The Goodbye Ride (12 page)

“Owen?” Liv stepped off grass onto concrete
porch that crackled with the grit under her boots.

“Yes. I want to come in. Yes. You can make
me coffee.”

She giggled. “That wasn’t what I was going
to say.”

“It wasn’t? Damn.”

She fished in her bag for her key. “You
know how I told you about the goodbye ride Ben and I planned tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“Do you want to come with us? You and I
could double on the Duke again, that’s if you’d like to—and Ben can ride his
Honda. He’s meeting me here and we thought we’d head off about ten.” She was
speed-talking, the words tripping from her lips, hand shaking so hard it took
three fumbling attempts to find the keyhole. Even then, she couldn’t make the
damn thing turn.

Owen put his hand under hers and gripped
the key. He had the lock defeated in a heartbeat and he pushed the door inward.
“Pantahs are okay to ride double for ten minutes, Liv. I’m not sure how you’ll
go on the back if we’re riding for an hour.”

“It’s not like I haven’t got padding.”
And
if my arms are around you, I won’t care.

“And beautiful padding it is,” he said,
taking her hand, turning it over and placing the key in her palm. “I’d love to
come with you.”

Liv shut the door behind them, thinking
that at least she’d gained herself one more day with him.

For a moment she rested there, glad for the
solid surface at her back—a plank of proof that the night wasn’t a dream.
Owen’s shoulders blocked the corridor ahead, his dark mass coloured by the
streetlights that wavered through the glass.

“So,” she said, on a shaky breath.
“Coffee?”

“Fuck coffee,” he growled, reaching for
her.

Liv flowed into his big, beautiful arms.

She knew that they circled slowly, and she
knew when the room stilled—Owen’s shoulders against the wall and her leg caught
over his thigh. Long seconds ticked by, marked only by the sound of rhythmic
breathing, sprinting hearts, and the intoxicating scent of an aftershave that
reminded her of pine needles over snow.

Then Owen moved. He lifted his thigh,
taking her weight on the big muscle of his leg so that it made achingly sweet
contact with her mound. Pools of thick, liquid heat rippled low in her stomach.
She squeezed against him, making that ride more of a slow grind.

Owen’s groan of response broke the
shackles.

Her free hand stole up his shoulders,
skimmed the hair at the back of his head and drew his mouth to hers. Liv opened
her mouth to taste him, desperate to deepen the kiss. Soft, mewing sounds
vibrated at the back of her throat and when his tongue stroked hers, she
thought she might explode. Explode, or faint. Or fall off his thigh—now
unerringly targeting her most sensitive parts.

“Liv Murphy,” he breathed raggedly,
releasing her lips but not relaxing the exquisite pressure between her legs.
“If you knew what you do to me…”

“I thought we weren’t…
oh…
going
riding tonight,” Liv breathed, using her grip on his shoulders to shunt herself
higher and feeling for the first time, the powerful erection that thrust
between them.

His hand stole through the gap between the
lapels of her coat. His fingers slid around her breast, kneaded the weight of
soft flesh through her shirt. Liv arched her back as she rode his thigh,
pressing her nipple into the rough warmth of his hand. Every cell inside her
body clenched, wanting more.

When his thigh relaxed, the loss of
pressure hit her like a sucker punch. “Owen…”

“I know…
God,
I want you.” Owen
turned those few steps up the hallway into a slow floating waltz. His kisses
were expert, drugging in their intensity, and Liv let her eyes close.

“Which way, Lovely?”

Her eyes flashed open. They were in the
lounge. Starlight struck shadows through the room, glinting on the glass in her
mother’s paintings.
Wren. Robin. Finch. Shrike.

“This way,” she whispered quickly, taking
his hand before she could think about beaks and birds and beady eyes.

When she reached her room, she groped for
the light.

Another mistake.

Every inch of the room lit up like a
hospital ward—all three by three metres of it—her single bed in her white on
white box. Liv turned her lamp on instead, trying to mute some of the glare.
Not that the glare seemed to worry Owen. He pushed the coat from her shoulders
and let it fall to the floor then undid the buttons on her shirt.

Liv snapped the press stud on her jeans,
trying to recall the yearning sensation of just thirty seconds before. She
started on Owen’s shirt and almost tore the buttons from the holes, sure that
if she did it quick, if she did it fast, she’d forget where she was.

He was so big. So vital. So
Owen.
The plan almost worked.

Almost.

He pulled away. “What’s wrong, Liv?”

“Nothing.” She sat, patting the quilt
invitingly, trying not to let the concern on his face dupe her into another
bout of crazy-woman tears. He was too perceptive!

“Talk to me,” he said, accepting her
invitation to sit, charcoal eyes probing hers.

In the lamplight, Owen’s bare chest was
muscled and perfect. So much about Owen was perfect. Liv sucked in a deep
breath and wished she could just shut off her brain and let go.

Still, she hesitated, unsure how or where
to start.

“I came prepared,” he said. “Is that what’s
worrying you?”

She shook her head once, a hard, jerky
motion. “Thanks. I don’t have any condoms… I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You hadn’t
thought
about it?”

She heard the smile in his voice. “I mean.
I
had
thought about it, but… I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“God, I have.” He tucked a swatch of hair
behind her ear. “So if it’s not safety-conscious sex that’s on your incredibly
safety-conscious mind, what is it?”

It took all her courage, but she got it
out: “I know you’re here in Hahndorf—here with me—for a good time, Owen, not a
long time. I get that.”

“Right. So tell me when my long time
finishes so I can clock on for my good time.”

“I’m serious.” She looked up at him,
punching his thigh.

