Page 74 of Intimately Faithful

“Can I, Danny?” Kisses dropped to his spine, she felt how his rib cage expanded before he cursed and spun around, grabbing her by the waist he took her feet from the floor with a whoosh and deposited her on top of the table.

Her every nerve ending fired alive, becoming overly sensitive when he wrenched her legs apart, stepping into the breach, using his hands he dragged her by the behind to the edge of the table.

Aoife moaned and clasped his forearms, watching how dark the blue of his eyes turned. She drowned in that intoxicating gaze, and the intensity of his love fired her erratic pulse into a gallop.

There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

She’d hand him her soul if it meant she had him back again.

Only when he used a hand to flatten her spine to the table and then his body covered hers, did she feel like it was her Danny Murphy.

But she was greedy and ached for all the moments in between too.

His head fell forward on his thick neck, gifting her his moonlit eyes, exposing the sensitive tendon that runs from his ear to his shoulder.

“Can you what? Own me again? Make my body burn to take what used to be mine?”

“Isyours,” she rushed out. “My body is yours, now and always.”

“Are we writing the husband and father of your baby out of the story, Aoife?”

Pain stabbed her in the chest at the growled accusation, but she refused to let him build a brick wall between them. She reached for his face and was surprised he didn’t pull back; his breathing became fast and shallow.

Drawing her thumb over his lower lip she brought her face to his.

“You, Danny-boy, with all your stupid sexy good looks to drive a woman mental, have always owned my body. No one else exists for me—then, now orever. I’m a one pastor woman.”

The truth as plain as she could put it with a teasing smile, and he chuffed a sort of noise she was going to claim was a laugh.

She’d been on edge ever since she’d escaped the clutches of a crazy Russian but most of her tension had nothing to do with the looming danger that followed her. Maybe it should. Maybe she shouldn’t be more focused on her love life rather than the mess she was in.

She was such a movie female cliché.

But then if a woman in a movie had Danny Murphy striding around them in just sweatpants or his damn running shorts and his teasing manly scent, they’d be more focused on hard abs than they were of the killer.

“You have no idea.”

“About what?” She panted biting on his lower lip.

“You’ve been a constant in my brain, Aoife. Unforgettable. Every time I’ve laughed I’ve wanted to call you and share the joke.”

The longing looks, and intense brush of his fingers all played a part in her patience being shot to hell.

“I know he’s there, Danny,” she whispered, brushing the tip of her nose along his. She listened to his heavy breathing and his fingers dug hard into her hip bones. The pleasure-pain rushed wetness between her legs, and she widened them, so she was pressed fully into his belly. Just a thin barrier of her leggings and his pants separated them.

“Who?” He rasped, head dropped, eyes like sharp bullets.

She was so turned on, she wanted to purr.

“The Danny I know who likes to take control of me. The one who is shaking beneath your skin. The Danny who used to slam me up against a brick wall and rip my underwear off because he just couldn’t wait to get me home.”

“Aoife…don’t say that. Don’t think it. Don’t want it from me.” His voice was thick and almost strangely pained when he whispered her name. The sound of it vibrated right down to her curling toes.

He made her feel so good.

There he is, she thought. Lurking behind his grown-up responsible face.

If she could get him to lose his steadfast control that stopped him from giving her his all, then maybe he’d let them have their chance.

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