The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (14 page)

              Walsh maneuvered Emmie in front of him, so he was a shield between her and her stepmother, so he could keep his hands on her shoulders as they walked back out to the truck.

              She was shaking, and when he held out a wordless hand for the keys, she gave them to him.

~*~

“Can you pull over?” she asked when they drew up on Leroy’s Gas ‘n’ Grocery, and Walsh turned into the Dartmoor-preferred convenience store.

              Emmie hadn’t said anything, and he hadn’t pushed her. She was silent in a solid, tough-bitch way he admired. But he ached for her too, because when he stole glimpses at her eyes, he saw the awful hurt stacked up behind the pretty blue irises.

              She dug around in her purse, came out with her wallet, and popped the door. “I’ll be right back.”

              She didn’t want company, and so he nodded, watching her with an uneasy, possessive lurch in his gut as she went into the store and moved through the aisles. She wasn’t long, up at the counter a moment later, handing her purchases to the dead-eyed teenager behind the register. The glass was old and yellowing, and so he couldn’t tell what the little box was, but he recognized the big bottle of gin she set up on the counter.

              Her gaze was downcast, shoulders slumped as she walked out and came back. When she was in her seat, and the door was shut, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she reached into the paper bag, drew out the little box and set it on the console between them.

              “I didn’t know what kind you’d want,” she said, tapping it with a fingernail.

              They were condoms.

~*~

There was no speaking until they pulled into Briar Hall, headlights catching tree trunks and fence boards as they bypassed the barn and headed up the hill to the house.

              “Wait,” Emmie said, sitting upright. “I was thinking my place.”

              “I’ve got vodka,” he explained. “I don’t drink gin, pet.”

              She sat back. “Oh.”

              The condoms were back in the bag with the gin, and she hugged the crumped paper sack to her chest as they walked up the sidewalk, through the humid dark to the front door. He’d left lights on, and the foyer was bright, made them both blink. Their footsteps rebounded hollowly across the hardwood; all the furniture was gone now, and it was like a museum, cold and full of echoes.

              Emmie halted in the center of the cavernous living room, the one that had been packed with overstuffed couches and chairs mere hours ago. She snorted. “At least I have a bed.”

              “I have a mattress.”

              “Ah, romantic.”

              She was utterly dead, dark circles smudged beneath her eyes, all the life drained out of her.

              “Didn’t think you were after romance, love,” he said quietly, turning so he stood directly before her.

              She wouldn’t look at him, just kept hugging the bag. “No,” she said, and it was an obvious lie. “Nothing about gin and condoms says ‘romance.’”

              “No,” he agreed.

              Her eyes finally came to him, and they were devastated.

              That was his undoing. He liked women, enjoyed their bodies, the feel and taste of them – but nothing about sex made his chest tight, had him feeling like crumpled up paper inside. Realness, genuine human emotion – that broke him open every time. In the club there were women who were nothing but a collection of holes. And then there was Maggie, and Ava, Holly, Mina, Nell, Bonita, and Jackie. There were the women who were people.

              And right now, there was Emmaline Johansen, and he’d be damned if she gave him her body to ease the sting of heartache.

              He’d be damned if he acted like his father.

              He stepped in close, reached to lay a hand against her face.

              She startled, just a little, but then her eyes fixed to his mouth and went soft. She thought he was going to kiss her. Wanted it.

              “Not yet, lovey,” he said, stroking the soft swell of her cheekbone with his thumb. She shivered like she liked the cool touch of his ring against her skin. “Not yet.”

Fourteen

She wanted to feel stupid, because technically, he’d rejected her. It didn’t feel like a rejection though. There was such heat in him – she’d felt it in the gentle stroke of his fingers on her face. This was just them pressing pause. This was sitting in a numb fog and letting someone else be the industrious, responsible, in-charge one for a change.

              She sat on the granite-topped island in the kitchen, because there wasn’t a table, watching as Walsh pulled things from the fridge and slowly built up something that almost resembled a meal.

              “Mr. Walsh,” she said, smiling, taking a deep sip of gin from the bottle, “are you a jockey
and
a chef?”

              “Former jockey, remember?” he said, tossing the crumbled breakfast sausage into the skillet. “I got too big.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows and she decided she
loved
what a few shots of vodka did to his charm.

              “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a big jockey. Look at Red Pollard. They put his ass in a movie.”

              He tilted his head in concession and dumped the roasted red peppers in next.

              Drinking made her talkative. “So where’d you learn to cook?”

              “My grannie.” He tossed in pepper and reached for the wooden spoon. “After she realized there’d be no granddaughters, she slapped my arse into an apron and dragged me into the kitchen.”

