Page 13 of Irish Legacy

Trish’s hands came up and rested on Quinn’s forearms. The grip was warm and steady. She didn’t push away, and she didn’t pull closer. She just held on, her thumbs settled in the hollows of Quinn’s elbows. The neutrality of it felt more dangerous than either rejection or invitation.

7

The careful walls she had kept in place for years cracked open under the steady pressure of Quinn’s hands.

She hadn’t been touched like this in so long. The realization hit her square in the chest.

Quinn’s blue eyes held hers, bright even in the dim lamplight. Maybe letting go wouldn’t be the worst thing. She had spent so many years alone.

Trish’s breath came shallower. Her hands itched to do something, to stop pretending she felt nothing. Quinn’s words still hung between them. The admission sat raw on Trish’s tongue. You’re not wrong. She said it before she could talk herself out of it. Her voice came out low, scraped from disuse.

“You’re not wrong.”

The words landed heavy. Quinn’s thumbs paused their slow strokes, and Trish made her choice. She slid her hands up those forearms, tracking the fine tension in the muscles there, the warmth of skin that had spent the last hour helping close her pub. No hesitation this time. She let her fingers wrap around the slim wrists, then tugged with deliberate slowness, pulling Quinn closer.

The contact sent a rush through her that made her thighs tighten around Quinn’s hips. She hadn’t initiated anything in years. Taking the lead like this was a complete unknown, a sharp shock to her system.

Trish tilted her head, let her gaze drop to Quinn’s mouth for a beat, then back up to those wide blue eyes. This was stupid. This woman would leave in seven days. There was no chance of this being anything more than one night. But right now, with the storm battering the windows and the pub empty except for the two of them, she let herself want.

She leaned in, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Quinn’s neck, fingers threading into soft blond hair. The strands were finer than she expected.

Trish pulled her the last inch, mouth brushing Quinn’s in a slow, deliberate tease before she committed. The kiss started soft, just lips meeting, testing. Then she angled her head and deepened it, tongue tracing the seam of Quinn’s mouth until it opened for her. The contact sent a heavy rush of heat straight to her gut.

Quinn made a small sound against her lips, something surprised and hungry. Trish’s thumb pressed into the soft inner skin of Quinn’s forearm. The younger woman pressed forward into the kiss, hips shifting between her thighs, and Trish had to fight not to rock against the sudden pressure.

Control slipped further with every second. She had spent so long telling herself she didn’t need this, that if it wasn’t the start of something serious, then she didn’t want it. Well, right now that didn’t seem to matter. She sucked lightly on Quinn’s lower lip, then soothed it with her tongue. Her fingers tightened in blond hair, tugging just enough to tilt Quinn’s head the way she wanted it.

Quinn’s hands moved to her waist, gripping the sides of her shirt. The solid pressure grounded her.

Trish broke the kiss just enough to drag in air, her lungs burning with the sudden shock of oxygen. She meant to stop there, to let the space between them cool, to remember all the reasons this was reckless, but Quinn chased her mouth, eyes still closed, lips parted and waiting, and that was answer enough.

Trish went back in, desperate for more, for the taste of her, for the heat of that mouth under hers again. The sound Quinn made this time was closer to a moan, and it pulled tight in her belly.

Trish had forgotten the way a kiss could unravel her. The years of careful distance dissolved under the press of Quinn’s mouth. The younger woman’s lips were soft but insistent, the kind of kiss that demanded a response. And Trish gave it, her body remembering what her mind had tried to forget.

Quinn broke away first, breath unsteady, her gaze heavily lidded in the low light. She lifted a hand, tucking a loose strand of Trish’s hair behind her ear. The gentle touch sent a fresh jolt through her.

“Whose place is closer?” Quinn asked, her voice dropping a register. “I’m sure you know where my Airbnb is.”

Trish laughed, the sound catching in her throat. Of course she knew. Everyone in Kilvolan knew where the rental was. But the question hung between them, heavy with implication. She lived upstairs.

But she wasn’t the kind of woman who slept with someone just because. Not because they’d had a few drinks. Not because the other woman wanted her. Not because the chemistry between them was undeniable.

But God, the chemistry.

Quinn’s fingers still lingered near her ear.

She was waiting for Trish to explain the laugh.

Trish swallowed against a dry throat. “I live upstairs.”

Quinn’s mouth curved into a smirk that hit Trish somewhere south of her ribs. The actress stepped back, just enough to create space, and her hand slid down Trish’s arm in a slow drag that made every hair on her skin stand at attention.

“Then lead the way.”

The tug was gentle, but the weight of it went straight to Trish’s knees. Her body wanted to move. Every instinct she had buried under inventory sheets and barrel orders urged her to step off the stool, wrap her hand around Quinn’s, and pull her through the narrow hall to the private staircase. She could already picture Quinn in the quiet bedroom above the taps, blond hair spilled over the plain white sheets, the pale arch of her throat in the dark. It would be so easy. A single night to blow the dust off a life she had kept shuttered for decades.

Trish planted her feet firmly against the rungs of the stool and didn’t budge.