Having my hands tied above me is torture. I want to reach for Thorn, to touch him, to thread my hands in his hair as his mouth punishes mine with a hard, demanding kiss. My body is taut, tense like a rubber band with a need that I can’t satisfy. I hear the moans ripping from my throat and I can’t stop them. My back arches involuntarily as his head lowers toward me, holding my breath until his lips fasten around one taut nipple. I let out a soft cry as his mouth begins to tease and suck. I feel a rush of heat and wetness between my legs. I’m so ready for him to enter me, I can feel what it will be like after last night and I can hardly stand waiting for it. God, I want him to fill me, stretch me, take me. I want to watch his face, hard and tense as he thrusts into me. I want him to destroy me.

My body is trembling, every nerve ending craving his touch. His rough hands slide over my skin, gripping me, caressing me, owning me. All I can do is give myself up to him, and try not to go out of my mind with need. I hear myself whispering his name, and I know I’m begging but I can’t stop. His mouth leaves my nipple, and then before I know it he’s thrusting my knees wide and plunging his tongue inside my core, lapping at the wetness. I’m so close that I know it’s only seconds before I’ll come, but Thorns seems to know it too because he backs off almost instantly. I cry out in frustration, but in response all I hear is his low chuckle.

“You learning your lesson yet, Sibéal?” he rumbles thickly. Just hearing the raw lust in his voice makes me shiver.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I gasp.

“That right?” His head comes up. “You want to watch a film or something, then?”

“Thorn!” I cry out frantically, and he bursts out laughing.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You want it too,” I whisper.

“Yes.” His voice is instantly hard and hoarse. “Fuck if I don’t want you more than is good for me. And for you.” He leans down again, his hot breath teasing the sensitive skin of my thigh. “I’ll make you pay for making me want you like this, Sibéal,” he growls. “Are you ready to pay?”

“Yes.” My voice cracks. Whatever he’s about to do to me, I want it. I want it desperately.

Thorn’s mouth closes over my swollen mound. A jolt of pleasure runs through me, and I spread my legs further and arch up to meet him. I’m so afraid he’ll back away and torture me, but instead his tongue begins to taste and tease. It’s a delicious agony, so good it’s almost unbearable. Sparks feel like they are shooting from my entire body as he licks me. I writhe against the belt binding my wrists. Again I hear myself start to mumble incoherent things, my breathing growing fast and shallow, waiting as desire starts to rise like a tidal wave in me. “Thorn!” I gasp, as it builds and I start to lose control. Then all at once, I fly off the edge, shattering as the wave crashes over me, over and over again.

Thorn kneels between my legs as my orgasm continues to shake me, and slides himself inside me. Being filled by him just makes the pleasure more intense, and I continue to come around him as he throws my legs over his shoulders and begins to thrust hard and deep. His fingers grip hard into my thighs as he pulls me against him. Inside, the head of his cock presses against something I’ve never felt before, something that makes me need release even though I just came. Thorn must feel it, too, because his eyes meet mine and he rolls his hips with every thrust, hitting that spot over and over again as I cry out and throw my head back.

“Don’t pull out,” I whisper as I climb higher and higher. “When you come, don’t pull out.”

“I don’t have any condoms,” he warns me.

“I’m on the pill.” I’ve never been more grateful for it than I am right now. I need Thorn inside me, more than anything.

As I surrender to the tidal wave one more time, I feel my muscles clench around his shaft. Thorn tenses, his cock growing larger inside me. Finally, he rocks hard against me one more time.

“Isabel!” he roars. He comes so hard I can feel his liquid heat as he as he empties himself inside me. I close my eyes, arching my neck back at how good it feels to be filled up by him like this. I feel whole. Complete.

At some point, while I’m still in the throes of pleasure, Thorn unties my wrists. He pulls me to him, cradling me in his powerful arms as he takes me into the bed next to him. He pulls the covers up over us. I wrap my arms around him tightly and try to still my breathing and my hammering heart, as though I’m clinging onto him for dear life. When my breath finally calms, I slip into the deepest sleep I’ve had in months.

* * *

We end up staying at the cabin for more than a week.

I know in theory we’re still in danger. And I know I should hate being here, isolated and in hiding. But I don’t. Not at all.

Unlike the boredom I felt at the safe house, being here — with Thorn — starts to feel almost like a vacation to me. Sometimes I even find myself forgetting the reason we’re here in the first place.

