Jess is the unluckiest woman in the world. Nothing in her world ever goes right. So, when a tree crashes through her bedroom window, she’s unsurprised until a drop-dead gorgeous Irishman sticks his head inside. In this steamy novella, Jess finds herself falling harder and harder for this man who her best friend swears is a leprechaun.
Will Jess finally get lucky?
Previously published in Lucky Between The Sheets but now with a new steamy shower scene.
“That’s…an interesting pot,” I said, my stomach eyeing up the rich stew while my lower bits grew peckish for the man stirring it.
Impish green eyes darted up over the pitch black cauldron. He held the spoon between us, his tongue lapping over his lips in thought. “Oh?”
“Don’t see a lot of cast iron cauldrons outside of Halloween.” I tried to laugh it off, but that ringing silence returned.
Conall glanced at his ancient pot as if seeing it for the first time. With a slow shrug, he said, “Only way I know to make a proper Irish stew. Here, give it a taste.”
He extended the spoon towards me, the thick brown liquid reflecting his famished gaze. It could be poisoned. My brain tried to rescue me, or at least throw a pail of cold sense on the problem, but it was too late. Leaning forward at my waist, my lips suckered around the wooden spoon. Slowly, I pulled in the stew and my ramen-honed tastebuds erupted in joy.
“This is good,” I gasped, tilting my head up. The move surprised Conall and I bonked my cheek into the stew-coated spoon in the way. Stupid. I tried to turn away and blot the accident off when warm fingers curled over my jaw like a meadow breeze.
Gently, he swiped his thumb over the spot, soaking the stain onto his own skin. With a smile, his green eyes burning into mine, he placed his thumb into his mouth and licked it off. I burned at the tender lap of his tongue around the thick thumb, my eyes drawn to the gentle pucker in his mouth. How it caressed his finger, holding it in his warm kiss.
I dove for him, plunging to his lips before my brain or body had a chance to call a retreat. Conall’s hand barely slipped from his mouth before I claimed it.
Stone hard from shock at first, his lips melted against mine. Heat danced off the lips pressing as tenderly as a daisy’s petals to mine. Fingers swept across my cheek until burrowing at the nape of my neck. Digging into my hair, Conall pulled me deeper into the kiss. His tongue slicked between the narrow gap of my lips, begging for an invitation. Greedy for a taste, I parted mine and he delved in, his hand rustling apart my ponytail while he tipped my head to fit him.