Page 8 of Taming Irish

“Talent?” She does a good job at hiding the way I affect her. But I’m a master at reading women. And I know exactly what she needs –me.

But she’s got more walls around her than Fort Knox, and hell if I don’t want to break them down and get inside of her in ways she’s never dreamed. At the same time, my self-preservation sends out a warning that this isn’t the type of girl who would be satisfied with a quickie in the airplanelavatory.

“I run a recording label,” I say, not sure what stops me from telling her who Iam.

It isn’t alie.

After Aiden and Cillian decided to stop touring, Owen came to me with the idea of starting our own label. It’s not really my thing. Sure, it keeps me busy. But it’s not playing on stage in front of thousands of cheeringfans.

Fuck, I missthat.

“But I’d rather be making music than listening to other people.” The comment is more to myself, a gripe I’ve been repeating a lotlately.

“You sing?” There’s still an air of reservation to her words, like she hasn’t decided what kind of trouble I am. I want to whisper in her ear that I’m the good kind, the kind of trouble that will have her trembling in pleasure and begging formore.

“Not well, no. But I play. Drums, piano, but mostly theguitar.”

It’s been months since the band has jammed together. And hell if a part of me doesn’t blame the women who have taken my boys from me. It’s not that I don’t love them. I do. But life was so much more fun when our conversations didn’t center around diaper changing andepidurals.

There are just some things a man doesn’t need to knowabout.

“You’re a musician.” The way she says it makes the word sounddirty.

And I have to hold myself back from telling her I’m notjusta musician - I’m Wild fucking Irish. At least I was, until my asshole bandmates decided to go all domesticated onme.

“What about ye?” I ask, stretching out further, taking up the armrest so that my forearm brusheshers.

“What about me?” she counters, the reservation that had been in her eyes earlier, now turned to solidwariness.

“Do ye play anyinstruments?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t have a musical bone in mybody.”

I can’t help but let my gaze dance down across that body, wondering just what talents itdoespossess.

God, the woman is beautiful. She’s tiny, but she has curves under the oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing. Everything about her screams that she doesn’t want attention. Especially not the kind that I want to give her. But that just draws me to hermore.

The seatbelt sign turns off and a voice comes over the intercom announcing that we can move around thecabin.

A few feet away, the stewardess I’d been flirting with earlier starts to put the bags that had fallen out, back in the overheadcompartments.

When she sees me, she gives a small pout as she looks between Makena and I, then leans over the chair, and says, “Are ye sure ye wouldn’t be more comfortable in yer ownseat?”

This woman knows exactly who I am. And the look she gives me tells me that she has more planned for me than just serving a few drinks. The woman is easy, and not just in the way she’ll spread those thighs for me. She’s also the kind of woman who wouldn’t expect anythingmore.

Unlike Makena, who practically screams long-term relationship. And if I thought I’d ever see her after this flight, I’d probably be running at breakneck speed in the oppositedirection.

“I’m fine here,” I say when the stewardess continues to stare at meexpectantly.

Makena lets out a small laugh, watching the woman walkaway.

“What?”

“No wonder you’re so cocky. Women just fall all over you, don’tthey?”

“Except for ye.” I give her one of my grins and tilt my head, brows raised, hoping to change thatfact.

Red creeps up her neck, into hercheeks.

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