Chapter Eighteen

 

The time for talk had come. They lay on Ash’s couch, their legs intertwined, her one knee over his, and his nose in her hair. He seemed to have a thing for her hair, threading a curl through his fingers, letting it fall only to lift it to his nose and start all over again.

They’d dressed as much as they were going to, him bare-chested in just jeans, unsnapped and the zipper half done; her in one of his Boston Red Sox baseball shirts. Nothing more.

After their first go round, they’d bathed in his dime-sized bathtub; giggling like two teenagers at each other when the water cooled, and they couldn’t turn the hot water faucet on with just their toes. He’d been so gentle, washing away the blood of her lost—and freely given virginity—before he’d let her step into the tub. For whatever reason, his hands on her there had felt protective and possessive, and she’d loved watching him taking care of her.

It wasn’t a big deal, yet—it was. The sight of him on his knees had watered her eyes. He’d seemed intent on serving her. Being treasured like that was an uncommon feeling for her. Another first.

After the bath, they went after each other again. His dining room table had been rapidly cleared off and used for its proper purpose until she’d squirmed and begged for release. The man did have a wicked tongue on him, and she liked it.

Ash was solid, built of coiled musculature that roped sturdy bones and tendons, comprising the perfect male specimen. Two tattoos marked his deeply tanned skin, a fine Celtic cross in a bracelet of shamrocks circled his right bicep; the outline of a fish, head up/tail down, the ancient symbol of Christianity, on his left.

She couldn’t keep her hands off of him, nor her tongue. Couldn’t get enough of his salty male flavor. And that men’s cologne he wore? It was fast becoming an addiction.

Exploring his body was an adventure, and she was on the safari of her life, her fingers strolling over his ribs, searching out the places that made him hiss, the hollows that caught his breath. Her palms mapped the solid six-pack that narrowed to a sculpted V. Wherever her fingertips and lips had landed, she pinched, scraped, licked, and kissed.

Ash didn’t sigh as much as growl when content, though often that growl simmered into a sensual, blood-boiling purr. It was odd how one little sound could incite another round of ferocious grappling and mind-blowing sex. But it did. It seemed they liked to wrestle, which explained how they’d gotten from the kitchen table to the couch. Next stop? His bed. Or so he said. There was still the hallway and she’d never done it standing up—yet.

She now knew the contours of his flat belly all the way to the juncture of his groin, the delightfully ticklish jut of his hips. Her fingertips strayed in abandon down that enticing trail of black crisp hairs below his navel. And lower. Just to hear the hitch in his breathing. To know she could make him shiver at her command.

Of all the warriors she’d worked alongside in the Army, the drill sergeants, commanding officers, and other Rangers, this gentle warrior had them beat. Struggling to keep her hands to herself, she balled her fist to his chest where he captured it in his catchers’ mitt-sized grip. How uncommonly small and dainty she felt curled into him, his free hand shaping the right cheek of her ass, massaging and squeezing. Warming.

They were back to discussing the arsonist.

“Trust me. If I catch him near my mom again, I’ll end him,” Colby declared, her fingers on Ash’s bare chest, her head on the muscular pillow of his corded bicep.

He didn’t answer, just “Hmmm.”

She missed the scent of cigarette smoke though, the other dimension to her man. “Did you stop smoking?” That’d be wonderful.

The scruff on his chin scraped over her brow. “I only smoke at the pub. ’Tis a bad habit, but ’tis also a drinking thing.”

The beat of his heart vibrated beneath their joined hands. “Tell me about Ireland. Where’d you live before you left home?”

There was that purr again. “Ah, I’m going to take you there as soon as I can, you can be sure of that. Ireland is pure magic, and the more you believe in it, the happier you’ll be there. My family’s farm’s outside Newport in County Mayo, overlooking the Black Oak River.”

“What’d you raise there?”

“Mostly rocks. Some sheep and cattle. More rocks.”

That made her smile. She’d heard Ireland was known for its rock fences and walls, but she had yet to see for herself. “So why did you come to America? Did you stop believing in all that Celtic magic?”

