Page 14 of Irish Legacy

“I’m not…” Trish pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t do one-night stands.”

A flash of disappointment crossed Quinn’s face. It was there and then smoothed away so completely that Trish almost doubted the shift. The tightness around Quinn’s eyes, the slight flattening of that generous mouth. Then the actress shifted, some internal mechanism engaging, and her expression settled into something pleasant and unreadable.

“Ah.” Quinn’s voice came out light, almost amused. “That’s probably what Emma and Natalie meant.”

A prickle of heat crawled up the back of Trish’s neck, half mortification, half annoyance. “What?”

“I asked them what your situation was,” Quinn said. “They said you were out. Single. But that you probably wouldn’t be interested.”

Trish looked at the knot in the floorboards between their feet. It was exactly what she would have said about herself. She couldn’t fault the assessment, though the truth of it sat sharp and small in the quiet room.

What caught her off guard was Emma. Emma was the one who poked at her constantly, the one who left pamphlets for queer weekend retreats in Dublin on the till and told her she was rotting behind the taps. If anyone was going to push a stunning, famous woman toward Trish’s bed, it should have been Emma.

Emma hadn’t done it because Emma knew what Trish wanted, and it had always been something that had a chance to be real.

“Well, they were right to warn you off,” Trish said. Heat climbed her neck and settled in her cheeks. She couldn’t believe the words leaving her mouth. This woman stood in front of her, blond hair still tousled from where Trish’s fingers had gripped it, blue eyes dark with want, and Trish was turning her down. The embarrassment sat thick on her tongue. She had spent years telling herself she was past this kind of temptation. Apparently her body had not gotten the memo. “But I have to say… This is the most tempted I’ve ever been.”

She didn’t give Quinn room to answer. The words kept coming, fast and flat, like if she stopped she might change her mind. “I really would love to take you upstairs, but it’s just not who I am. I’ve always been a… A hopeless romantic I guess you could say. And I’m sure a few weeks from now, I’ll regret this, but I’m sorry, Quinn. Nothing else is going to happen tonight.”

The admission hung there. Trish’s pulse beat hard in her throat. Her hands were entirely empty without the solid weight of Quinn’s forearms under them. She curled her fingers against her own thighs to keep them still. Part of her waited for the actress to push, to flash that million-watt smile and try to talk her around. The rest of her hoped Quinn would do exactly that.

Quinn’s expression shifted, the hunger easing into something softer, more careful. She nodded once, slow, like she was turning the refusal over in her mind and deciding how to set it down gently. No argument. No attempt to close the distance again. Just quiet acceptance that made Trish clench her jaw.

“I understand,” Quinn said. Her voice stayed low, steady, the same tone she had used earlier when she admitted how good it felt to be anonymous in the pub. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Trish inhaled a shaky breath. The question landed low in her belly. If they kissed again she might fold. She could already picture it, the way her resolve would crumble under the heat of Quinn’s mouth, the way her hands would find their way under that damp shirt and pull the younger woman upstairs anyway. Her mind supplied the details without permission: Quinn’s back against the bedroom door, Trish’s fingers working the buttons open, the sound Quinn might make when she finally got her hands on bare skin. The fantasy felt so real her thighs pressed together on the stool.

Quinn must have caught the shift in her expression. Those blue eyes narrowed slightly, tracking every micro-adjustment of Trish’s posture.

“Really, just a goodnight kiss.” Quinn stepped forward again, her palms landing flat on Trish’s thighs. The touch burned through the black fabric, immediate and possessive. “I didn’t realize that last kiss was it… I want to savor this one.”

The words came out slow, each one weighted with intent. Quinn’s voice dropped into a register that slid under Trish’s skin and settled hot between her legs. Sultry. Certain. Like she knew exactly what she was doing and enjoyed the effect. Trish swallowed hard. That tone usually came from actresses on screens, not directed at her. Never this close. The charm worked like it was designed to, pulling at the part of her that had spent decades behind this bar watching other people take what they wanted.

Trish’s mouth went completely dry. She should say no. She should slide off the stool and walk Quinn to the door and lock up behind her like any other night. Instead she heard herself answer.

“Yes. You can kiss me again.”

The permission left her lips before her brain could catch up. Quinn’s palms pressed heavier against her thighs, thumbs stroking once, slow. The contact sent a fresh wave of heat up her neck. She sat there on the stool, pulse loud in her ears, while Quinn studied her face like she was memorizing it. Those blue eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered, then lifted again. Trish’s opinion of herself shifted in that second. She had always thought of herself as practical, rooted, the woman who kept the village watered and fed and never asked for more. Right now she was entirely exposed. The raw want in Quinn’s gaze made her stomach drop.

Quinn took the lead. She leaned in without hurry, one hand sliding up Trish’s thigh to rest at her hip, the other coming up to cup the side of her neck. Her fingers threaded into the hair at Trish’s nape, gentle but firm, tilting her head exactly where Quinn wanted it. The first brush of lips was entirely deliberate. Barely there. Quinn’s mouth moved against hers with careful pressure, like she had all night and intended to use every second.

Trish’s eyes slipped closed. Quinn’s lips parted, tongue tracing the seam of Trish’s mouth in a slow invitation. When Trish opened for her, the kiss deepened in unhurried, thorough degrees. Quinn tasted like the faint trace of stout and something sweeter underneath. Her tongue stroked against Trish’s in a rhythm that made Trish’s hands come up to grip the front of her shirt. She held on because the floor felt unsteady under her.

Every pass of Quinn’s mouth carried a fierce, slow intention. Quinn angled her head and took the kiss deeper, slower, like she wanted Trish to feel exactly what she was walking away from. The thought flickered through Trish’s mind and stuck. This was calculated. Quinn was showing her. Making sure she would lie awake later remembering the exact slide of this tongue, the precise pressure of these lips, the way this kiss made her entire body throb with unmet need.

Trish’s thighs trembled under Quinn’s palms. Heat gathered low in her belly, turning heavy and insistent. She wanted to pull Quinn closer, to wrap her legs around those hips again and forget every reason she had given for stopping. Her fingers tightened on the cotton of Quinn’s shirt until her knuckles ached.

The kiss went on, sensual and relentless, Quinn’s breath warm against her cheek. Trish’s pulse beat loud in her ears. She had never been kissed like this. Not in her twenties when she still believed in grand gestures. Not in the handful of nights she had allowed herself in Dublin bars. This was a promise and a punishment at once.

When Quinn finally pulled back, Trish chased the contact for half a second before she caught herself. Her lips were swollen. Her breathing came ragged. She opened her eyes. Quinn was watching her, gaze heavy and satisfied.

Quinn’s cheeks carried a faint flush that made Trish’s stomach tighten all over again. She looked beautiful. Dangerous.

“Goodnight, Trish,” Quinn said. Her voice carried a fresh scrape, the sultry edge softened by the same want clawing at Trish’s own ribs.

Quinn stepped back completely. She reached for her coat, the one she had hung on the hook under the bar earlier, and shrugged it on. The fabric settled over her shoulders with a soft rustle. Trish sat frozen on the stool, thighs still parted from where Quinn had stood between them. Her pulse beat so hard against her ribs it threatened to bruise. She wanted to say something. Call her back. Change her mind. The words stuck behind her teeth.

Quinn crossed to the side door. She paused with her hand on the latch, glancing back once. Those blue eyes met Trish’s across the empty pub. Then she pushed the door open.