During the day, we watch movies, make love, talk, eat. Thorn is still watchful, and even tense at times. But he seems to have started to believe I’m not going anywhere. Sometimes he goes outside to make a call, or brood, or think. He doesn’t tell me who he’s calling, or what’s being said, and I don’t ask. I occupy myself during his absences by reading my borrowed Kindle. Every leading man in every romance novel I read becomes Thorn. Every sex scene I read makes me seek him out to satisfy the ache between my legs. I find little ways to tease him, seduce him subtly and not so subtly, making it seem like I’m not doing it on purpose. I wear the skimpiest clothes I can find, and then ask Thorn to build up the fire until it’s so hot inside the cabin that I have to take even more things off. Or I take a shower, and come out of the bathroom with a tiny towel wrapped around me and wander around until he grabs me and pulls it off.

I can’t remember being happier in my life. It’s almost like we’re really on a honeymoon, like Thorn told the woman at the resort office we were.

We’re here so long that eventually, Thanksgiving comes. Thorn surprises me by going into town one morning while I’m still sleeping and getting a chicken to roast. “Sorry, we’ll have to pretend it’s a turkey,” he says with a twinkle in his eye when he comes back with the groceries. “And I got some of that cranberry sauce shite in a can.”

I laugh. “Actually, I love that stuff. I don’t know what it is about the canned version, but I like it better than actual cranberries.”

“So, actual cranberries are real?” he asks dubiously. “I thought they were just a fake thing. Like circus peanuts.”

“Oh, circus peanuts,” I croon. “I like those, too.”

“What in the fuck is wrong with you, woman?” Thorn looks seriously offended. “Those are the Devil’s sweets.”

“Don’t hate,” I shoot back.

“I’m not hating,” he frowns. “I just think you might be needing your head examined.”

I’m feeling happy and festive as I cobble together a sort of Thanksgiving dinner from what we have on hand. Thorn, of course, doesn’t really care about the holiday. I’m touched that he even remembered it, much less thought to let me celebrate it. I spend the day cooking as he sits on the couch and tries to find something to watch on TV. We watch part of the Macy’s parade, which he thinks is stupid, and I argue with him just because it’s fun.

When the food is ready, we sit down at the tiny kitchen table and eat. Thorn opens a bottle of beer for each of us. I’ve overdone the chicken a little, and the mashed potatoes are from a bag. But even so, strangely, this is the most fun I can remember having at Thanksgiving since I was a kid. Even Thorn seems to be feeling it a little, as he loosens up and consents to talking about himself more than I’ve been able to get him to since I met him.

“You don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in Ireland, right? Obviously,” I ask, lifting a forkful of chicken to my mouth.

“No. ‘Course not.” He smirks at me in amusement, and I resist the urge to feel dumb for asking the question.

“You must have done Thanksgiving before, though, since you’ve been living in the States?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugs. “Mostly, I just leave the day to you lot.”

I’m quiet for a second. I want to know more, but I’m afraid he’ll be angry if I push.

“Do you miss the holidays in Ireland?” I finally ask. “Christmas?”

Thorn blinks. “Sort of,” he shrugs, and leans back in his chair. “It’s been a long time now. I don’t think about it much.”

“It must be… a little strange spending it here,” I venture. “Without your family.”

“My family was sort of rubbish.” He snorts softly. “Except for Jimmy.”

Something in the way his voice goes flat catches my attention. Thorn’s staring ahead, into space, and I can see he’s momentarily lost in thought. My gut twists; suddenly, I’m sure there’s a story behind his words. A story that will tell me more about Thorn than almost anything else.

I want him to keep talking, but I’m terrified one wrong word will slam the door shut.

“Who’s Jimmy?” I finally say, holding my breath.

Thorn glances over at me, almost as though he’s surprised there’s someone else there. “Oh, Jimmy,” he says in an offhand tone. “He was me cousin.”

Was.

“I grew up with him. Lived in the same house with him. His ma was my ma’s sister.”

“Were you the same age?”

“Eh? Oh, no. He was seven years younger.” The ghost of a smile plays on Thorn’s lips. “He was sort of a younger version of meself, though. The two of us had mothers who didn’t amount to much. Mine was a boozer. My da’ was long gone. Jimmy’s ma came to live with us when Jimmy was born. She was a piece of work, that one.” His mouth curls in disgust. “She whored around, always lookin’ for a man to take care of her. But all she did was bring her mess back to the house, for the rest of us to deal with.”

Thorn’s slight accent thickens just a bit as he talks. I don’t interrupt, waiting for him to go on.

