Page 119 of Experiments in Offline Dating

It wasn’t a hungry, needy kiss that felt like a prelude to sex.

This felt like the prelude to . . . something more.

Chapter 36 An Experiment in Getting Obliterated

We crashed when we got back to the hostel and woke up for a late checkout at noon. Those palpable sparks of magic that had flitted through the air on fairy wings had faded with the bright, exposing light of the sun and the clambering of tourists.

Perhaps it was just that place. We had gotten caught up in something that had nothing to do with us. Some old witchcraft that had formed those stones and still lingered between them.

We knew it had been a mistake. We were awkward. Like we’d been caught doing something wrong—playing with matches.

We grabbed lunch to go and started driving. We needed to be in the opposite corner of Ireland for the ferry the next day, and we’d gotten a late start.

We’d broken protocol and it was a major fuckup. What were we thinking? I didn’t break protocol—otherwise what was the fucking point of making the protocol in the first place?

What even was that? I couldn’t stop playing it over in my mind. Trying to figure out why it had felt so . . . different. Probably because we knew that we shouldn’t, that we were breaking the rules. It was guaranteed awkwardness and trouble, that’s what it was! I still had two more dates scheduled, for fuck’s sake. That was the whole damn point of this whole damn trip. I might have called Jackie to cancel them, I supposed, but he definitely would have wanted to know why. And this was my job. These were episodes Simone was counting on. This was why I’d come to Ireland in the fucking first place.

We didn’t have much to say. What could we possibly say? We’d said it all before, hadn’t we? And then we had gone right ahead and ignored all of our own good advice.

We were shy strangers. We avoided eye contact.

It was going to be a long day. Thank the sweet Lord for audiobooks!

Without even asking, I connected to the Bluetooth and pressed play. We let the words march over us in a steady rhythm, taking us away from the car, and each other, to another place to be other people, and it was a merciful relief.

That is, until we got to Chapter Thirty.

Because Chapter Thirty completely obliterated us. Not unlike the Obliterator in Nobody Wants This when we hadn’t worked up to level ten.

Because the book that I chose specifically because I believed it to be a romance-free story of brutal revenge actually turned out to be a sneak-up enemies-to-lovers super-smut-a-thon!

“His soul was mine now. After two hundred years of hunting, he was my captive. But he knew what I knew. We were fated. And the moment we came within range, we would lose all control.”

Oh shit. Wait. WHAT?

I was a smut queen. Why wouldn’t I be? I’d shared books with friends, gone to spicy book clubs, and had no shame talking about sex, or smut, or anything else on my podcast. But never once had I sat and listened to a super-spicy scene with another person. Certainly not a man. And certainly not a man whom I was trying very hard to forget the taste of. A man who had kissed me at sunrise that same morning with all the tenderness of a man in love. A man whom I could not stop picturing under me.

All of a sudden, before I could think of any way to stop it from happening, we were plunged in. Backs were against doors, thighs were grazed, wrists were held prisoner, things went rigid, veins were flooded. Then Morvaine was arching her back, running the tips of her breasts against Valion’s chain-mailed chest, and I was picturing it all.

It started slow, but as it began ramping up, I was very aware of the changes it was coaxing from my body. I tried to stare straight ahead like this was totally normal—no big deal, everyday occurrence, just ignore.

“We could no longer ignore the memory of when we were last in each other’s arms, laid bare, ravenous, taking what we needed. For centuries we’d fought against it, haunted, hunted, but now we are powerless,” the narrator said over the speakers, clearly at us! I couldn’t help but risk a glance at Tadhg in my peripheral vision. His spine was rigid. I actually heard him swallow.

“His hips press me to the bookshelves . . . Need burns down my spine, scorching everything in its wake, as he takes my ass in both hands and lifts me up, aligning my hips with his, mercilessly spreading my legs wide around his massive frame.”

Oh no. Shit. Shit shit shit. Things were going to get a hell of a lot worse before they got any better. The narrator didn’t notice and didn’t care that we were steaming up the windows and cringing so hard that it hurt.

“Pure want snakes its way up my throat in a whimper as I rush to unlace his leathers and feel how hard he is for me. He’s huge and rock-hard. I can barely fit my hand around the girth of him as I pull him free. ‘You have plagued my every waking thought. I have died a thousand deaths waiting to taste you, Morvaine.’ He groans as I take him in both hands.”

Stop this. She’s got to stop. Can’t they just get this over with? Can it just fade to black? Never in my life had I been so painfully awkward and turned on at the same time!

“‘Fuck me, all of this hair!’ Valion presses harder against me, pushing his face to my tumbled locks, and inhales.”

Before I could stop them, my wide eyes flew to Tadhg for a reaction. His hands were gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I forced my eyes back to the road. But he saw me look. Of course he did. He was thinking of Rule Three. The author had written this specifically to torture us, I just knew it!

“He lifts my skirts higher, and I’m completely exposed now. His eyes darken to black as he takes me in.” No, please. What have I done to deserve this? Words were washing over me now. It was the longest spice scene in the history of publishing. The narrator was getting breathy as she went on and on about licking and throbbing and gliding, and I felt like I was going to faint, like a delicate Victorian lady whose corset was too tight.

Where is my knitting? If I could just pretend—