              She grinned and let her lips linger against the sticky mouth of the bottle, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him. “She was a good cook?”

              “As good a cook as any Englishwoman can be, I expect. If that means anything.” He shot her another grin that killed her. He had dimples; oh God, the dimples when he really smiled.

              “So what’s this gourmet concoction?”

              “Eggs and such.” He cracked the first one in and it hit the meat and peppers with a hiss.

              “So like a cowboy omelet.”

              “If you wanna call it that.”

              Emmie took another sip of gin while he worked and felt the liquor swirl lazily down into her stomach, sending her head on a slow trip.

              “I’m sorry you had to see that before,” she blurted, before she could catch herself. “My stepmother–”

              “Is a fucking bitch? Yeah, I picked up on that,” he said dryly.

              She smiled, warmed more by his support than by the booze. “She gambles,” she said. “She was at Harrah’s all this time she wasn’t at home, and then she comes home, and expects Dad to be sober.”

              He made a sound in his throat she took to mean
not fair
.

              “She’s nothing like my mother, and just as awful for him. Jesus.” She sighed. “Dad isn’t a bad guy. Except when he’s drinking.”

              “Known a few of those in my time.”

              “Known any who kicked the habit?”

              “There’s plastic forks and real plates over there,” he said, dodging the question, motioning toward the far counter. “This is done.”

              They ate sitting cross-legged on the hard tile floor, and his “eggs and such” was the tastiest thing she’d ever eaten – or so she thought in her depressed, buzzed state. She was starving, she realized, and ate half the plateful before sitting back, taking another big swig of gin, and deciding there was something she
had
to know.

              “Walsh is your last name, right?” The room was fuzzy around the edges and when she looked at him, he was the only thing in focus.

              He nodded and set his fork down, like he didn’t like where this was headed.

              “What’s your first name?”

              A beat. Then, “Kingston.”

              Emmie didn’t want to, but she laughed. “Kingston? Is your mom Gwen Stefani?”

              He frowned. “Who?”

              “No, nothing. I’m sorry. It’s not funny…well, it is, sort of. That’s like, a name for a stripper, or a romance novel character. It’s good, though,” she added in a rush as he continued to stare at her. “It’s sexy.”

              He kept staring at her, chin tucked, eyes penetrating. “I didn’t pick it out you know.”

              “Like I wanted to be Emmaline?” She snorted. “Kingston’s better than that.
You
can be in a novel. You ever read a steamy book where the heroine was named Emmaline? Didn’t think so.”

              “To be fair, I don’t read that kinda shit, so I wouldn’t know.” He almost smiled.

              “Yeah, well…” Feeling ridiculous and girlish for admitting to her reading habits, she decided it was time for the next topic. “So I never asked: that night Tally got out, what were you doing next door? That’s your land I’m guessing, since you had the key and all.”

              “You’re just full of questions,” he said, spearing a fat chunk of sausage on his fork.

              Instead of coming up with a smart reply, she took a sip of gin. “I’ve never slept with a stranger before,” she admitted.

              Walsh went very still.

              She forced a dry, humorless chuckle. “So do I call you King now or what?”

              He swallowed, took a hit of his own drink. “Everyone just calls me Walsh.” His voice was softer now, the harshness leaving his face. “And it’s my friend’s land. I was just scoping it out, realizing it was a lost cause to try and turn it into something.”

              She nodded, glad he’d skipped over her little admission. “It’s been abandoned for a long time.”

              “Too long to make a farm out of it in less than two years.” He mopped up the last of his eggs with a bite of bread and then pushed his plate to the side, its bottom scraping against the floor. “Done?” he asked, reaching for her plate.

              She nodded. “Is this your stuff? The china and pots and pans?”

              “Yeah. Had to make a run after they cleaned everything out. You know, that bitch stripped the fancy showerhead outta the master water closet, so now I gotta take a bath like an old woman,” he said with a rueful non-smile. “Guess I’m lucky she didn’t have the floors pulled up.”

              “I still can’t believe what a sellout shallow bitch she is. Underneath all the pretty.”
And underneath all my misguided ideals
, she added in her head.

              “Probably shouldn’t talk about her anymore, then.”

              “Probably.”

              They reached for their respective bottles at the same time, took long sips. Emmie watched the way his throat opened for the vodka and swished the gin around in her mouth, all between her teeth. It wasn’t mouthwash, but it was better than nothing.

              She lowered the bottle and closed her eyes, felt the floor tilt beneath her, felt the heavy ache inside her that was too complicated to describe. When she opened them again, Walsh was right in front of her, on his knees. His hand came up slowly, as if in a dream, and cupped the side of her face. He pressed lightly at her lower lip with his thumb.

