Page 78 of Three Irish Kings
“Stay with me. It gets so lonely here, and Liam won’t spend much time with me.”
“You want me to... stay?”
She nods, giving me a small smile. “Please?”
God, she’s beautiful. Gorgeous, really.
The more I look at her, the more that picture seems far away and different. The less she looks like Maggie Sullivan.
And yet, she’s someone far more dangerous.
I swallow hard. “All right, then. What are we doing?”
She grins wider and stands up, heading to the fridge and bringing out two bottles of wine. “I saw this earlier today. I can’t wait to drink it. Will you have a glass with me?”
She looks at me so expectantly, so innocently.
I don’t drink much, especially when I’m on a job. But this is just the two of us, and she is looking at me like that. What harm can one glass do? “Sure.”
Her face breaks out in an even wider smile, and I want to kiss it, want to slide my tongue between her lips. Slide it up her thighs and into the loose shorts she’s wearing.
Isla squeals, doing what looks like a little cute happy dance. She grabs two large glasses and the bottle, taking it all to the living room and flipping on a movie—some drama.
Then she pours us each a glass.
I barely pay attention to what is happening on the screen because as Isla drinks, she gets closer and closer to me, and I don’t realize I’m gulping down the wine myself until she pops open the second bottle.
I should stop.
I set my glass down.
“You really like wine, huh?” It’s my attempt at a tease, but I’m fighting an erection because her hand is high up on my thigh, so my voice comes out gruff.
“I do.” She leans her head back against the couch cushion. “More than the taste, I like the way it makes all my problems seem less important.”
Looking at the half-filled glass I just set down, my fourth at this point, I have to admit she’s right. Idofeel less stressed. I barely ever drink, much less to excess, even though I’m not as much of a teetotaler as Liam.
It’s not like the room is spinning, but my face is flushed, and Isla’s closeness and babbling seem to be affecting me more than usual.
“So, what’s your story, Cillian?”
There’s something about the way she says my name—rarely shortening it, the syllables rolling off her tongue.
I clear my throat. “I don’t have much of a story.”
She frowns. “Everyone has a story.” She looks at me for a long moment, her hazel eyes just a little glassy. “I’ll tell you something about my past if you’ll tell me something about yours.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
She shrugs. “I know you won’t tell the others if I ask you not to.”
“I have no loyalty to you.”
“I know. But I still trust you.”
The way she’s looking at me, the sparkles of green in her eyes, it’s all too much, and I can’t stop myself from kissing her temple. I want to devour her mouth, devour her whole, but I need to control myself.
And oddly enough, she is right. She can trust me.
