The Golden Hour Page 2

  I can’t remember. Most of the women I meet in my line of work are models and actresses. Jaded. Confident. Predatory. I take their photograph, and in many instances, also take them to bed. The transactions are always mutually beneficial, but they’re just that… transactions.

  Void of emotional intimacy.

  “What are you frowning about?” asks Snow White.

  Taking your photograph.

  Your skin in the soft light of dawn.

  Avoiding her eyes, I finish my drink. There’s honest, and then there’s straight stupid. I need to pay and leave, crash for a solid ten hours, think about tomorrow. About who I have to see.

  But I can’t make myself move.

  “I was thinking about my mom.”

  Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened to my filter?

  “She lives here?”

  I nod, my lips clamped shut. Clearly the whiskey on an empty stomach was a bad idea.

  “How long has it been?” she asks, gentle but direct, like she’s unused to asking such personal questions.

  Maybe she is bad at small talk. It’s kind of refreshing, even though her question sends heat marching up my spine. Part of me wants to snap at her, tell her to leave me in peace. If there’s one thing I don’t do—with anyone—it’s talk about my family.

  But there’s something about this woman. Or maybe about this place, shrouded in mist and sea spray. And the night outside—true darkness born of minimal streetlights and family-owned businesses that close at sunset. When I drove into town, I felt weirdly enveloped, as though I passed into another time in a world not my own.

  “About eight years,” I answer my unsuspecting confessor. I offer a pitiful smile. “Don’t judge me.”

  “You won’t find any judgement here. Would you like another drink?”

  God, her voice. It drips with sincerity, smooth as silk with a hint of barbed wire. More intoxicating than any whiskey.

  “Yes, please.” My own voice is rougher than intended, sharp with the effect she has on me.

  She blinks at me, eyes large and startled. My head spins. She looks familiar suddenly, like a half-remembered dream just outside my reach. For a split second, I’m convinced I’ve met her before.

  Then she spins away, dark braid swinging, and reaches up for the bottle of whiskey, and all I can think about is the gentle flare of her hips and the way her perky ass would feel in my hands.

  3

  Grace avoids me for the next half hour—not an easy task in an almost empty bar. But between tending the final booth of customers, sweeping the floor, and restocking napkins and whatever else, she stays busy.

  I almost convince myself to leave three or four times, but instead I nurse my drink and think about what it would take to seduce Snow White. My half-drunk head spins fantasies of feeding her juicy red apples and tying ribbons around her neck.

  Eventually I become aware of movement behind me. Heavy boots, rustling coats. The front door opens with a soft squeal as the last customers leave. I listen with half an ear as Grace bids them good night, thanks them for coming in, and try not to think about the fact we’re about to be alone. Or that she might be about to ask me to leave.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her approach the bar and me, and brace myself to be kicked out.

  A pair of boots clomps our way and a gruff, grandfatherly voice asks, “You want me to stick around, Grace? Make sure you get home safe?”

  The undercurrent of mistrust tells me he’s speaking for my benefit. I almost laugh—she’s more of a threat to me than I am to her. But I don’t say anything, just watch a series of emotions cross Grace’s face like a slideshow. Confusion, understanding, embarrassment, gratitude…

  Up until this moment, I knew exactly nothing about this woman except her voice gets me hard and I want her beneath me. Now I know she’s innocent in a way I hadn’t imagined. And probably a lot younger than I originally thought.

  I still want her.

  She has to be at least twenty-one to be working here, right?

  “Twenty-one,” I mutter, head in my hands, “I’m out of my mind.”

  “What?”

  In my mental lapse, the well-meaning grandfather said his goodbyes and left. Grace is down the bar from me with a rag in her hand and a dreamy look on her face as she stares at me.

  Even though I care less than I should, I make myself ask, “How old are you?”

  Her cheeks bloom with red, a sight I’m becoming irrationally obsessed with.

  “Why?” she asks, high and breathless.

  Screw it. I’m desperate.

