Prologue

This guy is still pounding into me as I bend over the back of his sofa, my arms folded on the seat cushion.

“Yeah, nngh, fuck, huh, hnnh…”

At least he sounds like he’s having a good time.

I give him an encouraging moan in return, and then I crack one eye open for a peek at my watch. The numbers are jolting with every thrust, making it hard to read.

It’s really late. Shit.

Now I almost wish I hadn’t looked. I’ll have to take care of myself later. No way am I going to get off while I’m stressing about missing the last ferry home.

What a pain in the ass. Literally.

But tiny little Sunrise Island doesn’t have that many hot single guys, and I work at its only bar. It’s easiest to come over here to scratch my itches.

Tonight, I picked an even more oblivious one than usual. It took ages for him to realize I wanted to leave the bar with him, and then he insisted on a detour for late-night fries.

Call me crazy, but my idea of foreplay isn’t a glass of water and a lecture about vinyl and CD sound mastering. So I whipped out a condom, dropped to my knees, and wound him up until he was begging to rail me because he just couldn’t take any more…

But here I am, still taking it from him.

A hand closes around my cock, making me catch my breath. Then the guy obviously notices that I’m only sporting a semi, and he slows down his pace. “You all right?”

Don’t you fucking dare.

“Don’t stop! Oh my fucking god,” I spit out, my temper flaring. I shove myself back into him, forcing his dick so deep inside that my breath catches. “Fucking nut in me right now!”

He totally mistakes my fury for lustful passion, judging by the way he grabs my hip with one hand and locks his other arm around my chest. “Oh yeah?” he grunts in my ear. “Fuck! Yeah, baby! Tell me how much you want it.”

“I want you to cum in me so bad,” I moan. And I do wholeheartedly mean it. “Please, please, please, B—uh…”

Shit. Is it Brandon? Or Brent? No… Brian, right?

“Uh, uh, uh!” I moan at the top of my lungs instead.

Smooth, Kieran. Real smooth.

“Yes, yes, yes…!” he groans, and then his rhythm falls apart. He clutches onto me and pants, riding the high as he squashes me against the back of the couch.

It’s not un-hot… it’s just a relief more than anything.

“Your turn, sexy,” probably-Brian growls, pulling out of me. “Got another condom?”

I stagger and turn around against the couch, glancing at my watch again as he drops to his knees.

All I can think is, Mate.

I’ve got like four minutes to get my clothes on and get out the door… and what he’s proposing is more than a three-minute job. It’ll take me at least that long to get over the sight of the condom still on his steadily-wilting boner.

“Sorry, no,” I shake my head, swiping my jeans off the couch cushions. “I gotta go.”

The guy pouts. “Really?” He stands up and sidles closer, running his hands all over my chest and stomach. I can’t deny how sensitive I am, but I stubbornly keep going.

So does he. While I’m pulling my T-shirt on, he tries to tug my jeans down again.

“Really. Quit it,” I snap at him, smacking his hand away. I button and zip up, hopping from one foot to the other to pull socks on. My T-shirt is inside-out, but who cares?

“Stay a little longer. I can call you a taxi,” he wheedles, and I snort a laugh.

I already told him earlier tonight that I live on a fucking island.

Dumb and hot is my type, but only if they keep their mouths shut… andtake less than a decade to finish plowing my ass.

“You really can’t.”

“I just want my dessert,” he tries to coax me as I pat down my pockets. “My… my hot little glazed Irish. Get it?”

My brows slowly furrow as I stare at him.

“Oh, that’s not the right one.” He stares at the ceiling in thought, and then he lights up. “A Danish! What’s the other one?”

“End me now,” I groan, ducking around him to shove my feet back into my shoes.

“Irish shortbread! Get it? Because you’re?—”

I turn around on my heel to give him a withering stare, my eyebrows creeping up. “Short and Irish?”

He’s just grinning back at me. “Yeah!”

Oh, fuck away off.

“Bye,” I tell him, yanking open the front door. I rush down the steps, closing it in his face. As much as I want to be pissed about the whole thing, I’m laughing my ass off before I even reach the sidewalk.

It’s a lot harder to jog to the harbour when I’m giggling too much to breathe.

“Irish shortbread?” I gasp when I finally get to the harbour wall, bracing myself against it to wipe the tears out of my eyes. “Jesus wept.”

Men, right?

I wish I could swear them off. But I’ve tried, and it doesn’t work—they’re too irresistible. Even the big, dumb ones. Especially the big, dumb ones. I can’t help being so good at taking the big and ignoring the dumb.

All I can do is swear at them afterward. Speaking of which, the ferry’s just entering the harbour mouth. If I miss it, I’ll invent brand-fucking-new words for probably-Brian.

Time to do the other thing I’m the best at… and get running.

I snort with laughter, clutching the stitch in my side as I take off for my own bed.