Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

I smile. “I try. Especially since I’m traveling.”

His gaze rakes over my body before he smiles and nods to himself.

“Are you hungry?”

He chuckles. “No.” Throwing the grapes back in, he pushes the door shut. “Show me the rest of the place.”

I take a deep breath, leading him upstairs, convincing myself that maybe this is completely innocent, that he’s just curious about where I’m staying. That he appreciates good design.

Stupid Amber.

I never even invited him in. He just climbed out of the car, then trailed me past the gate and up the walkway. I figured he was walking me to the door. When his arm snaked around my waist and he stood there, waiting for me to unlock the door, I knew that wasn’t the case at all.

His impressed whistle echoes off the tiles in the bathroom of my en suite, and I silently thank God that I had the good sense to pick my panties up off the floor in there earlier. “It’s nice, Amber. I’ll give you that.” When he reenters the master bedroom and sees me standing in the window, he stops dead. “Why are you so nervous around me?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But right now you’re in my bedroom. That may have something to do with it.”

He walks toward me, his steps casual and slow, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes heated. “I am.” His thumb grazes my bottom lip. “It’s a little nicer than the pub office, wouldn’t you agree?”

I open my mouth just slightly, allowing him a sliver of access. He takes it, his skin scraping against my bottom teeth. “I don’t know. That office had a certain charm.” My wavering voice makes my playful banter sound awkward.

He frowns, but he’s smiling, moving his hands to grip either side of my hips. “Is it that calendar with the birds in bikinis that does it?”

I start to giggle, partly because I can’t wrap my head around this term birds that it seems everyone in Ireland uses instead of girl or woman. He takes that opportunity to lean in farther, to lay a kiss along my jawline. “Or maybe Rowen’s smelly runners dangling by the string beside the calendar.”

“I did notice that,” I admit. That office was the size of a walk-in closet, windowless and dimly lit, papers strewn all over the place as if two twenty-something-year-old brothers run the place.

In that office, I was the one who initiated the kiss. But here, in my house, in my bedroom, it’s completely River, capturing my mouth with his, his strong hands beginning to confidently wander over my body, as if we’ve already become accustomed to each other, as if no part is off-limits, quickly finding the space between my panties and the inside of my shorts. He seems to really like that part of me, toned from years of horseback riding.

Before I know it, we’ve picked up exactly where we left off not long ago, in the place that made me temporarily lose control. Except now there isn’t a busy bar behind us, or the possibility of a poorly timed interruption from his brother to stop us.

Instead, there’s a neatly made bed with crisp white sheets and a plush blanket. It may as well have a red carpet to go along with it, because I know that if this continues, I’m going to forget who I am very soon.

And I’m not this girl.

Suddenly I’m more nervous than I should be. More nervous than I’ve ever been with a guy. A hundred times more nervous than the night I lost my virginity. That night wasn’t even about nerves, really. Neil and I were at Tory Masters’s seventeenth birthday party—an epic outdoor bash in the summer, the field behind her house scattered with tents and illuminated by a blazing bonfire. Neil and I had been dating about eight months by then, the progress to that final intimate step slow and steady. Slow enough that I was more than ready. I’d had enough time to consider my feelings, my motivations, and what the “after” might mean. I was confident that I’d spent enough time weighing everything out and that it wasn’t a rash decision. Neil and I knew each other well enough that I didn’t worry about being “good” at it. Neil wouldn’t be comparing me to anyone else because it was new to him, too.

Then there was Brody, and the progress in the physical part of our relationship was reached in stages as well, though faster. Aaron and I had sex a month after that first impromptu cafeteria lunch date, after four dates and at least a dozen meals at work.

I’ve slept with three guys in my life and all of them were planned-out occurrences, decisions I made when I was sure that I would have no regrets. Spontaneity and I have never been fast friends, especially when it comes to big decisions like intimacy.

And yet, here I am, standing in a bedroom with a guy I met mere days ago, shared our first coherent words with a little more than twenty-four hours ago, and just kissed for the first time less than an hour ago. Whose hands are now dangerously close to finding out exactly how attracted I am to him.

“It’s too fast. I can’t do this,” escapes me between kisses.

Just like that, as if he were waiting for the words, River breaks free, his hands leaving my skin cold as they slide up to settle on either side of my waist, an intimate but respectable touch. Giving me a light squeeze as his breath skates over my face through a tight smile.

And then his hands drop abruptly and he’s moving past the door and down the stairs. “I need to get back to work. Rowen’s had a long day. I shouldn’t make him deal with closing alone.”

“Oh, okay,” I hear myself mumble, trying to process exactly what just happened. Thirty seconds ago, his brother and the pub seemed to be the farthest thing from his mind.

It’s not that I don’t want him. That’s far from the case. My body is still wire-tight and humming from his touch. But does he understand that?

I reach the landing in a haze as he’s tugging his shoes on, moving pretty quickly to get out. “So, how often do you get locked on Jameson?”

The unexpected question throws me off. “Uh . . . what does that even mean? Get ‘locked’? You said that earlier.”

He smiles, one hand on the doorknob. “It means get drunk.”

“Oh . . .” Weird Irish slang. I can’t wait to use that on my dad. “Never.” I usually drink wine. Beer, on occasion. “And I’m not really drunk anymore.”

“Either way, make sure you drink lots of water.”

“River, it’s not that I don’t want to . . .” I convey with my eyes what I can’t seem to do with words. I didn’t ask him to drive me home. I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t lead him into my bedroom. If anything, I should be annoyed with him for running so abruptly. And yet all I’m worried about right now is if I’m going to see him again.

“I know,” he says with a cute, crooked smile. “You’re just not like that.” He hesitates and then leans in to place a chaste peck on my cheek. I don’t let him off with just that, though, my hand capturing the rough edge of his jaw to pull his mouth into mine. Afraid this may be the last chance I get. He complies, deepening it for three . . . four . . . five seconds before pulling back, my ears catching his hard swallow. “No more kissing tonight. That lip looks angry. And drink your water. Please.” He turns to leave and my stomach clenches, the familiar sight of his back, the fear that this is goodbye, unpleasant and unwanted. “Hey, I keep meaning to ask you . . . did you by any chance take a piece of paper from my wallet the other day?”