Page 50 of Irish Fury
“I choose your idea,” he said, his voice lower now, steadier. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mags came out of the bathroom in a short and tee combo, her hair brushed and loose, and her face pink from washing. He’d already dimmed the lights, and the golden glow touched every inch of her glistening skin.
He sat on the edge of the bed like a sad hound, still fully dressed, as if he couldn’t quite figure out how far “keeping things PG” was supposed to go. Clothes? No clothes? If he was being honest with himself, he hoped things might get as crazy as the last time they’d had their hands on each other.
“You still have your shoes on,” she pointed out.
Jonathan looked up just as Mags—barefoot and entirely too distracting—closed the distance between them. She stepped in close, until she stood between his knees, her presence pulling all his focus.
“Surely you want to get comfortable too,” she added.
His hands moved before he could stop them, settling on the backs of her bare thighs. His grip tightened slightly, thumbs hovering, tempted to explore further but holding just shy of it.
He cleared his throat, forcing out, “You said we’d take it slow.”
She leaned forward, her posture softening until her mouth hovered just near his. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. It’s just…being like this with you has kind of been a long time coming.”
When she started to pull back, hesitant, he didn’t let her get far. His hands slid upward, from her thighs to her waist, drawing her back in and stopping her retreat.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
Then, softer—“Give me a kiss first.”
He guided her closer until she settled across his lap, her weight grounding and impossible to ignore. His hands steadied at her waist as he tipped his head toward hers, his voice dropping just enough to betray him.
“We can slow down after that.”
thirty
MAGS
Mags wasaware that she was yet again breaking the rules that she herself had set, but she dared any woman to stand so close to the white-headed Adonis and not cave.
The O’Faolain men had some damn fine genes, she thought as her ass found a seat on his jean-clad thighs. Jonathan touched her lips gently in a sweet kiss, telling her, “You’re the loveliest woman, Margaret Colleen Morrow.”
Mags kissed him back, a longer exploration. “And you’re the loveliest man, Jonathan Sean O’Faolain.”
He took her mouth again, and Mags couldn’t help the moan she shared around his tongue. Breaking contact again, she said, “Feel free to lose the shirt. We haven’t gotten to the slow-down portion of the evening yet.”
“Only if you want to lose yours,” Jonathan’s sexy smile teased.
Mags fiddled with the hem of her t-shirt. “I’ve been told my breasts are perfection. Are you sure you can handle seeing them in all their naked glory?”
In answer, he pulled his shirt over his head, and Mags froze mid-flirt. Yes, she had seen Jonathan without his shirt on over the years, whether it was group swimming or watching the boys play sports, but not like this.
Never this close, touchably close, which she took immediate advantage of. She ran her fingers across his smooth, pale, broad shoulders. If her hands shook, she chose to ignore them, refusing to be embarrassed about what a pleasure it was to touch him.
Finally.
“Your body is beautiful, Jon,” she said softly, her tone almost reverent as her hands continued to wander.
His chest was strong and well-defined beneath her touch, and he couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath when her fingers traced lightly over his skin, sending a shiver through him.
“Mags, you’re killing me.”
“Don’t die. We aren’t slowing down yet,” she reminded again, knowing very well that she was playing with fire.
The moment her hands glided over his abs, his muscles tensed and rippled. His waistband was really in the way. She tapped her short nail on the head of the metal button.
