Craving Resurrection
Page 24

I’d been in that pub more times than I could count, but I’d never seen them there before. I’d idiotically thought that I could avoid it all there, that the tiny pub only two streets away from the university was somehow shielded from the things I tried to ignore. Naïve, perhaps, but I’d been frequenting the place for over two years and it was the first time I’d seen anything that would keep me from coming back.
My body grew more tense as the small guy leaned down behind a slight blonde woman who was laughing merrily with her friends.
She froze with one hand in the air as she heard his voice. She knew him, but it was clear she didn’t like him. Her eyes went wide as she faced my way, but I knew she wasn’t seeing me. I was tucked back at the end of the bar, and her eyes were unfocused as she began to nod at whatever he was saying. When his fingers began to dig into her shoulder, it took every ounce of restraint I had not to stand from my stool.
Instead, I watched as he let her go and went to a separate table with his men. As he got comfortable, ordering a pint loudly enough for the entire place to hear him, she began making excuses to her friends with a small, uncomfortable smile on her face. She left just minutes later, and in a moment of absolute stupidity, I followed her.
“Miss, are ye alright?” I asked quietly when I’d caught up to her a few blocks away.
She screeched in reply, swinging around to meet me with her hands held up in a defensive pose. I’d scared her… and Christ, she was gorgeous.
“What de hell is de matter wit’ ye?” she scolded, her arms dropping as she looked at my face. I’m quite sure I looked like an idiot as I stared at her. She was flawless. Honey colored curls were wild and untamed around her heart shaped face and partially covering wide brown eyes with long curled lashes and a little bow mouth with a fuller bottom lip. Her thick sweater hid most of her torso from me, but it couldn’t disguise her high breasts and slim waist that tapered down to an arse that seemed too wide and round to match the rest of her. Perfection. She was absolutely perfect in a way that stopped men in their tracks and caused women to scowl defensively.
“I know ye,” she said. Then all of a sudden, she was blushing. Her blushing face was even better.
“Huh?”
“We have a few classes toget’er. I’m Moira Murphy.”
“Sorry, beautiful, it’s not ringin’ a bell.” Her face fell and I could have kicked myself. Fuck. I should have lied.
“Oh, well…” She ran a hand over her curly hair and laughed uncomfortably. “Right, well, yes, I’m fine and t’ank ye for askin.’ I’ll just be headin’ home now.”
She spun away from me and began walking briskly down the dark street before I pulled my head out of my arse and stopped her again. I couldn’t let her get away. “Me flat’s just around de corner,” I told her, tilting my head to the side and giving her my most charming smile. “If yer not ready to go home just yet.”
Things were a bit fuzzy as I waited for her answer. I’d been so fucking tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop, I’d had more than I should have at the pub. I knew I was playing with fire, but the thought of fucking with that man in the pub—the embodiment of every reason I’d not had a father as I grew, was too delicious to resist. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to fuck her so well that I ruined her for that asshole who’d ruined her night out. And frankly, I wanted to forget for a while that the shit around me was getting thicker and I was so goddamn homesick that I could barely follow through with the plans I’d had since primary school.
She was built for sex and the way she’d told me she knew who I was made me confident. She’d seen me, and she’d liked what she saw.
Moira looked back the way we came for a moment, then sniffed defiantly. “Alright,” she answered, her voice confident.
Soon the only thought running through my mind was the unlikely chance that my level of consumption would hamper my ability to perform. The longer we were outside, the more fuzzy my head became, the last few Guinness’ I’d consumed finally catching up with me. I wasn’t even sure how we made it back to my flat with the way I was feeling. I’m sure it had been sheer will on my part. The woman had curves in all the right places, and a way of moving her body that assured me that she knew exactly how she looked.
I was so hot for her by the time we got inside, we didn’t even make it to the bed before I was inside her. I was frustrated and angry and looking for anything that would make me feel better. We were ravenous, the both of us, and I was just drunk enough to think that she found me as appealing as I did her. It never once occurred to me that she’d have a different reason for ripping the clothes from my body.
I’d find out later that we’d both been running from things that night—the heavy weight of responsibilities, fear, threats, worries, and in her case, oppression. We explored each other long into the night, the need arcing between us leaving no room in our brains for anything beyond the ache for satiation. Exactly what I’d hoped for.
It wasn’t until the next morning as I awoke to the telephone ringing on my counter, that the crushing weight of my responsibilities and unspoken promises broke through the haze of lust and alcohol. She was already gone, but my sheets smelled of sex and the perfume she’d been wearing, a reminder of what I’d done.
As I climbed naked from the twisted bedding, I rubbed my hand down my face. The interaction in the bar had been a clear indication that she was somehow connected to the life I was trying so fucking hard to stay away from, and the new worry was like a weight in my gut. She was a nice girl, the few times we’d spoken when our mouths were not otherwise occupied led me to believe she was intelligent, and she had a dry sense of humor that was at odds with her sweet face. If life was different, there was a good chance I would have pursued her. Her personality, however, didn’t change matters. My only recourse was to refuse to acknowledge that it had even happened should I run into her again.