              “You’re sure?”

              “Yes.” She closed her eyes again. “I want it.”

~*~

She didn’t feel anything until he kissed her. Getting up off the floor, walking through the house, up the stairs into the cavernous master bedroom. She’d never seen it before, but she didn’t have eyes for it in the moment, only verified that, yeah, he had a mattress on the floor, and it even had sheets on it, the covers still messy from where he’d slept the night before. She was numb and fuzzy-headed for all of it. But then he caught her gently around the throat, drew her in, and kissed her.

              All her senses lit up at once, a circuit board flaring to life. It was an easy, clinging kiss. A question. And she opened her mouth in answer. She felt the alcohol burn out of her blood as his tongue passed between her teeth; it sizzled as it left her raw, sober, and shaking, grabbing at the soft front of his shirt and twisting it in her hands.

              She’d never wanted a man so bad in her life, and it didn’t matter that she didn’t fully understand why, only that she needed him inside her.
Now
.

              Emmie flattened her hand and passed it between them, finding the bulge in the front of his jeans and curving her palm around it.

              He pulled back from the kiss and she was gasping for breath.

              “Easy, love,” he murmured. His hands were at her hips, and he flicked his thumbs beneath the hem of her t-shirt, rubbed at the bare flushed skin of her hipbones. “There’s no rush. You want it to feel good, yeah?”

              A hard shiver stole across her skin. When had it ever been good? When had it ever been anything besides two bodies slamming together? “Yeah,” she whispered, leaning into him, closing her hand more tightly against his cock. “Yeah, but…”

              But she didn’t know what. She was humming with inner electricity, and all grace had left her.

              He took her lower lip between his teeth, pulled at it
slowly
. At another time, she might have been embarrassed by the sound that stirred in her throat.

              He chuckled again, a dark breath of sound against her face. Then kissed her jaw, the tender spot just beneath her ear. “Stop trying to be in charge for once,” his English-accented voice said against her skin, moving through her body like a tremor. “Right now, I’m in charge.”

              Holy shit,
yes
.

              She felt the tension leave her – the unproductive kind – and she settled against him, caught at his shoulders to keep herself upright, because he was kissing her throat and his hands were moving under her shirt, and she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

              He lifted her shirt off in one fast maneuver, barely breaking away from her skin with his mouth. And then he was at her bra clasp, and then the straps were sliding down her arms.

              When she was bare, he pulled back, his breath warm and uneven as it fanned across her chest. The moonlight turned his hair silver, cast deep shadows between their bodies.

              “Ah, love, that’s nice,” he said in a strained voice.

              His hands slid up beneath her breasts, cupped and lifted them. His thumbs flicked across her nipples. And then his head dipped and he kissed her there, passed his tongue across one hard bud and drew it into his mouth.

              She speared her hands through his hair, marveling at the texture of it, the way it was thick and slippery all at once. But it wasn’t about his hair – it was about curving her fingers against his skull and holding him to her as his tongue drew lazily across her nipple. Once and then again. It felt so amazing, but –

              He moved to the other, taking it between his lips, touching it with his tongue.

              God.

              Her pulse vibrated wildly in her wet nipples, between her legs. She ached there, empty and hungry and needing him.

              His mouth left her and she hated the loss of sensation, the way his hair was sliding out of her grasp. But then he was on his knees in front of her, and his rings caught the faint moonlight with fast glimmers as he unfastened her cutoffs. The sound of the zipper gave her gooseflesh. The feel of his hands curling in the waistband, tugging shorts and panties down together left her breathless.

              “Walsh.” She wasn’t sure she wanted him looking at her up close like this. Hadn’t expected it. The air was a shock against her bare, heated skin. “What are you doing?”

              “Shh. Shut your eyes.” His breath was a warm rush of air against her pubic bone and it startled her into compliance.

              Her eyes slammed shut. “Walsh–”

              He touched her, and it was only one finger, stroking lightly across her sex. Teasing at her.

              She reached blindly for something to grab onto and found his shoulders, braced both her hands on them.

              His finger pressed more firmly, parting her, finding where she was slippery and scalding hot. It was a careful, deliberate probing, unlike anything she’d ever felt. Not the rough pawing of a boy, but the sure slowness of a man.

              A finger entered her and her inner muscles contracted. Exactly what she needed, wanted, but yet not enough.

              “What does that feel like?” he asked.

              “Good…it feels good.” So good her fingertips were digging into his shoulders.

              “More?”

              “More.”

              He pressed in and in, and then she felt his ring, the heavy ornamental metal warm from his skin, sliding into her entrance.

              She took a deep, ragged breath, and he chuckled, a low dark sound.