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His blond hair, slicked back with water, looked darker. It made him look older. When he looked up at me, his cobalt eyes flickered with desire.
Heat built in my groin, with tendrils of pleasure shooting up my spine and down my limbs. My belly tightened and I wondered who’d win this race.
I spilled first, with Ciaran, thrusting into my grip, following me seconds later. The hiss of the shower muffled our cries.
We’d made a mess on our stomachs and soaped up again. I couldn’t keep my hands off him as I placed butterfly kisses on his nose and cheeks as we caught our breath.
“You’re insatiable,” Ciaran said.
He swatted me away as we dried off and got dressed in the bedroom. Thankfully, we’d both packed an overnight bag and didn’t have to wear last night’s clothing.
“Now that I’m allowed to touch you,” I said, “I don’t want to stop.”
“I never realized you were so romantic.”
Me, neither. “It’s because of the freckles,” I admitted.
“Obsessed much?” Ciaran chuckled as he unlocked his phone. He let out a bark of laughter. “Joan’s already asking for details.”
“She’ll pepper you until you divulge everything. She’s very persistent.”
He angled his head back, exposing his neck to me.
“Words won’t be necessary with proof on full display.” There were at least four visible hickeys. More were hidden by his shirt.
“You can always develop a sudden affection for colorful ascots and scarves, à la Fred from Scooby Doo.”
“Oh, sure.” Ciaran motioned toward his attire. “Like that won’t be even more conspicuous in a T-shirt and jeans.” My mouth twitched at the mental image. “I’ll get the statue,” he muttered. “At least she won’t offer bad fashion advice.”
Laughing at his retreating backside, I checked my phone for any new texts. Dad and Theresa appeared to be in New York City based on the photos Dad sent.
Joan’s messages were similar to what she sent Ciaran, though she also asked if she could hack into Coach Anderson’s home Wi-Fi. I typed back, No.
Andy texted a middle finger emoji while Dante’s four a.m. text asked what I’d done to piss off Andy.
I got the boy is what I’d done to piss off Andy. I didn’t type that. Instead I wrote, I’ll call you this weekend with the details.
That conversation should be a phone call and not a text message considering my brother and Andy were thick as thieves when they were younger, though these days they weren’t as close. Still, I didn’t want to leave room for misinterpretation.
Davies texted, asking when we’d be returning, but I left her on read.
I grabbed our overnight bags and did a once-over of the penthouse to ensure we didn’t leave anything behind. I sent a text to concierge, asking the housekeeping staff to change the bedding and tidy the unit.
Ciaran carried the statue into the kitchen as he opened cabinets and the fridge, looking for food. He wouldn’t find anything other than water, wine, and liquor. Concierge stocked the penthouse only if we gave notice.
“How is it,” Ciaran said as we made our way to the elevator, “that a billionaire doesn’t even have a damn granola bar in this place?”
I made the mistake of thinking he was asking me. Oh, no. He addressed his question to the statue in his arms.
Using my keycard, I called the elevator, which zipped us all the way down to the garage level.
“We’ll grab something on the way back home,” I said.
Once in the garage, I unlocked the car and we carefully placed the wrapped-up statue in the backseat. We dumped our overnight bags on the floorboard.
“You’re going to let me eat fast food in your car?” Surprise brightened his expression. Ciaran walked to the passenger side and peered at me over the roof of the car, his hands skimming the cherry-red surface. “Your half-a-million dollar, custom-designed Ferrari?”
The corner of his mouth quirked when I blanched. It was obvious I didn’t think that one through and couldn’t get out of it now.
