Chapter 10
I WALKED OUT of the bedroom. Colleen was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to me, her head bent over her laptop, studying for her citizenship exam. She’d already drained her mug of tea down to the dregs. Yep, this was a good place to be.
I moved her long, dark, very lovely braid aside and kissed the nape of her neck. She turned, closed her morning glory blue eyes, and lifted her face. I kissed her again. I loved kissing Colleen Molloy, never tired of it.
But did I love Colleen? Truly love her? Sometimes I was sure that I did. But then I wondered if I could love anyone, really love them. Or was I too self-centered, too bruised and battered by my father?
She said, “You could get another hour’s beauty sleep, boy-o.”
I took in the Irish lilt in her voice, the black Irish coloring, and how she smelled of rosewater.
“I’m going to be late for my power coffee with Chief Fescoe.” I gave Colleen another kiss and took her mug to the sink. I rinsed it out with hot water and poured her a fresh “cuppa” from the teapot. I hadn’t completely put the murder out of my mind. But I needed to.
“Watch that someone doesn’t knock seven kinds of lightning out of you,” she said.
“And why would they do that?”
“Because a’ you standing there as naked as a miley goat, telling me you’re leaving to go to work, work, work.”
I laughed, and Colleen finally came into my arms, put her small hands on my ass. I wanted to try and go with it.
“I’m going to bar the door,” she said, giving my cheeks a squeeze. “Seriously, Jack.”
She’d gotten to me already. How did she do that? Zero to rock hard in five seconds.
“You’re a witch,” I said, pulling her robe down from her shoulders. I hoisted her into my arms so that her legs wrapped around my waist, and I pressed her back against the refrigerator door. She squealed at the touch of the cold metal.
Colleen had once told me a joke: “What’s Irish foreplay?”
I gave her the punch line now. “Brace yourself, darlin’.”
She sucked in her breath, the two of us panting as the limited contents of the refrigerator rattled and danced to our beat.
“Sorry I made you late,” she said when we were done. Her sweet, toothy grin said she wasn’t sorry at all.
I smacked her bottom. “As long as I didn’t make you late.”
I left her standing under a hot shower, rosy cheeked and humming an old rock song she loved, “Come on, Eileen.”
I set her burglar alarm, locked the door behind me, and ran down the stairs. Getting seven kinds of lightning knocked out of me hadn’t felt too bad, actually. But now I needed to work, work, work.