He accepts the mug without looking away from my face. “Good morning.”
“You look like shit.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“The front seat of your macho truck isn’t good for that sort of thing, hmm?”
He licks his lips. Drinks his coffee. Licks his lips again.
I say, “Have you considered that you hanging out here on the street with your goombahs will bring a certain amount of attention? Considering you’re trying to keep me safe, it might not be the best strategy.” I look him up and down. “You’re not exactly incognito.”
“I’m not trying to be incognito. That’s the point.”
We stare at each other. We drink our coffee. A slight breeze rustles the leaves on the trees.
He says, “In Irish, a goombah is called a comhlach.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to clear your throat.”
His lips lift into a wry smile. “Aye. Much of Irish sounds like that.”
I tilt my head and consider him. “It’s not called Gaelic?”
“It is, but at home we call it Irish. As opposed to Scottish Gaelic, which is a completely different thing.”
I’m hyper aware that the cool morning air has caused my nipples to harden, and also that Killian has noticed it, too. We both pretend we haven’t.
“Say the same word in Irish and in Scottish Gaelic.”
He thinks for a moment. “Áilleacht. Brèagha.”
“Those are the same words?”
“Aye.”
“What do they mean?”
His voice turns husky. His gaze turns intense. “Beauty.”
I drink more coffee, willing my cheeks not to turn red.
He says, “Brèagha was what my father always called my mother. She was Scottish. He wanted to say it in her language, so I grew up thinking it was an Irish word. It wasn’t until long after they were both dead that I learned it wasn’t.”
This personal family anecdote is unexpected. He isn’t the kind of man I imagine as ever being a boy or having parents. He seems like he arrived on this planet a fully formed adult, kicking ass and incinerating panties.
“So you’re half and half.”
“Aye.”
“In the Italian mafia, you can’t be a made man unless you’re full-blooded Italian.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not aspiring to the Italian mafia, then.”
“I’m half and half, too. My mother’s family was British.”
He nods. “From Leeds, in the north.” When I simply stare at him in shock, he adds, “Beautiful part of the country.”
I take a moment to gather my wits, then say, “That background check was pretty extensive, huh?”
His gaze softens, and so does his voice. “It didn’t tell me everything.”
“No? Well, ask away. I’ll be happy to fill you in. What would you like to know? My shoe size? Favorite color? How I like my eggs?”
“Eight-and-a-half. Violet blue. Scrambled, with a side of bacon.”
Oh, I thought I was so smart. I thought I’d have it all under control, didn’t I? And here he is, throwing me for loops within two minutes of the start of the conversation.
He smiles at the expression on my face, then says gently, “There are some things I don’t know about you.”
I say tartly, “Like what? Which utensil I’d most like to gouge out your eyes with?”
He stares straight into my eyes. “Like how you sound when you come.”
In a wave, heat rushes up my neck to flood my face.
“Or how you laugh when you’re truly happy instead of bitter. Or sarcastic. Or angry.”
I open my mouth but shut it again, not knowing what to say.
His voice drops an octave. “Or how long you’re going to punish me for reminding you of your father.”
My cheeks flame hotter. My heart jumps into my throat. I hate it that he can push my buttons like this. That he knows things about me, all kinds of painful, personal things he shouldn’t.
I hate it, and I hate him.
“Forever,” I say hotly. “And you don’t only remind me of him. You are him. Just in a different body.”
“I’m not, lass. I’m really not.”
A faint trace of melancholy colors his tone. Melancholy, longing, and regret. We gaze at each other in crackling loud silence for so long it becomes unbearable. I look away, struggling for breath.
He says softly, “You wore that dress to punish me, too, didn’t you? That dress with no bra underneath so I can see exactly what I can’t have. What you know I want but you’re unwilling to give me.”
I close my eyes. My hands are beginning to shake. “Stop it.”
He continues, his voice still that gentle caress. “I know you did. And I’ll take it. Whatever punishment you need to dispense, I’ll take all of it, lass. Because I know that once we get past the anger and you give me all of you, it will have been worth every pint of blood you needed to extract.”
I open my eyes and look at him, fury lighting up every nerve ending and flooding through my veins. “You conceited, insufferable, stuck-up ass.”
“Guilty. But right.”
I’m so angry, I want to spit. I want to hit something. I can feel the rage coming off me in superheated waves. I step closer to him, my hand curled so hard around the coffee mug I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
My voice shaking, I say, “You will never have me. Never. I’d rather die than give myself to you. I’d rather be thrown naked from a cliff into a pool of starving piranha. I’d rather have all my skin peeled off and be rolled in salt, then tarred and feathered. I’d rather—”
He drops his mug, knocks mine from my hand, grabs my face, and kisses me.
16
Killian
Fuck Ryan Reynolds.
I’m not funny. I’m not charming. I’m definitely not self-deprecating.
I’m Killian fucking Black.
17
Jules
Once upon a time, I was a lonely little girl who played with dolls and had an invisible friend and daydreamed about the day my Prince Charming would arrive to sweep me off my feet and take me away from my cloistered, claustrophobic life to live with him in his beautiful castle.