  “Because I want to invite you back to my motel, but twenty-one is too young for me. Same age as my baby sister.”

  Grace blinks rapidly. “I’m twenty-five. Twenty-six next month.”

  A smile tugs my lips and her gaze dips to my mouth. She swallows hard and her lips part. My mouth waters. I can already taste her.

  Game on.

  I stand up and walk down the bar until we face each other. Vaguely, I realize my body doesn’t hurt anymore. Like an addict, I’ve relaxed because relief is coming. And I know this fix is going to give me what I need and then some.

  Turning on the charm to lethal levels, I smile broadly and offer her my hand. “Hi. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before. I’m Finnegan McCowen, because apparently my parents didn’t think the last name alone was Scottish enough. But everyone calls me Finn.”

  It works. Her lips twitch, eyes alighting with humor. “Nice to meet you, Finn.”

  After a small hesitation, her palm slides against mine. My fingers curl, greedily soaking in the feel of her soft, warm skin. My hand dwarfs hers, as I know my body will. I can’t stop staring at the contrast of masculine to feminine, large to petite, and it makes me feel weirdly protective. Like I should warn her off from me.

  I squash the thought—I fucking need her.

  Looking up, I find a similar expression of want on her face and feel like shouting in victory.

  “Come home with me.”

  Her pulse beats madly beneath the nearly translucent skin of her throat. I want to nip that trapped flutter of life. Suck it. Roll it between my teeth.

  She stares at me, dark eyes glistening with a heady mixture of surprise and lust. I want to ask if she’s ever felt this kind of instant, intense attraction, but I’m sober enough not to. No use giving her any ideas about seeing me past tonight.

  Though I’m expecting a nervous laugh and some version of I’ve never done anything like this before, she blows my mind by simply nodding.

  “I’m almost done closing.”

  Her hand leaves mine, robbing my fingers of her warmth. A moment later, a rag hits my chest. I catch it instinctively.

  “Make yourself useful, will you? Wipe down the tables and clear that booth.”

  When the words register, a rusty chuckle emerges from my chest. Another surprise. Snow White has spunk.

  I give her an exaggerated bow. “I’m your willing servant.”

  She smiles fully for the first time, and in my lust-filled haze I decide I wouldn’t mind making her smile every day forever. It transforms her from ethereal to mischievous. And far sexier than any woman has a right to be.

  I want her with a whole-body intensity that scares me.

  Grace tilts her head, brows drawing together in a cute little frown. “Maybe you should get some sleep instead?” she asks, and my mind is wiped of everything but the drive to peel off her clothes with my teeth.

  “Hell no.”

  I hustle across the room, grinning at the sound of her tinkling laughter following me.

  4

  True to his word, Finn does everything I ask him to for the next twenty minutes, including taking the trash to the dumpster out back. I’m sure it’s because he thinks he’s getting laid, which should bother me.

  I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t.

  Maybe it’s that for all his self-assurance and practiced charm, he has kind eyes. Honest eyes. And
where I come from, that’s exceedingly rare to find in a man with a face and body like his.

  I haven’t felt this reckless—or free—in my life. And really, why shouldn’t I let loose for a night? There’s no one here to judge me. Punish me. Drag me through hell as penance for daring to have fun. For attempting to be a normal woman.

  I’ve been celibate for over two years, more due to circumstance than choice, and I miss being touched. Besides, when’s the next time an opportunity like this will land in my lap?

  Tonight, I’m just a woman answering the call of her blood for the touch of a man.

  “Here we are, m’lady. The Presidential suite.”

  Finn unlocks the door to his motel room, flips on the bedside light, and invites me inside with a playful bow.

  Widening my eyes, I gaze around with feigned awe. “My God, I’ve never been anywhere this fancy.”

  When he doesn’t laugh, I turn to find his eyes on me, his jacket caught half down his arms. “You deserve more than this.” The words seem to surprise him more than me, and he turns away, yanking his jacket off and throwing it over a nearby desk chair.

