The Mighty Quinns: Rourke. Kate Hoffmann
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that brought him here.
Had he followed his original plan, he’d be back on the mainland by now, headed toward the border and Bangor, Maine. He’d intended to stop there for the night, but now, he’d be spending the night in Annie’s bed.
It felt right. Though they didn’t really know each other in the traditional sense, there was a connection. He felt it every time he touched her...and kissed her. Maybe this had all been part of some cosmic plan—their encounter at the hardware store, the coming storm and the memories that flooded his mind upon seeing her.
He opened his eyes, then crossed the room to the circular stairs. He crawled upward to the top, into the darkness, and when he reached the platform, he found her standing near the window, her hands pressed against the thick glass.
The light was so blinding that he had to squint every time it made a rotation. He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Annie leaned into his body.
“My mother died on a night just like this,” she murmured. “They found her body the next morning, on the rocks.”
“What happened?”
Annie shrugged. “She was sad. Depressed. Suicidal. She’d always been troubled, but my father thought he could fix her. That’s why he brought her here to live. Away from the city. Away from temptation. But she was so miserable here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“He blamed himself. He used to row out into the cove in the middle of the night. He said he could hear her, he could talk to her. They found his boat right over there,” she said, pointing. “They never found him. We buried an empty coffin next to her in the cemetery.”
Rourke slowly turned her toward him. “You’ve had a lot of loss in your life.”
Annie nodded, reaching up to touch his face. “Make love to me.”
“Here?”
“Anywhere,” she said. “I don’t care. I need to get these thoughts out of my head.”
He took her hand and led her to the top of the stairs. “Let’s go back to the house.”
* * *
THEY RAN BACK through the storm, Annie breathless with anticipation and a bit of trepidation. If she were listening to her instincts, this would not be happening. She’d always maintained a careful distance in her physical encounters with men. But the only thing she could think about with Rourke was getting as close to him as possible.
The moment they stepped inside the house, Annie reached for the zipper on her slicker. But he grabbed her hands and warmed them between his, slowly drawing her toward the fire.
She could hear her heart beating, could feel the pulse in her veins. Every physical sensation seemed more acute, and when Rourke slowly began to remove her clothes, she grasped his shoulder, afraid that her knees might buckle beneath her. First her gloves, then her slicker, Rourke tossing both on the floor.
Annie didn’t want to wait any longer. The storm inside her body was raging out of control and the only way to quell it was Rourke’s touch on her naked body. But he would not be deterred. When she reached for the hem of her hoodie, he grabbed her hand. “Slow down,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “Let me get the fire going.”
“The only place we’ll be warm is in bed,” she said. Annie pulled the hoodie over her head. The cold air prickled her skin into goose bumps and brought her nipples to hard peaks.
Rourke’s breath caught as his gaze drifted down to her naked breasts. “My hands are cold,” he said, his fingers skimming around her waist.
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