“Our mas were gone a fair amount. So it fell to me to take care of Jimmy. I didn’t mind it. He was a good little lad. He looked up to me. Imagine that.” Thorn snickers, but the sound has a sad ring to it. He sighs. “My aunt would bring this endless string of scumbags around, each of them worse than the last. Eventually, she brought ‘round the worst of the lot.” He sneers. “Eamon Bernagh.”

Thorn turns to me. “I was born in a place called Finglas. I don’t imagine you’ve heard of it.” When I shake my head, he continues. “It’s part of Dublin. A part known for stabbings and shootings. And all manner of criminal activity. Eamon Bernagh was a petty thug with delusions of grandeur. Somehow, my aunt Yvonne fell in with him. Well, he brought all his shite along with him, didn’t he? He ran afoul of the wrong people, trying to take too big a piece of the pie for himself.

“One day, Eamon came to our place asking for Yvonne to hide him. She said yes, even though she knew my ma would never have allowed it. We didn’t know anything about it until later. All we knew was that suddenly, Eamon was hanging around all the time. This was one of the rare times that both my ma and Yvonne were working, so I was responsible for making sure Jimmy got home from school, did his schoolwork, didn’t open the door to strangers and whatnot. ‘Course, I was sixteen years old. Babysitting my cousin wasn’t my idea of a good time.” The slight smile he gives me is tinged with regret. “Bit of a delinquent, even then.

“One day I left the apartment to talk to a girl I was interested in who lived in our block.” Thorns eyes grow somber, distant. “When I came back, the door was open and I could hear noises inside. There were two men, toward the back of the house, and they had Jimmy. I knew who they must be looking for.

“We had a gun in the house, because of Eamon. In the drawer of Yvonne’s nightstand. I knew more about guns at that age than I ought. I knew how to use it.” Thorn grimaces. “Trouble was, I couldn’t get a clear shot. The thug trying to scare Jimmy into telling him where Eamon was had a gun to his head.”

Thorn takes a deep breath in, and when he lets it out, there’s a dead weight to his voice I’ve never heard before. “I was afraid I’d shoot Jimmy instead of him.” Thorn’s voice cracks as he says these words. He clears his throat, looking down and shaking his head, sorrow etched in his features. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are filled with pain. “He was just a kid. I loved the little bugger,” he rasps. “But that was just the problem. I hesitated just a second too long.” He clears his throat again. “The thug looked up, saw me, and pulled the trigger. Not sure he meant to, but he blew Jimmy’s head off all the same. I took aim and shot him. Then I shot the other man who came in from looking through the house trying to find whatever it was Eamon had that they wanted.”

“Thorn,” I whisper, my hand covering my mouth. “Oh my God.”

“The first fucker died,” he continues tiredly, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. “The second one lived, long enough to tell his boss who shot him, at least. They got Eamon the next day.” Thorn stands up and goes to a cupboard. He opens it and takes out a bottle of amber-colored liquid, then a shot glass. “I ran for it. Hid out at a friend’s house for a couple of days. My ma was able to scrape together some money for a plane ticket.” He pours himself a shot, and downs it. “She sent me to live with an uncle in America.”

“That’s why you haven’t been back,” I murmur. Suddenly, I feel cold.

“There’s still a price on my head. There’s no going back.” Thorn shakes his head and pours another shot. “And anyway, I wouldn’t want to be there. Memories of Jimmy would be everywhere. Seein’ all the things he’d never get to grow up to do. And knowin’ it’s my fault.”

“Thorn…” I begin, but stop. I want to say it’s not his fault, because it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. But I know instinctively that he doesn’t want to hear it. I watch as he downs another shot and immediately spills out a third one.

“So,” he concludes grimly. “I left Ireland. I came to the States. Got work with me uncle. Eventually, I fell in with the Lords.” He looks at me with a wry, tight half-smile. “And now I’m here.”

I hold his gaze. “Thank you for telling me that, Thorn,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods, but looks away, his mind already elsewhere. “I’m going to go get some air,” he announces, standing up.

He takes the bottle with him.

I watch him walk out the door into the night. The spell between us is broken. I don’t try to follow him. As much as I want to heal the hurt that clearly still burns inside him, I know I can’t. I know he needs to be alone right now.

I get up and put the food away. I wash the dishes. An hour later, he’s still not back.

My heart feels like it’s cracking in half. I get ready for bed, look miserably out the window into the dark, and finally slip under the cold covers, hoping that Thorn will come help me warm them in the night.