My prince was kind. He was noble. He was strong and brave, but most of all, he was good.
He was so damn good that a dragon would throw itself at his feet and stretch out its neck willingly for the honor of being slain by a man of such goodness.
My prince did not kill other men.
My prince also did not lie, cheat, steal, extort protection money from merchants, or run prostitution rings, drug cartels, or illegal gambling operations.
He wasn’t arrogant. Nor was he irritating, nor bossy, nor vain.
He was not the subject of government criminal investigations.
He owned clothing other than black Armani suits.
He was, in short, the most perfect specimen of manhood that an innocent child could imagine.
But I never, in all my wildest dreams, imagined that my good prince could kiss like this.
Killian’s mouth is hot and demanding, fused to mine with ferocious need. He kisses me like he’s starving. Like he’s dying. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment his entire life and now that it’s here, he’s going to wring every drop of pleasure from it or kill himself trying.
He spins me around, pushes me up against the car, flattens his body against mine, and thrusts his tongue deeper into my mouth. When I arch against him, digging my fingers into the muscles of his back, he makes a sound of pleasure low in this throat that is utterly masculine and sexual.
It’s a growl. A rumble. A lion’s guttural grunt of dominance as he mounts his lioness.
When he realizes I’m not fighting him or trying to push him away, he moans into my mouth, moving one hand to encircle my throat and burying the other in my hair.
He pulls my head back and kisses me deeper.
The kiss goes o
n until I’m delirious. My breasts feel heavy and begin to ache. Heat pulses between my legs. My heart is a trapped bird beating frantically against the cage of my chest, and my mind is empty except for a drunken, repeated chant of yes yes holy mother of god YES.
He rocks his hips into mine so I feel the whole hard length of his cock, throbbing insistently, as demanding as his mouth is.
Even when I sag against him, weak and mewling, he refuses to let me go.
Just as I’m sure I’m going to pass out, he breaks the kiss abruptly and puts his mouth next to my ear. Breathing hard, he says roughly, “Fuck yes, baby. Feel it. Feel it with me.”
He fits his mouth against mine again, covering my moan.
This time the kiss is softer. Slower. More luxurious. Like melting into a steaming hot bath, all my muscles liquid heat. I forget about hating him and wind my arms up around his broad shoulders. I press my breasts against the hard expanse of his chest.
A high, sweet thrill sings through me when he groans.
He slides the hand encircling my neck down to my breast, cupping it through my dress, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the rigid peak of my nipple.
I know if he put his demanding hot mouth there and sucked, I’d come.
He breaks the kiss again, this time to nuzzle my neck and whisper hotly into my ear. His lips move over my skin. His beard tickles me. I don’t understand the words he’s saying: they’re not in English. It’s Irish he’s speaking, and somehow that makes it even more of a turn-on. My whole body feels as if it’s on fire.
I drop my head back, gasping for breath.
When my head hits the car window, it’s with a flat, unsexy thud that acts like a wake-up alarm to my woozy brain.
Wait. What the hell am I doing?
I freeze.
Feeling the change in me, Killian stills, too. He straightens, frames my face in his big hands, and gazes down at me. Entire planets are burning in his eyes.
“Don’t run away yet,” he says gruffly. “Sit with it for a moment longer.”
We stare at each other, nose to nose, breathing raggedly. My lips feel bruised. My heart feels bruised. My knees are shaking, my panties are soaked, and I think I have just gone out of my mind.
I whisper in horror, “You kissed me.”
“Aye. What’s really gonna make you tear your hair out later on is remembering how lustily you kissed me back.”
I flatten my hands over his chest and shove, pushing him away far enough to jerk out of his arms. I stand several feet away, my hand cupped over my mouth, unable to look at him.
He says, “For the record, I fucking loved it, too.”
I spin around and slap his face.
His head snaps to the side. He stands still for seconds that feel like lifetimes, then he slowly turns his head around and locks his burning gaze onto mine.
He licks his lips. I know it’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to lunge for me.
I turn around and head back to the apartment, breaking into a run halfway across the street.
Moving in a daze, I take off the dress, leaving it in a pile in the middle of my bedroom floor. I change into jeans, a T-shirt, a light jacket and boots, then use the back stairs of the building to enter the parking garage.
Then I get into my car and head to work.
It’s still early. Traffic is light. I’m at my desk within fifteen minutes, staring blankly at a dark computer screen, my hands still trembling, my mouth still feeling bruised.
I’m sitting in the exact same spot an hour later when my boss comes in.
“Hey, kiddo. How was your weekend?”
Hank says it in passing, rapping his knuckles on the top of my cubicle as he goes. I mumble an answer. I couldn’t say what.
He stops, backtracks, and looks at me with concern in his dark blue eyes. At fifty, he’s ruggedly handsome, tan and fit with a full head of sandy blond hair. I’ve always thought he looks like an advertisement for the benefits of healthy living.
