still fixed on hers. “Yeah, I have.”
“You’re very good at it.”
He chuckled softly. “I get my share of practice.”
“And is there a girl—a special girl—that you kiss more often than other girls?” Nan asked. “Maybe one that you’re going to be kissing for the rest of your life?”
Riley chuckled. “No. There was, but …”
His voice trailed off, leaving her curious. “But?”
“She took off a few years ago. She wanted a wee bit more out of life than a part-time barkeep and a singer with a mediocre voice could give her. She lives in Galway now with her husband.”
“Then you’re free to kiss anyone you want.”
“That I am,” Riley said. He took another step closer. “Would that be an invitation?”
Nan drew a deep breath. She wanted to scream her answer. Yes! Kiss me again, throw me down on the bed, rip off my clothes. “I’m not sure. If it was, would you accept it?”
“Well, why don’t we just give it a try?” He reached out and smoothed his hands around her waist, then drew her closer. His mouth came down on hers, softly at first. And then his tongue traced a path along the edge of her lips and Nan opened her mouth, her tongue meeting his. She was already familiar with his taste, but she wasn’t expecting the rush of desire that coursed through her.
Suddenly, the kiss wasn’t enough. She wanted him to touch her, to pull her body against his, to overwhelm her with his own need. She splayed her fingers against his chest, his body all hard muscle beneath her touch.
It was obvious from the way he slowly seduced her with his mouth that he knew exactly what he was doing. He kissed her exactly the way a woman would want to be kissed, deeply and romantically, and Nan did her best to keep up.
Riley turned her around and pressed her back against the wall of the bedroom, catching her hands and pinning them on either side of her head. Nan felt vulnerable, exposed, her desire evident in every ragged breath she took. Her heart slammed inside her chest, blood rushing through her veins and setting every nerve afire.
When he finally stepped back, she nearly collapsed onto the floor. She’d never really been kissed like that before. Was it an Irish thing? Did Irish men practice more than American men? Or had she just spent too much time with men who didn’t really know what they were doing?
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
He cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’m going to leave you now. I’ll see you later?”
“Yes,” she said. Strangely, one-word answers were all she could manage.
He gave her one last kiss, then strode out of the room. Nan stood numbly against the wall and listened as the car started outside. The sound of the engine faded into the distance and it was only then that she allowed herself to breathe normally.
Stumbling to the bed, she quickly sat down, clutching the quilt in her fingers as she tried to regain her composure. Oh, she’d had a lot of expectations for this vacation. But she’d never once dreamed that this would happen. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and closed her eyes, instantly recalling how incredible he was. Then with a groan, she flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Her mind was racing, trying to put order to her thoughts. This was how Heathcliff had kissed Cathy, how Rhett had kissed Scarlett. It was epic in its sheer sexual power. It was pure fantasy. And she wanted to experience it, again and again, until she’d had enough.
Was this why her mother had found Ireland so enchanting? Maybe Laura Daley had come to Ireland and had a wonderful romance, swept away by an Irish boy with dark hair and sexy blue eyes. And maybe they’d had to part, their desire impossible to satisfy with an ocean—and half a continent—between them.
Nan scrambled over the bed, crossing her legs in front of her, and rummaged through her carry-on. She found her camera and flipped it on, then held it at arm’s length and took a picture of herself.
The photo came up on the display screen and she studied her image. She didn’t look any different than she had when she left home yesterday. Her hair was still the same dark, short-cropped style, and her skin was still impossibly pale. Maybe she was just more attractive to Irish men than American men.
Her stomach growled and she pressed her hand to her belly. She should have been ready for a nap, ready to recover from a case of jet lag. But instead, Nan felt energized. She threw open her suitcase and pulled out her shampoo and soap. She’d take a shower, get dressed and walk down to the village for a late lunch—with Riley.
With a laugh, she jumped off the bed and stripped out of her clothes. “I love Ireland,” she murmured. “And I adore Irish men.”
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