He worked quickly, efficiently. She lay on her side, watching, not wanting to put her wet hair on his pillow, and when the blaze was bright he turned back to her and frowned.
“Your hair’s wet. It’s no wonder you’re cold. You could catch your death,” he said severely.
What a strange phrase, catch your death. She wasn’t going to die with him around. “I couldn’t find a blow dryer.”
He opened his own door to the hallway, then returned a few moment later with a fresh towel. “No hair dryer,” he said. “Mostly men come here, and when they do they don’t care about their hair. Sit up.”
Before she realized what he’d decided to do he sat down on the bed, holding out the towel.
She tried to take it, but he kept hold of it. “Just lean over,” he said, and she was in no mood to argue. He wrapped the towel around her head, and she could feel his long fingers on her scalp, rubbing slowly.
She made a strangled noise. Good god, she’d fuck Attila the Hun for a head massage. This wasn’t going to help her stay cheerfully distant from him.
From beneath the covering of the towel she could see nothing but his flat stomach and his lap. And there was no missing the fact that he was finding the massage equally … stimulating.
“That’s enough,” she said in a hoarse voice, pulling away to slide into the middle of the bed. It felt huge after all the narrow bunks she’d been in. Way too big for one person.
He sat back, dropping the towel on the floor, but he didn’t get up. It was too dark to read his expression, and besides, she was afraid to. He was too close, she was too vulnerable. Tomorrow, when she’d finally managed a full night’s sleep, she’d be able to figure out what she wanted and how she was going to take it without getting hurt too badly. All she needed to do was hold herself together for as long as she was with him. She could fall apart when she was alone.
But he didn’t move, and the warmth of the bed and the room was melting away resistance and self-preservation. “So,” he said finally, and she could hear the distant trace of Ireland in his voice. “We’re doing this.” It wasn’t a question, and yet she thought he wanted an answer.
She gave him the wrong one. “Doing what?”
He laughed. “Don’t play games, Sister Beth. I’m talking about sex. Fucking. You’re in my bed, all drowsy-eyed and ready, and I’ve got a hard-on that’s going to kill me from those soft sounds you were making. What do you think I’m talking about?”
She felt a moment’s flash of irritation. “Your condition isn’t my fault, so don’t blame any noises I make for it. And I got in your bed to get warm.”
“Sure you did.” He put a hand on either side of her, imprisoning her there as he looked down at her. “Would you have climbed into Dylan’s bed just as easily?”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.” She expected a triumphant smile, but he still looked cool, intent. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Are we doing this?”
Fuck. She wanted to be seduced, overwhelmed, have all choice swept away. But that wasn’t MacGowan’s style. He wanted full cooperation.
Well, this time he was going to get it. “Yes.”
He simply nodded, thoughtful. He cupped her face with one hand, his fingers gentle against her tender flesh. “How much does this hurt you?”
“It looks like hell, doesn’t it?” she said. “It’s not too bad. Wait a few days until it turns yellow.” Wrong thing to say, she thought. He probably wasn’t going to be around in a few days.
“It’ll look very pretty on you.” He leaned forward, and his lips feathered her cheekbone, his long hair brushing her skin, and she wanted to cry.
She’d have more than enough time to cry later. He moved back just a bit, his hair still around them, and she put her own hand
s up to cup his face. “Come to bed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He rose, and Beth watched him, wondering for a brief moment whether this was some new game he was playing, whether he was going to walk away. He went to one door and locked it, then closed the adjoining door and locked that one as well. Then he turned and leaned against it, watching her.
Suddenly she was nervous. “I’m really surprised you still want me, considering how bad I was the other night.”
“You thought you were bad the other night?” His voice was mild. “You didn’t enjoy yourself? I didn’t realize you were that good an actress.”