Page 56 of Killaney Blood
I turn and look at him, thinking of what to say.
"How's your cut doing?" I ask, noticing he's not wearing a bandage over the wound above his eyebrow.
He reaches up and rubs it absently. "It's fine."
"And no more injuries since I've been gone?"
"No," he says, his voice rougher than before. "My nurse was missing."
I scoff, setting my glass down. "I wasn't missing."
"I didn't know where you were," he says. "That's missing."
That does it. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, two weeks of fear, exhaustion, and paranoia boiling over.
"Okay, look, cut this shit," I say sternly. "Don't come here, show up and act like this big tough guy who gives a fuck about where I was, stay here for whatever reason you have, and then say I'm missing because you didn't know where I was. You only care so I can make you money. Don't pretend. It's not right. Just stop."
Declan tosses the blanket off himself, and he's on his feet in a flash, rushing toward me in nothing but black boxer briefs.The sudden movement startles me and the intensity in his eyes makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
I try to move, but there's no place to go. I was leaning against the counter when I went off on him, and now I'm trapped between cold laminate and six foot four inches of furious, half-naked man.
"You think that's why I'm here?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Because you patch up my fighters?"
I shift and try to get away and he grabs my wrist and pulls me back, pinning me against my refrigerator. His body cages mine, the heat of him burning through my clothes, his scent filling my lungs.
His eyes are molten fire.
"Let me?—"
I can't finish my words.
Suddenly, he leans in and kisses me. Just kisses me. Out of nowhere. No warning.
His lips are softer than they look, and the rough stubble of his face gently scrapes my chin. For a millisecond, I'm paralyzed, caught between shock and something that makes my stomach drop and my knees weak.
This isn't like the dreams. This is real. His mouth. His hands. His heat.
I snap out of it, twisting my face away.
"What the fuck?" I say and shove him. "Get off me."
And I don't mean to, but out of reflex, my survival mode takes over. My palm connects with his cheek in a sharp slap. It doesn't even faze him.
His eyes never leave mine. I see the red mark my hand left on his face, see the muscle in his jaw twitching.
Before I can even move, he comes at me again and kisses me. This time it's slower, more deliberate, his hand sliding up to cup my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone with unexpected gentleness.
I freeze. Rage and heat swirl in my stomach.
And then, somehow, I'm kissing him back.
I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him.
My body betrays me as warmth pools in my belly. His other hand moves to my waist, gripping my hip.
I push him off, chest heaving, trying to regain some control. He looks at me, eyes dark with hunger, and lifts me and tosses me onto the couch like I weigh nothing.
The cushions barely absorb the impact before he's on me.
