Page 52 of Fifth Avenue Fling

He stops abruptly.

“Put her down,” says a deep American voice above me. Quinn. He sounds close.

“She’s my lass,” Liam snaps, tightening his grip on my hips.

“She’ll be the judge of that.” Quinn sounds furious.

I see a second set of feet on the pavement. Hairy big toes. A warm arm slides under my belly, hoisting me off Liam’s shoulders and onto even broader shoulders.

Quinn.

He’s breathing heavily. His chest feels warm against my body, considering he’s outside with no clothes on.

Now other feet are circling us.

Hanging upside down over Quinn’s back, I grab the top of his boxers. Why isn’t he putting me down?

“Sir,” another voice says in an Irish accent. Oh God, I hope it’s not Sam.

“Uh, Mr.—” I start.

“What took you so long?” Quinn growls, still holding me in a fireman’s lift. “Deal with this guy.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” a second voice with an American accent replies as Quinn gradually lowers me until my chest is in his line of sight.

I cling to his neck for stability, feeling his shoulder muscles tense beneath my grasp.

My body slides against his as he sets me down on the ground. I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My bullet nipples are hardened from the chilly air, lightly brushing against his chest through my thin tank top. His warm breath tickles my hair, and the heat of his hands radiates through my lower back, connecting me to him.

He feels like a hard, warm rock.

I’mabsolutely fucking boiling.

His blue eyes flash down to mine like I’ve hit him with an electric bolt. Then he sharply releases me from his grip and steps back.

I see then who he’s talking to.

About ten (I’m too distraught to count) men in black circle us. All are wearing the same black trousers, black shirts, and earpieces.

I feel like I’m watching a slow-motion movie. Two of them drag a belligerent Liam down the street by the armpits. He shouts my name as they haul him away.

I don’t know where they’re taking him, but it better be another state because if I see him again, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.

As I watch Liam, my teeth chatter, and my whole body is like ice, but I don’t care.

He just cost me my visa.

“Clodagh, you have no shoes on, for fuck’s sake,” Quinn growls.

I snap back to reality and turn to him, dazed. We’re not touching, yet it feels like we are.

His glare intensifies.

I look down. He’s standing in the street in his boxers. He’s not wearing shoes, either.

One of the men in black clears their throat. “Sir, shall we—”

“No,” Quinn cuts in. He lets out an agitated breath and stares at me as if I’m the biggest pain in his ass. “Clodagh can provide you with a statement in the morning.”

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