  “No, I don’t,” I tell him frankly. “Besides, my boss owns this motel, and I know for a fact that the sheets are new, the mattresses are soft, and carpets are steam cleaned once a month.”

  A rough laugh bursts from him, the sound oddly forlorn. He drags a hand through his dark hair, sending the strands into orbit, then focuses his blues on my face.

  There’s no question of what he wants or when.

  Me.

  Now.

  My nipples tingle, hardening as he closes the distance between us. The single light by the bed casts most of him in shadow, but his pale eyes glint. Wolfish and hungry.

  He stops so close to me I can feel the heat of his body. Then he reaches up slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle me, and removes my ten-dollar, prescription-free glasses.

  “Can you see?”

  I nod, struck mute by his tenderness. He smiles and sets the glasses on the nearest surface—the two-seater table by the window—then returns to me. Hot fingertips feather over my cheekbone, trace the slope of one eyebrow, and lower to clasp the back of my neck beneath my braid. He effortlessly tilts my head back, drawing me forward until my breasts meet the wall of his chest. I’m too aroused to be embarrassed by my small, needy whimper.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, but doesn’t wait for a response.

  As I’m learning quickly with this man, there’s no use anticipating what he’ll say, or in this case, do. Because when I think he’ll kiss me softly in introduction, teasing me with promise of more like most men would, he does the opposite.

  He takes my mouth like he’s starving for it, and I let him in like he’s coming home, sucking in the scent of him and the faint, seductive tang of whiskey.

  But the savagery of our kiss isn’t enough. We claw at each other’s tops, yanking and tugging with no care for abraded skin. My bra tears at the clasp and is discarded. When his flannel and undershirt sail to the floor, I glimpse tattoos. A lot of tattoos, some colored, some intricate and dark. His body is a map of his life, and I want to visit each stop.

  Finn has other plans, distracting me with a searing, open-mouthed kiss that I feel all the way to my toes. Before I can recover, his hands slide beneath my thighs and I’m sailing upward. His eyes gleam as they trace my bare breasts, now situated before his face, while my fingers sink into his hair.

  “Thank you, God,” he whispers.

  I laugh, the sound dying in my throat as his mouth covers a nipple. I’m lost in the soft flicks of his tongue, the burn of his teeth, and the way he rocks me against him like I belong here. Like I’m made for the thick, hard length of him still trapped in his pants.

  I’m sparking, a live wire, the friction and stimulation borderline unbearable. When he switches attention to my other breast, I mewl out my need.

  He laughs with strain against my skin. “I know what you want, and you can’t have it yet. You’re going to come at least twice before I fuck you senseless.”

  Holy hell. The filthy promise zips straight to my core. I clench on nothing, gasping at the ache.

  Mindless, I beg.

  “Please, Finn. Please.”

  He bites my breast, sending electric pain to mix with pleasure. I moan and yank his hair.

  “You’re fucking perfect,” he whispers, relenting, letting me guide his face up. “How wet are you?”

  “Find out for yourself.”

  His eyes smolder at the challenge and he wastes no time, setting me on my feet and yanking my jeans to my ankles. I squeal, half laughing and off-balance, as his hand dives between my legs and shoves my panties to the side. Two merciless fingers sink inside me, stretching and staking their claim.

  A shuddering breath leaves his lips, currently grazing my forehead. “You’re soaking. So small and tight. I’m afraid I’ll break you in half. Afraid of how much I want to.”

  Why does that sound so good? I clench around him, my hips jerking, seeking relief for an arousal that’s become excruciating. His fingers pump slowly, and his thumb begins to rub slow circles on my clit. My eyelids closing, I see stars falling in the blackness.

  “Let go,” he demands. “Take it.”

  Then I’m climaxing, searing pleasure exploding from my center, stealing my breath and igniting tiny storms down my limbs. I fall apart, messy and open—too open—and I forget everything except the desire to be myself.

