Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“Of course. Let me just get ready.” She pulls away to dig a compact kit out of her purse, leaving me cold. Throwing the kettle on, she says, “Why don’t you go wait for me in my bathroom upstairs. The lighting there’s the best in the house.”

“Okay.” Her bathroom, attached to her bedroom. Where we can be alone and I can beg her to stay in Ireland. Perfect. Grabbing my T-shirt, I head for the stairs. “Let me know what I owe ya, Ivy.” I catching Ivy’s penetrating gaze on me as I pass by. A warning, maybe? Or just curiosity. I can’t tell.

Five minutes later, Amber finds me sitting on the edge of the toilet, my mind playing out a dozen possible ways for this conversation to go. “I’m going to leave the butterfly clip on, where you tore those stitches,” she warns, scrubbing her hands with soap under the running tap. “That’ll need a few more days to heal.”

“I can peel that off easily enough.” If you’re not here to do it for me.

“Okay, hold still.” I close my eyes, savoring the feel of her fingertips on my skin, even as she tugs the threads out of my flesh. “You really should have a doctor doing this.”

“Aengus was always the one removing my stitches before. Trust me, this is a treat.”

“Why him?”

“Because he’s usually the reason why I needed them in the first place.”

She’s silent for another long moment. “You and Rowen could have been hurt tonight, because of him.”

I sigh. “I know.”

She’s finished in minutes, sweeping the tiny bits of thread from her hand and into the rubbish. “I’ve only ever seen shrapnel wounds in textbooks, but they looked a lot worse than these. I think you’ll heal nicely.” She traces the scars with her fingertips, so lightly that it sends shivers through my body. Her voice thick with emotion, she whispers, “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, River. I’ll never forget.”

“I’d do it again. A thousand times over.”

Suddenly her touch is gone and she’s washing her hands again, her head bowed.

I stand and angle myself so I can see the reflection of my back in the mirror. The three lines are puffy and pink, but they’re not too bad. “I was really lucky. You should see my da’s leg. It’s something else. He had pieces of metal coming out of it for years after.”

She’s quiet as she shuts the tap, then dries her hands. “What happened to him, exactly?”

“A bomber attacked at a funeral.” I recount the story I’ve heard countless times.

“That’s just . . . crazy.” She turns around, leaning against the counter, the bottom of her dress hiking even higher, until I see more thigh than not. She peers up at me, not with that awestruck look that I loved so much, but with the beginnings of some new level of understanding. Or maybe just acceptance of what I am, I dare to hope. “I can’t imagine things like that happening to anyone in my family.”

“It’s happened to mine. A lot.” God knows my brother will be added to the death toll if he keeps this up. It might have happened tonight, had Amber not stepped in, offering a smarter solution than the one I naturally reached. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a big deal. They needed to come out.”

“Not about that.” I step in until I can smell the floral scent of her hair, feel the wisp of air from her exhales and the warmth of her body. Until I can sense her heart rate begin to race, see her throat bob up and down in a hard swallow. I slide a finger beneath her chin and pull her face up to meet mine. “Please stay.” It just slips out. I hadn’t intended to say it so bluntly, but now that I’ve said it, I don’t care. I want to be only completely honest with her. “Stay in Ireland. Stay with me. Please, stay.”

Her eyes turn glassy. “I’ve known you for a week and you want me to just drop everything? Drop my entire life?”

“No, I just want you to . . .” I press my forehead against hers. What exactly do I want? Because when she says it like that, I feel stupid for even suggesting it. “I want you to look at me the way you used to. I want you to think that I’m good. I want you to still want me.” I hesitate, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Do you?”

A stream of tears slips down her cheeks. “We’re so different, River. We don’t make sense—this doesn’t make sense to me.”

“It doesn’t have to.” My insides clench with dread.

She hesitates for a long moment before admitting in a whisper, “I shouldn’t. I can’t. But I do. I still want you.”

Relief overwhelms me. I feel like I’ve passed some monumental hurdle.

Until she shakes her head. “This can never go anywhere, River.” She says it so convincingly. Is she trying to persuade me, or herself?

A painful spike settles into my throat. I know what I’m about to say is crazy, but I don’t care. “It can. You can stay in Ireland, you could get a nursing job, live with me.”

“Never bring you home with me, spend every holiday apart . . .” She’s been thinking about it too, at least. “No, River. What you’re saying . . .” Glossy eyes beg me to understand. “This isn’t me. I know we’ve had an incredible connection but if I were back home, in my everyday life, this would never have happened. You and I would never have happened. Do you not see that?”

I curl my arms around her and pull her close to me, letting her face rest against my newly etched skin. The sting from that contact, the burn from the salt as she cries, is a welcome distraction from the deep throb inside my chest right now.

I’ve never regretted going to that bunker with Aengus more than I do right now.

Her cool fingers dance over my skin, contradicting her words, sending my own heartbeat into a frenzy. Dipping my head down, I coax her mouth with mine, tentatively at first to make sure it’s okay. The smallest gasp from her, the way she trails her tongue along the seam of my lips, tells me it is. I can’t help but groan in relief. But now it’s like I’m in a race to see exactly how far I can get, how many kisses she’ll give me, before she remembers herself and pushes me away.

She doesn’t seem willing to do that just yet.

Amber’s hands wander, grazing my cheeks, my throat, carefully bypassing the right side of my chest in their exploration. Slowly at first, but then more fervently, skating over my ridges, toying with my belt. I wrap my hands around her slender waist and hoist her onto the counter, fitting myself closely between her thighs. She squeezes them tight around me, pressing her hips into me.

I groan again. If she keeps doing that, I’ll come right here, standing in the bathroom.

Her hands push against my chest, forcing our lips apart. She gazes up at me with heated eyes, her breathing ragged. And I wait for her to say that we’re done, that this is over. That she “can’t.”

And then she pulls that tiny blue dress up and over her head, tossing it to the tile floor beside us. Her lacy white bra follows closely, leaving her in nothing but a pair of stringy knickers that, if I turned her around right now, would show off that incredible arse.

“You’re just so . . .” My mouth finds hers again, and I can’t keep my hands off her body anymore—her tits perfect handfuls, her nipples hard against my thumbs, the thin lace between her legs damp. She grinds herself against my fingers once, twice . . . and then her hands quickly find my belt buckle, unfastening it and reaching in to take a surprisingly firm grasp around me. As if she can’t wait either. The very possibility sends my need for Amber into overdrive.