Still and all, she was learning he wasn’t a man likely to give up easily.
Eventually she’d be back in Ireland and he would, too. No matter how clever she was, she couldn’t hide forever.
Her pulse still faster than normal, she crossed to the small octagonal-shaped table near the door and dropped her handbag on top. The oversized bag had enough cargo capacity for her to make a quick escape if needed.
She dug in the cavernous depths of her bag for her mobile phone. After she located it, she checked the time back home. It was very early morning in Ireland, which meant she might wake up people.
She scrolled through her address book and dialled her mother’s number. She had a calling card so ringing wouldn’t cost a small fortune, but truthfully, at this point, peace of mind was worth almost any cost.
After ten rings, she punched the ‘off’ button. Then she rang her cousin in Murrisk, a small town in the shadow of Ireland’s holy mountain, Croagh Patrick. She got a perky, annoying voice mail. Her aunt in Westport didn’t answer, either. So she left another message.
Sinead told herself not to worry. Her mother might be getting on in age, but she walked every day, and was as hale and hearty as a north wind. Her aunts were in fine health, and her few cousins were young and vigorous, even if none of them had yet to produce a child. Quinn had been right. As it stood, there weren’t many of her line left.
She knew rationally that if there were bad news, someone from home would ring her. She was learning, though, that when it came to worry, rational thought didn’t matter. It was always possible her family might decide not to bother her while she was so far away.
If she didn’t get a return call by the time she’d finished her bath, she’d start dialling again.
That settled, she sent text messages to Brandon and the rest of the band members to let them know she was safe. After dropping the mobile on the table, she pulled her shirt over her head then unzipped her kilt and wiggled out of it. In her usual manner, she left both articles of clothing in an untidy heap on the bright purple carpeting.
She was glad she’d been booked into this hotel. Its unique designs suited her. The chairs and settee were oddly shaped. The lamps and table decorations were crafted from bold geometric designs. The walls were painted primary colours, and their contrast worked surprisingly well with the carpet.
It was a good thing the pub was footing the bill. She was on tour to earn much-needed funds for her family. Her bankbook would never stretch far enough to cover this sort of expense.
Once she’d toed off her shoes and taken off her socks, she padded into the bathroom, enjoying the sensation of cool ceramic beneath her feet.
One had to love any place that actually had a bidet, she thought. Orgasm in a bowl.
It’d been so long since she’d had a climax, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost, but not quite. And after a day like today, a rush of endorphins was exactly what she needed.
For now, ignoring the bidet in favour of a hot, relaxing bath, she cranked open the bathtub’s faucet and adjusted the temperature from warm to scalding. As the tub filled, she stripped off her bra and knickers.
Then, standing in the bathroom naked, she reconsidered the bidet.
How long
had
it been? Her schedule left her tired. When she wasn’t on tour with the band, she ran her family’s bed-and-breakfast. Turning their home into overnight accommodations and adding self-catering cottages had been the only way to save their ancestral estate. Every penny she made on the road, she sent home. So far, her family was managing, but the personal cost to her was great. She was as tired as she was lonely. But honestly, the unrelenting demands left her without much of a craving for sex.
Even if that hadn’t been the case, she’d taken enough verbal lashings from her former fiancé to last a lifetime and make her wary of letting another man so close.
Donal had been everything she thought she wanted in a man. He was rich, successful, dedicated to the land and a shared heritage. He made it clear they’d live at her ancestral home, raise their children on the grounds. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again, and neither would her mother or other family members.
Her family had loved him; she’d loved him. They’d seen him as more than a knight in shining armour—they’d seen him as lord and saviour rolled into one.
She’d tried. Heaven knew she’d tried.
But sex had been totally, completely, mind-numbingly boring.
One night before bed he’d come out of the bathroom. He’d looked sexy, fresh from the shower, dark blond hair damp, a few drops of water still glistening on his body. He’d asked what she was reading and she’d shyly showed him the BDSM novel. The cover had a woman’s bare buttocks on it, and it was clear she was turned over a man’s knee.
Donal had gasped in outrage.
“Don’t be filling your head with that nonsense.”
She’d been embarrassed by his reaction, but she’d persevered. “Don’t you ever get a bit bored by the sex we have?”
“Certainly not. And it should be good enough for you, as well.”
It wasn’t and it never would’ve been. She’d learned to fantasise and pleasure herself while he was already asleep.
A few months later, he’d got on one knee and presented her with an engagement ring and asked her to marry him immediately. Her heart had pounded wildly with dread when the oversized diamond had winked in the light.
She couldn’t accept.
Despite her family’s plight, despite his warning that she’d never find another man to tolerate her ridiculous ideas, she’d closed the box and returned it.
She couldn’t live with his bucolic expectations. In bed, out of bed, he didn’t allow her to be who she really was. Seeing the ring made her realise she couldn’t pretend any longer. She didn’t want to.
She had naughty urges and wouldn’t settle for a life of missionary ‘are you done yet’ sex. She’d rather go without than endure like a martyr.
He had been clear that he wanted marriage and children and he’d wanted her to be a good little wife and raise them while he provided for his family’s needs.
He’d told her to forget dancing, drumming, piping, wild, screaming, blow-your-head-off sex. On the other hand, he’d be pleased and life would be grand if she could spend a wee bit longer perfecting her Yorkshire pudding recipe.
Since then, there’d been an occasional one-night stand. The one man she’d explored BDSM with had been the only one who came close to giving her the kind of climax she wanted.