“Did someone die?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re as white as a sheet.” He glances at my hands. “And your hands are shaking.”
I slide my hands under my desk, wringing them together guiltily. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
His gaze is steady. His expression is unconvinced. I should know by now that the man has such acute observation skills, he could find a mouse hiding in the dark.
“You want to talk about it?”
My laugh is faint and semi-hysterical. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
He jerks his head to one side. “Come in my office. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Coffee, ha ha. Maybe that’s not such a good idea. The last time I had coffee with a man, I went insane and turned into a giant, pulsing clitoris.
I rise, walk unsteadily into his office, and sink into the nearest chair. Hank returns in a few minutes with two Styrofoam cups and hands me one. Then he sits behind his big mahogany desk and looks at me.
“So. Give it to me. Who, what, when, where, and why?”
I laugh despite myself. He’s such a reporter. Taking a sip of bitter coffee to buy a moment, I look at all the framed awards hanging on the wall behind his desk. The office is small but comfortable, decorated all in beiges and creams. Conspicuously absent are any photos of family.
I say, “Do you ever regret not having children?”
His brows shoot up. “The question assumes I’ve ever met a woman I wanted to have children with.”
Embarrassed, I look down at the ugly white cup in my hands. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s none of my business.”
After a moment of silence, Hank says, “I’ll answer it in a sec, but first I want to point out that this is a momentous occasion.”
I glance up at him from under my brows.
He smiles, dimples flashing in both cheeks. “In the five years since you became my assistant, today’s the first time you’ve ever asked me a personal question.”
“It’s not because I don’t care.”
“I know.” His voice gentles. “It’s because you don’t want any personal questions asked in return.”
Oh god. I’m that obvious?
His tone turns brisk. “Anyway. To answer your question, no. I don’t regret not having children. They absolutely terrify me.”
That makes me laugh. “Kids scare you?”
“Their sole purpose is to grow up and replace us. We’re breeding our replacements. Have you ever thought of that?”
“You’ve been watching too many alien movies.”
“My sister has six of the little monsters. Six.” He shudders. “Visiting her house is like descending into Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Half a dozen violent, miniature tyrants going around smashing things and screaming like a bunch of Vikings on crack. It’s total chaos. She’s forty-two but she looks a hundred and two. If I hadn’t gotten a vasectomy in my twenties, watching her raise those future criminals would’ve definitely sent me running to the doctor.”
I feel a cold pang of panic. “Do you think people can be born bad? Like they come out that way, pre-programmed, and no matter how they try to be good, they’ll always be rotten?”
He cocks his head, frowning at me. “No. I’m being hyperbolic. My sister is a very good mother. Her kids will turn out fine. What are you really asking?”
I look down at the cup in my hands, horrified to discover it’s blurry. My eyes are watering. I clear my throat and blow out a hard breath. What the hell. Just say it. You’ve got nothing to lose.
“I’m asking for advice.” When Hank doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him. “I need a man’s opinion. An older man. Someone smart. Worldly. Like you.”
“Okay. That’s flattering, thank you. But couldn’t you ask your father?”
“We’re not close. Actually, we haven’t spoken in years.”
He digests that information for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“
Don’t be. He’s a bad guy. The kind of bad that’s malignant, like cancer.”
I can tell by his expression that he’s dying to sit forward in his chair and interrogate me, because that’s his instinct. His reporter’s instinct kicking in, the way a dog’s instinct to chase kicks in when it spots a squirrel. But he restrains himself and simply nods, indicating he’s listening.
“I met a man.” I stop and take another breath.
“Go on.”
I look down again. This is way too hard. “Um. He’s…” Beautiful. Complicated. Aggravating. Interesting. A king among criminals. Sexy beyond compare. “I can’t decide if I like him or I hate him. I mean, I should hate him. He’s everything I shouldn’t want. But he’s also…unexpected. Intelligent. Fascinating.”
I close my eyes and think of Killian’s face. “He’s by far the most interesting man I’ve ever met. And—aside from my father—also the most dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
I open my eyes to find Hank staring at me with lifted brows, his expression incredulous. “Like how dangerous? On a scale of driving while intoxicated to Darth Vader.”
I answer without hesitation. “Darth Vader is a mama’s boy compared to him. He’s more like the love child of Lex Luther and Maleficent. Times ten thousand.”
We stare at each other in silence, until Hank says carefully, “If this man is harming you, Juliet, we need to go to the police and report it.”
All my held breath bursts out of me in a loud, wild laugh. “God, no. The only danger he poses to me is the ruination of my entire collection of panties.”
Hank blinks.
I pull my lips between my teeth and stare at him in horror. “Sorry.”
He makes a face and drags a hand through his hair, then chuckles nervously. “It’s no problem, I just wasn’t expecting that. Well.” It’s his turn to clear his throat. “This, ah, this dangerous man of yours. How did you meet him?”
“I stole something from him. A lot of things, actually. I mean it was all the same type of thing, just a bunch of them.”
Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2) Page 13
