Page 23 of Irish Legacy

“Whatever you’re having.” Trish didn’t turn around straight away. She studied the tall windows like she might need an exit.

Quinn walked to the kitchen island. Two bottles waited where the PA had left them. She chose the red, needing the weight of it. The corkscrew dug cold into her palm. She poured carefully, carried the glasses back to the wide linen sofa, and set them on the low table.

Trish had taken her jacket off. She stood by the windows now, fingers resting on the edge of one rain-streaked pane. When she turned her head, the lamplight caught the chestnut highlights in her dark hair, pulling Quinn’s attention right to the soft line of her neck. Quinn swallowed and gestured toward the sofa.

“Sit with me for a few minutes.” She kept her tone light. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

Trish crossed the room and lowered herself onto the far cushion. Quinn sat too. The expanse of linen between them was absurd, and entirely necessary. She picked up her glass, took a small sip. The wine sat warm on her tongue.

Trish lifted her own glass, drank once, then set it down again. Her mouth looked soft now. Quinn’s gaze dropped to the open collar of the purple blouse, tracing the clean line of collarbone and the faint shadow beneath. She forced herself to look away.

Trish tracked the movement, not saying a word.

The rain tapped steadily against the glass. Quinn’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She wanted to lean across and taste the wine on Trish’s mouth. The sudden urge threatened to pull her right off the cushion. But Trish wasn’t a one-night stand. She had said as much that first night in the pub, and the warning was still right there in the careful way she sat.

Quinn took another sip. The liquid slid warm down her throat. “I heard you didn’t want a fuss.”

“No.” Trish’s fingers traced the stem of her glass without lifting it. “Emma tried. Natalie probably did too.”

“I hope this is okay then.”

“It is.”

Quinn nodded. Her attention drifted right back to the open collar, tracking the way the purple fabric rested against Trish’s skin. She lifted her chin, swallowing hard.

Trish’s dark eyes were waiting for her. “I feel like this might be the best birthday I’ve had in a very long time.”

Quinn set her glass beside Trish’s. The two stems touched with a clink that rang through the high-ceilinged room. She rested her hands flat on her own knees so they wouldn’t reach across the cushions.

“I was ready to drive you anywhere tonight,” she said. The honesty scraped on the way out. “I still am. We don’t have to rush this. I don’t want you to regret anything tomorrow.”

Trish didn’t answer with words. She shifted forward in one slow movement that erased the distance between them. Her warm fingers cupped Quinn’s jaw, and she pressed her mouth to Quinn’s.

The first touch was careful, testing the boundary. Then the hesitation vanished. Trish kissed her with a slow, consuming focus, tasting of red wine. Quinn opened to it, letting the older woman set the pace. Her hands stayed anchored to her own knees.

Trish’s fingers slid into Quinn’s loose blond waves, tilting her head to deepen the angle. Quinn made a quiet noise against her mouth. She gripped the edge of the sofa instead of reaching for Trish, her knuckles turning white as the linen bunched under her fingers. Holding back was its own kind of torture.

Trish pulled back a fraction, breathed, then came back in. Quinn’s navy striped waistcoat constricted across her ribs. Trish’s free hand moved to the top button of the waistcoat and slipped it free. Then the next, working her way down until the garment hung loose.

Quinn let go of the bunched linen. One hand rose, tracing the warm skin just above Trish’s ribs, while the other found the top button of the purple blouse and slipped it open. Not all the way. Just enough to expose more of the shadowed hollow at the base of her throat and the dark lace edge of her bra. Trish hummed her approval, the vibration passing directly against Quinn’s lips.

Trish pushed the unbuttoned waistcoat wide open. Her palms slid inside, tracing the curve of Quinn’s waist through the thin shirt beneath. Quinn’s back arched into the touch. She was eighteen years younger and entirely aware of the gap, clumsy with a sudden, overwhelming want while Trish anchored her there with absolute control.

The kiss turned deeper, losing all its polite edges. The wine glasses on the table and the impending flight back to Los Angeles vanished from Quinn’s mind. There was only the slide of Trish’s tongue against hers, the solid presence of the older woman pressing her backward, the brush of chestnut hair against her cheek. Quinn’s hands moved higher under the open purple blouse, tracing the swell of breast through lace. She squeezed once, gentling the touch, then going firmer when Trish pushed into her palm with a quiet groan.

Trish broke the kiss only long enough to look down at her. Her gaze was completely focused, stripping away everything about Quinn’s life outside this room. Then she leaned in again. Her body followed, pressing Quinn flat against the cushions. She swung a leg over, straddling Quinn’s hips.

Quinn’s hands found Trish’s hips, fingers digging in with a need that made her own touch feel foreign—clumsy, almost. She kissed back with a hunger that had nothing to do with technique, her usual ease dissolved into something raw and unsteady. Trish’s palms slid over her shoulders, then down her arms, slow and deliberate, like she was memorizing the shape of her. The weight of that touch, the way it claimed, sent a shiver through Quinn’s chest as she yanked Trish closer, as if she could merge the space between them entirely.

Trish broke the kiss just enough to catch her breath, her dark hair falling forward, curtaining them off from the rain-smeared windows, from the rest of the world. For a long moment, she just looked at Quinn, her gaze heavy with something that felt like a promise. The air between them thickened, charged with the kind of intent that didn’t need words.

She kissed her one last time, a slow, deliberate claiming that pushed every remaining thought out of Quinn’s head. When she finally drew away, her voice came low and rough.

“Show me your bedroom.”

Trish stood. The purple blouse hung open, lace and skin and the steady rise of her breath right there in front of Quinn. She held out her hand.

Quinn stared up at her. Her pulse hammered against her collarbone. She took the offered hand, her fingers trembling against Trish’s sure grip, and let herself be hauled up off the sofa.