She’d told Quinn the truth of it earlier. She rarely had sex. She’d learned that one-night stands were emotionally draining. She hated the morning-after awkwardness. Over the past few years, she’d dated a few men, but rarely for longer than a couple of weeks. Her travel schedule and familial obligations made relationships even more complicated. She’d taken to wearing cheeky T-shirts as armour. Still, some men initially thought the printed sayings were a joke.
They weren’t. For the right man they were an invitation.
If he could see past the wording, see what she really wanted…
She wanted a man who was persistent enough to crack her reserve, see the flaws beneath and not let it matter while she experienced the crazy carnival of lust.
Dreamer.
That’s what her mother, as practical as Sinead herself, would have said.
Sinead had responsibilities and obligations, a family business to preserve. She had to be focussed, she reminded herself. Practical. None of that ridiculous man nonsense for her.
The bathtub finally full, she turned off the tap and sank into the depths. She rested her head on the tub’s rim, letting the water cover her up to her neck.
And from where she was lying in the tub, she had a perfect view of the bidet.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes to block out the sight.
And she saw images of
him
, the obnoxious, overbearing, handsome Quinn.
Damn it; damn him.
She hated him, and yet she was mortifyingly aroused.
After a second sigh, she opened her eyes again.
What could it hurt?
If she had an orgasm, maybe she could stop thinking about him, stop thinking about sex, stop thinking about being across his knee while he flipped up her skirt and yanked down her knickers.
Yielding to the tempo of need drumming inside her, she climbed from the bath and turned on the bidet’s tap. She dried off with a towel as the water warmed.
She checked the temperature, knowing she liked it warm. She made an adjustment then rechecked the heat before dropping the towel.
She moved into position over the water’s hot stream. It felt good, but she spread her labia so she could get more pressure on her clit. She rocked her hips slowly, trying to find the pace that would take her over the top.
The water on her pussy felt sublime.
But she couldn’t quite get there…
In her mind, she heard his voice, steel wrapped in velvet, as he threatened to give her a good hiding.
Those words shouldn’t have excited her or thrilled her, but they had.
His eyes had darkened and there’d been a determined set to his jaw. Despite her bravado, she had no doubt he was man enough for her.
And if that hadn’t turned her inside out, the smile when he’d worked his way onto the stage would have. He was clearly a man accustomed to women giving him anything he wanted.
She was determined not to be one of them.
But with his dark good looks and cool determination—crikey, he’d been a step behind her for six thousand miles without giving up—Jack wasn’t like any other man she’d ever met. It was the kind of resolve that turned her on even as it annoyed the hell out of her.
The image of his eyes, lightning-intense and striking, made her weak. With a soft sigh, she held her labia apart with one hand, fingered the small nub of her clit and tilted her hips forward a little more. The warm water caressed her like a man would.
Like he would?
And truthfully was that what she wanted?
Or did she want something more?
When she masturbated, she had fantasies of being tied up, of being helpless as an orgasm was wrung from her.
She told herself that it didn’t matter if Jack Quinn were the man to give her what she craved. She’d never betray her family or herself by sleeping with the enemy, so she’d never know.
Sinead tried to chase thoughts of him from her mind. She kept her labia spread, then moved her other hand to cup her left breast and tease the nipple. The steaming water made her clit swell more and more.
She heard his words repeat in her mind as he told her that when he went home, she’d be by his side.
Ha.
Sinead made her own decisions.
Imigh sa diabhal
! The d
evil take him.
Determinedly, she summoned one of her favourite fantasies. She’d place her hands on her hips and face down a larger, taller man who refused to be intimidated by her. Why not? It was
her
fantasy and that meant the man of her creation wouldn’t care that her T-shirt told him to bugger off. He’d be unimpressed when she told him to take a walk in short, jerky motions.
In her imaginings, she’d be abducted by this stranger and be made to surrender to his darkest desires, desires that matched her own. Sinead knew she was a strong, powerful woman, but the imagery was compelling and seductive. She yearned to have control yanked away, and yank it he would. And because she was helpless in his grasp, she could abdicate responsibility. Nothing but her pleasure would matter.
This man would claim her. Toss her over his shoulder. He’d keep her captive with his artfully tied knots and cleverly devised bonds. He’d torment and tease. He’d see through her sarcasm to her vulnerabilities. He’d cherish her, but tolerate no nonsense. He’d be the strength to the softness he’d bring out in her.
His tongue would caress her clit; he’d suck on it, lick it. He’d keep her pinned beneath him till she screamed her surrender, until she admitted he was not only her equal but her master…
He’d demand her active participation. He’d hold her chin captive, much as Jack had at the pub. Her imaginary man would bluntly inform her he would not settle for anything less than her total commitment, emotionally and physically. He would not tolerate her simply saying the words and going through the motions.
She’d blossom, become aware of her sexuality.
And—
And—
Her fantasy began to unravel as Jack Quinn once again took centre stage. She no longer saw a nameless stranger, but a frightening enemy. Quinn had stormed into her life with his ridiculous ideas, commanding presence and unsettling words.
Didn’t that beat all?
She tried to shut out his image by pretending she’d never set eyes on him.
With her jaw clenched, she fought desperately for a climax, squeezing her clitoris, pinching her nipples, gyrating her hips.
And there was…nothing. Nothing at all. It was as if the building sensations simply vanished.