His chin bumped hers. “You’ll not believe me, but I heard a call one day, a siren’s call to leave home and go West. I’d fallen asleep in the field, watching sheep I was, but it woke me just the same. At first, I believed it was the wind, or maybe the fierce pirate queen, Grace O’Malley herself, come to roust me off her ancestral land.”

Colby pushed up on one elbow to read his eyes at this outlandish tale. He spiked a brow. “Ah, I can see the disbelief in your eye, but trust me on this. Us Irish believe in witches and the banshee, in magic and destiny. ‘Twas not for me to ignore the whispering voice that I heard.”

She drummed her fingers over his right nipple, teasing him as she suspected he was teasing her. “Why would Grace O’Malley call you out? Were you living in her castle or something?”

Ash wrinkled his nose as if she was the one stretching the truth. “Rockfleet Castle is a tourist trap, Lass. There’d be no living in it. ‘Tis a bloody tower of cold stone. A fortress. The only part fit for habitation is the very top floor, where no woman in her right mind would willingly dwell. What do you take me for, a monk?”

She had to laugh. “Not after what we just did to each other on your dining room table, no. You’re no monk.” Colby sank her chin to his chest, wanting to know everything. “Tell me more.”

The warm hand on her ass slid up to cup the back of her head. “I truly believed I heard something that day. It might have been the three bottles of the black beer from the night before. It might’ve been Da calling, looking for me. But it told me very clearly that my heart lay west, that my time had come. That there was nothing in Ireland for a drunken carpenter like me.” He shrugged, lifting her head with his chest. “So here I am.”

She thought she heard a pensive tone to this tale. “What did the voice say, the exact words?”

His heartbeat kicked up a notch. “My name, as clear as a bell. ‘Ash,’ then the wind whispered, ‘C-C-Colby… Col-be-e-e…’”

Okay, that made her laugh. She landed an open-handed smack to his furrowed stomach and giggled. “Liar. No Irish pirate queen told you to come to Boston to find me.”

“No, but I did come to Boston, and the day I spotted you running through Faneuil Hall in nothing but skin-tight boy shorts and a sports bra—”

Another smack. “That’s how you knew I had a mole.”

A deep throaty chuckle sounded from his throat. “’Twas also when I knew I’d come to the right country. You and your girlfriend ran by me with nary a second look. It hurt my Irish pride, so I had to follow you all the way to Beacon Hill. You ran my legs off that day, woman, but you never knew I was behind you gasping like a fish out of water.”

She loved how he turned his Irish brogue on and off. “Hmmm. I did hear a lot of perverse panting behind me that day. I thought it was some stalker, but that was you, huh?”

A stinging swat landed on her ass. “I do nah think so. I was too far behind for you to have heard me, though ’twas a lovely view.” His brows arched—twice.

“So why the naked figurehead?”

Releasing the hand on his chest, he spread his fingers and lifted them to her view. “That part is real. When I was a boy, ‘twas Da who told me that magic lay in my hands, but there’s no thirst for that sort of talent in Ireland. No need. But once I landed in Boston and found my first customer, my life fell into a cadence, a rhythm if you will. Before I knew it, I had orders coming out my ears. I leased a bigger place to carve, then diversified into chairs and chests to support my carving habit. People love a solid piece of wooden furniture, especially if the workmanship is as solid. Soon, I needed more room, so I bought a warehouse.”

He still hadn’t answered her question. “The one that burned?”

He nodded. “Aye, but that was not the beginning of my bad luck. It started when you joined the Army.”

That caught her attention. “How so?”

“’Twas as if I lost my passion. I drank too much. I lost a few customers.”

By then she was leaning on his chest, her chin on the back of her flattened hand. “Okay, so I joined the Army.” That conversation’s better left for another day. “That still doesn’t explain the nautical figureheads.”

Tucking his chin to his chest, he looked her in the eye. “Because when I began carving you, everything came together again. I poured my heart into remembering every last detail about you. I didn’t want to forget a thing.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss in the middle of her forehead. “Not a single thing.”