“So am I, Liv.” He caught her fist easily
and gently opened her fingers, tracing her palm with a hypnotic stroke.

Tracing her—what had his aunt called them?
Shine
lines.

A twisted knot filled her throat. “You
don’t need to pretend. If you head off to Antarctica again for next summer,
I’ll understand. I don’t want to tie you down. I’d never want that—”

He let go of her hand to put his finger to
her lips and whatever she’d been about to say, died. “What else, Liv?”

“What else? That’s it. There’s nothing
else.”
God. Isn’t all that enough?
“I’m such an idiot.”

“Look at yourself.”

Liv glanced at her legs, crossed tight over
the side of the bed, and at her left arm, hugging her shirt to her body.
Already the hand he’d just released gripped the right tail of her shirt, tugging
it to the middle to meet its mate.

Her shoulders crumpled. “It doesn’t feel
right having you in this house. In this room. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

She couldn’t look at him, she could only
mumble in the direction of her knees: “Talk about totally wrecking the mood.”

He caught both her hands where they
clutched her shirt closed, pulled them away, and let the material fall free.
Then he traced his finger from her collarbone to her breast, making whorls in
the lace of her pale blue bra, and when finally she lifted her face to meet his
eyes, they were smiling.

“My mood is fine, Liv, and I have a cure
for yours.”

She’d thrown his shirt over the only chair
in the room and he reached for it now, pulling his mobile phone from its pocket.
“Do you have earpieces that could fit this?”

“I think so.” She rummaged in her bedside
drawer, intrigued. “Try these.”

The cable connected snugly. “Perfect. Lie
down,” he said.

Liv lay with her hands behind her head.
When she opened her mouth to breathe, the click of her lips seemed loud in the
room.

Owen thumbed the menus on the phone. “Do
you trust me?”

“Yes.” She swallowed to get some moisture
to her throat.

“Then here we go.”

She could hear music—nothing she
recognised. Then Owen fit the plugs to her ears and turned up the volume. The
violent smash of guitar and drum drowned every other thought. In her next
heartbeat he turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a black that was near
pitch.

Liv closed her eyes. The room went even
darker.

Owen could hear the music too—Smashing
Pumpkins,
Aeroplane Flies High—
but the sound was muted, like he heard it
under water.
He
kicked out of his shoes, jeans and jocks, then
lowered himself to the edge of the bed, judging his way in the dark by the feel
of her hip at his back.

He stroked lazily up her flank to her ribs.
Silky shoulder. Throat. Chin.

Liv’s lips opened beneath his thumb.
Keeping his hand on her mouth to guide him, he bent over her in the dark, only
letting his hand fall away when he could replace it with his lips.

Unlike the fierce clash in the hall, this
kiss was slow, thorough. He wanted to take his time—since
time
was
something Liv so obviously didn’t think he had to offer.
Little idiot.
He’d set her straight on
that
later. Now his body set out to prove the
depth of his feelings.

He smelled hazelnut on her breath, tasted
Frangelico on her lips. Gradually the kiss built.

He stroked her breasts, teased the nipples
that jutted proudly into his palm, and when he’d finally slaked his thirst for
the incredible sweetness of her mouth, he turned his attention to her breasts.
Quivers throbbed through her body as he sucked the tips.

It was Liv who unzipped her jeans. Liv who
lifted her hips. Owen who helped slip the denim from her thighs.

“God, please Owen…I want…”

And as her hips circled sensuously on the
quilt, Owen knew he didn’t have that much time at all. His erection strained
hard against his stomach, already moisture covered the head.

She was so velvety soft. Stroking the skin
at the inside of her thighs was like stroking warm suede.

His thumb brushed across her pubic hair,
delved into her slit, and her next breath was sucked roughly back inside her
lungs.

“Owen…” Her hand gripped his, trapping it
hard against her mound as she moved against him.

He reached for her shoulders.

Turning Liv sideways so that she was laid
cross-ways on the single bed, he dropped to his knees on the carpet and pulled
her hips gently toward him. Like that, she was the perfect height for him as he
spread her legs wide. 

Her thighs tensed against his shoulders.
“Owen?”

He knew she couldn’t hear him, but he heard
himself hush at her anyway: “Sshh. It’s okay.”

Her fingers caught at his hair, but he’d
already bent his head to sear kisses on the skin of her stomach by then and
though her hands gripped, they didn’t pull him away.

Owen tasted the sweet crevice at the very
top of her inner thigh.

When he tongued a pathway to her silky
wetness, a whole new tension arched her body. She jerked so hard in his hands
he was almost thrown off. He worked his tongue against her—gently at first—so
she could get used to him, letting it build.

And it became bigger than both of them.

Liv’s hips locked to the rhythm of his lips
and the fingers in his hair tugged his mouth downward, pulling him against her,
meeting him halfway.

That was the moment he knew he had her.

That was when he knew she was his.

Chapter
9

Liv was already coming when he entered her
that first time, lost in the music, lost in the thrust of his tongue. He
counted it lucky for them both. No way could he have held back any longer.

The second time was less frantic. She let
him put the lamp on so he could see her eyes as he moved inside her. When they
finished, they dozed, spent.

Owen woke once just after midnight because
his arse was half hanging off her narrow bed. He turned off the lamp, tucked
himself back beneath the covers and woke again an hour later dreaming he was
falling from a bridge.

This time, a return to sleep eluded him.

Pins and needles cut at his arm where it
cradled Liv’s head. Gently, he tried to jostle his arm out from beneath her
ear.

She mumbled in her sleep, pitched to her
side, and the movement gave him the split second he needed to free his arm.