Kiss Me, I'm Irish. Jill Shalvis

touching her skin. He squeezed her fingers.

       “Listen to me,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as if that night didn’t leave an impression,” he said slowly. “Because it did.”

       She whipped her hand out from his grip. “What part of I don’t want to talk about it anymore don’t you understand, Deuce?”

       “Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

       She blew out a disgusted breath. “Maybe because it embarrasses me.”

       “Why are you embarrassed? It was…” Incredible. Amazing. Mind-boggling. He got hard just thinking about it. “Great.”

       “I doubt you remember the details.”

       Oh but he did. “You’re wrong.”

       She folded the deli paper into a tiny square and held a pickle to him. “Want this?”

       “Don’t change the subject again.”

       “I’m not changing the subject. I’m offering you a pickle.”

       “I’m offering you an apology.”

       “You did that already. Apology accepted. But you’re going to owe me another one if you don’t drop the subject.”

       He took the pickle and her deli wrap, stuffed them into the bag, and carried it all to a trash can about twenty feet away. She stayed on the bench, sipping her water.

       When he returned, he held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

       She just looked up at him, a half smile tipping her lips, deepening her dimples. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for a walk on the beach?”

       He reached down and slid off his Docksiders and socks and tucked them under the bench next to her loafers. “Let’s go.”

       For a moment, he thought she was about to refuse, but then she slipped her hand in his and stayed by his side as they walked down to the sand still packed solid by the morning tide.

       “I wisely carried a blanket around in those days,” he said. “Came in handy that night, didn’t it?”

       She playfully punched his arm with her free hand. “You won’t let go, will you?” Before he could answer, she slowed her step, shaking her head. “Actually, as I recall, I grabbed the blanket from the bar before we left because it was chilly and you had your dad’s car.”

       He frowned. “I thought I had a blanket in the trunk.”

       “See?” she said, her voice rich with both humor and accusation. “You don’t remember a thing.”

       “Not true. I remember kissing you outside Monroe’s, by that side wall.” She’d tasted like oranges and cherries, as if she’d been sampling the bar garnishes.

       “We were in the car the first time we kissed.”

       He closed his eyes for a minute. He could remember the taste of her, the need to pull her closer, but he didn’t remember if they were standing or sitting. “Maybe. But I remember the kiss.”

       “Me too.” She whispered the words into the wind, but he caught them.

       Deuce let go of her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “You were wearing a little pink top.”

       “Blue.”

       “Your hair was shorter.”

       “In a ponytail.”

       He tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “You had a snap-in-front bra.”

       “Finally, he gets something right.”

       “I bet I remember more details than you do,” he insisted.

       “You’d lose that bet.”

       “I would not.”

       “Cocky and arrogant as always.” She dipped out of his touch and slowed her step. Deliberately, she pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and the look in her eyes hit him like a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball to the chest. “There is nothing, no detail, no minor, incidental facet of that night I have forgotten. Don’t bet me, Deuce Monroe, because you’ll lose.”

       He never lost. Didn’t she know that? He took his own sunglasses off so she could see the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll bet you a reenactment.”

       She stopped dead in the sand. “Excuse me?”

       “If I can remember more details about the night than you can, I get a reenactment. On the beach. Tonight. Maybe again the next night.”

       She shook her head, the only sound she could make was a disbelieving laugh. “And what if I win? What do I get?”

       “A reenactment. That way we both win.”

       Just as her jaw dropped, he reached down and sealed the deal with that kiss he’d been wanting all day long.

      BLOOD RUSHED THROUGH Kendra’s head, deafening her and drowning out the sound of the waves. For stability, she reached up and grabbed Deuce’s rock-hard shoulders just as he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss. Wide warm lips covered hers and the tip of his tongue slid against her teeth with unbelievable familiarity, a welcome invasion that made her whole body clutch.

       He wrapped his arms around her and eased her against his body with a low, slow, nearly inaudible groan.

       “For example, I remember that you like,” he whispered huskily against her mouth as he broke the kiss, but not the body contact, “very deep, very long French kisses.”

       Arousal, quick and sharp, twisted inside her, forming a knot in her tummy and between her legs.

       She dug deep for sanity and a clear head, but he ran his hands down to the small of her back and pressed her hips against his. Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of sand.

       “And I remember,” he said, making a tiny left-right motion with his hips, “that you can have an orgasm fully clothed and in the car.”

       Her hips responded with a mind of their own, driving against him with some uncontrollable need to prove him right. She couldn’t argue with his memory. She couldn’t argue with his body, kisses or silky voice either.

       Lifting her face to his, she kissed him again for the sheer overwhelming joy of it, stalling the inevitable with one more dance of their tongues, one more minute of heaven.

       With a long, deep breath she managed to ease him back and end the kiss.

       “All lucky guesses,” she told him. “You could be talking about any of the dozens of girls you seduced on this beach.”

       “No,” he denied. “No one on this beach but you.”

       Wouldn’t she like to believe that?

       “I already told you two things you forgot,” he teased. “And I bet you don’t even remember what I wore that night.”

       She frowned and scoured her well-visited memory bank. Surely she knew every thread of clothing he had on that night. But all she could see was his face. His bare chest. His… Oh, of all the things to forget. What was he wearing that night? She had to blame the memory loss on the blood draining from her head to that achy spot between her legs. “Are you asking me if I remember what you wore?”

       “You’re stalling for time, Ken-doll. You heard me. What did I have on that night?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “That is until you undressed me.”

       Oh, yes, they’d undressed each other. She could still remember the feel of his flesh as she pushed his clothes away. As she closed her fingers around his shaft.

       Another bolt of that heat lightning singed her at the thought.

       She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, infusing her tone with confidence.