“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.