Bree

I’ve dreamed about this. Craved his touch. But more, I wanted one night with the boy who inspired my belief in white knights and happy endings.

Cheesy? Maybe.

But it was a fantasy that had gotten me through some pretty shitty times.

Why shouldn’t I take what I want?

His hand cups the back of my neck and he leans closer, his body inches from mine. So close I can feel the heat of his body like a magnet pulling me towards him, and burning away all sense of propriety.

I came here for this. For him. Used the last of my savings. Quit my shitty job. Boarded a three-hundred-tonne piece of metal and flew across a damn ocean just to see him again. I just didn’t think it would happen this soon. If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t really think it would happen at all.

And especially not like this.

One night.

That’s all he’s willing to give.

But, despite my own admission that it’s all I want, too, I know it’ll never be enough.

If I let him kiss me, touch me…take me…I don’t know if I’ll survive the heartbreak of losing him a second time.

You’re being pathetic, my brain scolds. It’s just sex. Keep your emotions out of it and take what you’ve dreamt about every night for the past ten years.

Except that it isn’t just sex.

It will be for him.

But, for me, all my emotions have been wrapped up in him, or, at least, the pre-teen memory of him, for so long, it’s hard to separate the two. I know how pitiful it is, wanting someone who doesn’t want you, who doesn’t even remember your existence. But those memories – the small kindnesses he showed me before my whole world flipped on its axis – without them, I’m not sure I’d have survived the nightmare that became my life after leaving Ireland.

Gray eyes study me, consume me, and wait for me to make a move. But trepidation holds me back, makes me hesitate from taking what he’s offering.

His head tilts and he raises a brow at me, eyes both playful and intense, filled with wicked promise, and more patience than I expect from a man who has throngs of women worshipping at his feet.

“Kiss me,” he demands, his rough breaths filling the air, diminishing the space between us.

A shiver travels down my spine and pools in my core.

I place my palm on the dark scruff of his jaw, my fingers tingling at the feel of the coarse hair. He doesn’t move as I run my thumb across his bottom lip, but I feel the small vibration of a silent growl.

Sucking in a deep breath, I press back the self-doubt, the fear, the lack of tomorrows, and let desire rule over every other emotion.

His fingers remain tangled in the hair at the back of my neck, and they tighten a little harder when I lean closer.

Gaze never wavering from his, my mouth is so close I can almost taste his kiss.

Lust knots in my stomach, vibrating in my thighs, pooling at my core.

“One night,” I whisper, more as a reminder to myself, my tongue darting out across my own lips as I anticipate the kiss.

A rumble vibrates in his throat as I brush my lips against his.

I whimper at the contact, jolts of pleasure racing through me.

Owen.

I deepen the kiss, shifting to straddle him as my fingers curl in his hair desperately.

His lips are soft, gentle—a contrast to his rough breath, and the way his strong hands roam down my back lifting me so that I can feel the hard length of his erection pressing against my belly through the fabric of his jeans.

My head is spinning as I intensify the kiss. Mouth desperate, as I arch against him, liquid heat pooling in my core.

I fight between the desire to run my hands over his bare chest, shoulders, and back, keeping my fingers locked in his hair. He makes the choice for me, flipping me on my back in the center of the bed, the movement making me lose my grip.

His hand skirts under my tank top, palming my breast, his thumb circling my already painfully tight nipple, as he moves between my thighs.

His intense gaze locks on me, and my belly does one of those fluttering things when I see the primal, animal-like look there. I could get lost in him, in the storm gray eyes that threaten to devour me.

Sparks race across my skin as Owen’s fingers tease across the bare flesh at my hip. I clutch at him, digging my fingers into his back, my body aching for more.

I know I’ll regret this.

The lie.

The lust.

The caving to my own primal need.

But, right now, I don’t care. Because this is so much more than just a childish crush. It’s a claiming of everything I lost.

Even if it’s just for one night.

I can’t stand the thought of losing him again, but worse is the thought of never having him.

“Owen.” His name is a plea on my lips when his fingers slide beneath my panties, palming my hot sex.

“My God, Bree,” he growls into my ear. “So fucking wet for me.”

I whimper at his words, a shudder escaping me as his thumb rests against my clit.

How many times had I dreamed about this?

So. Much. Better.

A haze of desire and lust surrounds us. His mouth finds one nipple, and I swear I nearly come from the way his tongue licks and swirls, before giving a soft little tug with teeth. Heated, callused palms graze my skin. Goosebumps flash across my flesh, and I swallow the thick knot that’s formed in my throat.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

Two things I hate being. But with him, right now, I wanted to be.

Shamelessly, I arch towards him, running my hands down his back until I find the waist of his jeans.

“Off,” I beg through a whimper.

He chuckles, ready to comply, when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket and he mutters a curse. Pulling it out, he frowns and gives a shake of his head before turning it off and tossing it on the table beside the bed. But, a few seconds later, the room phone starts ringing.

“Bloody fecking hell,” Owen growls, reaching out and answering it. “What?”