  “Finn,” I gasp, “my name—”

  Slow, drugging kisses trail down my neck as he guides me onto the bed. His shoes hit the floor, then pants, and finally, he settles between my open legs. Nothing between us but heat and the intimacy I feel—that I hope he feels, too.

  Tattooed biceps tickle my vision as he grins down at me. Unfairly gorgeous, a god of art and fire. “I know your name, Grace.”

  I shake my head. “It’s Calli.”

  He blinks, confusion clouding his eyes before they sharpen oddly, scanning my features like he’s never seen me before. “Did you say Calli?”

  I nod, biting my lip.

  For a pregnant moment, his smile holds. When it fades, it’s like watching the sun sink into endless night. His body stiffens above mine, fingers clenching into fists by my shoulders. Unease awakens inside me, slithering its way down my spine.

  Finn shakes his head like he’s waking from a dream. “No. Not possible. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  I cover my naked chest with my arms, fighting the urge to shove him off me. “Grace is my middle name. I just thought—I wanted you to know—”

  “Stop!”

  The shout freezes me in place. Not because of the rage in it—of which there’s miles—but because of the panic. Absolute, full-blown panic. Finn rockets to his feet, lurching backward until his back thuds against the wall. He slides to the ground, his eyes ablaze, and stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns.

  I’ve made a grave mistake. One that could cost me my life.

  Shaking with humiliation and blossoming fear, I scamper off the bed and grab my shirt, yanking it on, then pull on my jeans sans underwear. I have no idea where my panties are and I don’t care. Snatching my glasses, shoes, and jacket, I edge toward the door.

  Later, I’ll fall apart about the potentially best night of my life blowing up in my face, and mourn the impending loss of the first place I’ve called home in years. But not now. Not yet. Not until I’m behind a locked door with my gun in hand.

  I grab the doorknob, ready to bolt, but something makes me look back. Misplaced nostalgia. A twisted need to see him one more time.

  Finn sits against the wall with his head on his knees, his fingers clasped behind his neck. His whole body trembles. I fight an illogical urge to comfort him.

  I shake my head. “Don’t follow me, or I’ll kill you.”

  He laughs, and it isn’t pretty. Dark and half-deranged. When he looks up, the fury in his eyes makes my blood run c
old.

  “That’s rich. But I guess that’s how you operate, isn’t it? Everywhere you go, you leave dead bodies.”

  Stunned, I sputter, “You don’t know anything about me, asshole.”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re Callisto Avellino, and you’re supposed to be dead.”

  5

  Supposed to be dead.

  How right he is.

  Letting myself into the shadowy, silent house where I rent a room, I avoid the floorboards that creak as I make my way upstairs. Adrenaline in full swing, my skin crawls as I slip into my bedroom and lock the door, then freeze, listening to make sure I didn’t wake Molly. Other than the usual groans of the old house, I hear nothing.

  I don’t turn on the light as I kneel next to my small bed and reach beneath for the comforting metal of the lock box. Huddled in the corner of the room, hidden from the door, I unlock the box with the small key I keep taped under the nightstand. Relief sags my shoulders as I lift the gun from its padded casing.

  My uncle taught me to shoot, against the family’s wishes. That small rebellion wasn’t what led to his assassination; rather, it was merely one straw among many that broke the camel’s back. Or, more accurately, ignited my family’s innate, vicious nature.

  We live, love, and die for the family…

  My heart thumps against my breastbone, reminding me that I’m alive on borrowed time. I knew it when I ran—that they’d find me someday—but it was worth it to live a little outside the family’s rule.

  Her rule.

  Moonlight chases shadows across the floor, the tree outside my window bending and swaying in the wind. An owl hoots. My stomach rockets to my throat, my fingers spasming on the gun.

  Now that there’s some distance between me and what happened in the motel, I realize it’s unlikely Finn was sent by my stepmother. He would have recognized me immediately, and his shock at discovering my identity had been genuine. But the fact is, he still knows who I am—my name, anyway—and the vitriol pouring out of him could only mean he has history with us.