It’s bedtime for bonzo.” I turned him, gave him a hard push. He fell on the couch. When I returned with a blanket to tuck him in, he grabbed my arm and yanked me on top of him.

I perched on my elbows above him. “What’s this about?”

His eyebrows jumped across his forehead. “Den’ ye drive all your men to drink?”

“Silly mick, if you weren’t drinking yourself stupid, you’d be chasing pots of gold at the end of rainbows.”

His grin fell away under red tingeing in his cheeks. “That’s mean.”

I smirked. “Oh, aye.”

He flipped me over and kicked my knees out with his legs. Then he settled his hips between my thighs. “I surrender.” Whiskey puffed against my mouth. “If I were honest, I surrendered the day ye walked into Lloyd’s local.”

For the first time, he let me feel how aroused he was. I grabbed a fistful of curls and yanked his head back. His body followed. Free of his weight, I powered a knee into his gut. His breath rushed out with an oomph.

I slipped off the couch and stooped over him. “You get drunk to work up the nerve to have sex with me?”

“Liquid courage.”

A rush of resentment curled my hands into fists. I ached for this man, who would kill for me and die for me, but wouldn’t fuck me sober. “Go to hell.”

“Aw Evie, it’s not like that. It’s…” He ran his hands over his face and slurred, “Ye know I’m…I’ve not touched a woman until…”

His eyes dropped to my chest. I crossed my arms and cleared my throat.

“Ye know wha’ I was thinking about that night ye walked into Lloyd’s?”

“Altar boys and dried up convent titties?”

“Jaysus, no.” He fidgeted with the hem of his tee. “But shagging was heavy on me mind. Sitting a’ that bar, thinking I’d never see a woman again, I felt sick. The decision to break me vow—had I wanted to—was taken from me.”

“Should’ve made it easier.”

“Easier? Having the existence of women wiped clean from the planet made me realize I would
never
know the love of one.”

Never. Despite his slurred statement, I felt the pain of that one word. “That’s fucked up.”

“Right.” He leaned forward, stared at the floor. “Then a woman walked in. The sexiest, most courageous thing I’d ever seen. I wanted…I never wanted something so badly.”

“Oh my God.” How had I misjudged him so completely that night? “You’re a priest. I thought I was safe with you.”

His head shot up. “Ye were. I mean ye are. I wouldn’t have—” He pushed back his shoulders. “I’ve never even bashed the bishop.”

My jaw dropped.

“Ye know, rubbed one off—”

“Stop. Shit. I know what it means. Christ, Roark.” I crouched before him. “You told me to trust your discipline. Despite all your teasing, I did trust you. And now you’re drunk enough to forgo it? Your timing sucks.” Blood boiling, I paced in front of the couch. “Sleep it off or take a cold shower. And for the record, I fucking hate your vow.”

His expression shuttered, fingers digging into his jean-clad thighs. He stared at me for a long time, carving away my anger. But I glared right back, willing him to understand. Then something changed. The air between us shifted, sizzled, charged.

He rose from the couch, stepped toe-to-toe with me, looking suspicious and gorgeous, smiling down at me.

I put a hand over the low waistline of my sweatpants, as if to hide the frenzy pulsing below. “What are you—”

He silenced me with a kiss. Irish whiskey flavored the tongue dancing with mine. My already rapid pulse picked up its pace.

He pulled away. “Of all the carnal temptations over the years, I’ve never wavered. Do ye know why it’s different with ye?”

“Holing up with the world’s last lass for endless weeks might have something to do with it.”

“Nah, love. Let me show ye.”

He pulled my hand from my belly. Fingertips balancing on mine, he slid them over my palm, up my forearm to the inside of my elbow. Goose bumps trailed. In sync, he guided my fingers over his palm, his arm, my caress mimicking his.

Static skated my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms. My body trembled.

“Do ye feel that?”

I swallowed, nodded, swallowed again.

He nodded too, padding a finger across my lips. I let him raise my hand and mirror the movement on him. His mouth was so pliant, inviting. His eyes hooded in sultry slits. Drunk Roark was delicious. My womb clenched.

He pressed his palm over my heart. I followed suit. His beat under my hand, thumping in chorus with mine, surged tingles through my limbs and blood roaring in my head. My empty chest filled with…what? The sensation was fluttery, but intense. I knew that feeling.

“Evie?”

“Mm?

“Wha’ do ye feel?”

Throbbing under my palm, mere inches beneath muscle and bone. His vitality. The thing I fed so ravenously on. The thing that made me long for a future. “The song.”

“It’s one hell of a feckin’ song. Never felt anything like it.” A finger hooked my waistband, yanked my body flush with his. He used my surprise to capture my mouth.

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

Robert Browning

A hundred objections beginning with “Don’t” assembled on my tongue, until they melded, transformed, and escaped as one. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Mouths locked in urgency, we staggered toward the bed, stripped it of bug infested blankets, laughing into that kiss and tumbling on the mattress, not once severing our joined lips.

The bunker filled with the rip and rustle of shed clothes. Finally naked, our hands explored. Mine on his chest, the cut lines of his back, the cleft of his gorgeous ass. His drew in, closing around my breasts, following my ribs, over the swell of my belly.

When fingers found the wet heat between my thighs, elation sloughed away whatever willpower I had left to stop it. His mouth took mine and I met his demands, lick after lick, wanting him more and more.

I centered myself in the flex of the body draping mine. The iron erection thrusting against my thigh, miming sex, was affirmation of his intent.

He raised his body, lips parted and watched his fingers move between my legs. In and out. Round and round. “So soft. Slick.” Eyes flicked to mine, accent thick. “Sacred.”

“Voodoo,” I breathed, widening my thighs.

A husky laugh barreled from his throat. “Aye, ye randy temptress.”

I closed my eyes, saw myself standing nude under an apple tree. Vines swayed around me. Except one of those vines was a snake hissing in my ear. Temptation. Fruit. Sin.

My lids fluttered up. Through the alcohol and guilt-ridden fog, I found the question still worrying me. “How drunk are you?”

He shook his head, eyes glittering. “Your deadly body sobers a lad straight away.”

Conflicting emotions railroaded me. Leading the pack was apprehension. It was going to happen. When the aftershocks settled, where would we stand?

I grabbed his face, held it between my palms. “This can’t come between us. Understand?”

Mouth bowed in a lopsided grin, his hips closed the distance, erection replacing fingers, nudging me. Those fingers slipped into my mouth, letting me taste my arousal, then moved to my hair, knotting and pulling. His gaze, as naked as our bodies, searched mine. “This”—he wiggled his hips—“
will
come between us.” Then he thrust.

“Ugn.” His head dropped, cheek stroking cheek. “Uhh…unngh.”

Inch by aching inch, bliss overwhelmed me. My thighs shook with it. Our tongues collided, tangled, and I was lost. Lost in the thrumming of heartbeats, panting breaths, rolling hips.

“Oh, love. Oh, Evie. This is—”

A shudder went through him. He pulled back, mouth agape to accommodate labored breaths. “I can’t…”

“No, you don’t. Not now.” I bent my legs, clamped his torso between my thighs and dug my heels into the muscled meat of his ass.

He released a shaky laugh, hands pinning my writhing hips. “Just need a minute, love.” His brogue was intense.

Oh. A smile twisted my lips.

I held still as we stared at each other, ragged breaths mingling, the intimate connection magnifying the anticipation. Moments later, he sat up and crushed my breasts to him. Arms coiled around me, his mouth covering mine, he began to move.