Chapter 13
Logan
I’m fucked.
That’s the only thought in my head as I watch Nuala stand there in my shirt, her legs bare, her hair wrapped up in a towel.
The fabric clings to her damp skin, revealing curves I shouldn’t claim but already consider mine.
My body responds with a violence that matches my profession, my cock hardening with the same swift certainty as my hand reaching for a weapon.
I remove my glasses and focus on the pulse at her throat, how easily I could pin her against that wall, the dangerous truth that no one else will ever see her wearing my clothes again, and live.
“What?” she asks nervously.
I rise swiftly, ditching the book and glasses on the nightstand, and move towards her.
She stumbles back as I enter her personal space, but I don’t let her get too far away from me.
Her back hits the wall, and I loom over her, my six four to her five four at best. Reaching out, I grasp her chin lightly and force her to look up at me.
Those green eyes are full of lust that does things to me no woman has ever done before and never will again. I fall hard. Fast. Irrationally.
I’ve been out of the priesthood for six months. I should’ve dated more, fucked more, seen what was out there. Instead, I forced myself into solitude, relying on the fighting as a release and waiting. Waiting for Fionnuala Quinn, it seems.
“Logan,” she breathes, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.
I move closer, pressing against her. She can’t escape, even if she wanted to. “There are some clothes and a new phone on their way over,” I say, studying her reaction.
She frowns, but doesn’t say anything. I lean forward, she braces herself, her hands going to my chest. But I don’t kiss her lips.
I kiss away the frown lines between her eyes, hearing her breath hitch.
I pull back slightly, watching her pupils dilate.
Her hands are still pressed against my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she says quietly. “I have clothes at home.”
I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “You’re mine to take care of now, Nuala.”
“Yours?” The word comes out breathy, but there’s a challenge in it. That fire I’m becoming addicted to.
“Mine,” I confirm, leaning down until our foreheads nearly touch. “To protect. To keep safe. To—”
“To what?” she whispers.
To fuck until she forgets her own name. To mark so thoroughly that every man in Ireland knows she’s off limits. To keep forever because the thought of anyone else touching her makes me want to commit violence that would make my uncle proud.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I slide my hand from her chin to the back of her neck, feeling the damp strands of hair that have escaped the towel. “To take care of,” I say, reaching up to unwrap the towel so her blonde hair, dark from the water, cascades around her shoulders.
“You keep saying that.” Her hands slide up my chest, tentative, testing. “But what does it mean?”
“It means you don’t go hungry. You don’t go cold.
You don’t face any of this alone.” I move my lips to her temple, then down to her jawline.
Each kiss is deliberate, controlled, even as everything inside me screams to take more.
Her fingers grip my shirt, but I don’t know if she’s trying to push me away or pull me closer.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “Because I want to.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“It’s the only one that matters.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip, feeling it tremble beneath my touch. “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t. Her lips part. A war plays out across her face—fear versus desire, common sense versus need.
“I should,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“But you won’t.” I lean in again, my lips hovering just above hers. Close enough that our breaths mingle. Close enough that one slight movement would close the distance. “Because you want this too.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m honest.” I trace my hand down her neck, feeling her pulse hammering beneath my fingers.
“I’ve spent six months in a prison of my own making.
Denying myself everything. Punishing myself for failing to save someone I loved.
And then you walked into my life with your attitude and your fire, your vulnerability and strength, and suddenly I don’t want to deny myself anymore. ”
Her hands are still on my chest, and I can feel them shaking. “I’m not your redemption.”
“I’m not asking you to be.” My hand slides down her side, feeling the curve of her waist through my shirt. “I’m asking you to let me touch you. To let me make you forget everything except this moment.”
Something breaks in her eyes. The walls she’s been holding up crumble, and before I can process it, she surges forward and kisses me.
The contact detonates something visceral in my soul.
I grip the back of her head and kiss her back with years of pent-up hunger.
Her lips are soft, tentative at first, but then she opens for me, and I’m lost. I slide my tongue against hers, swallowing the small sound she makes.
My other hand goes to her waist, bunching the fabric of my tee in my fist.
She tastes like possibilities I haven’t let myself consider. Like a future that doesn’t involve kneeling in confession booths or fighting just to feel something. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I press her harder against the wall.
I break the kiss to trail my mouth down her neck. She tilts her head back, exposing the column of her throat, and I bite down gently. She gasps, her nails digging into my back through my tee.
“Logan,” she breathes, and hearing my name from her lips like that nearly undoes me.
I pull back enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with want, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
“We should stop,” I say, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to keep going.
“Why?”
“Because once I start, I won’t stop until you’re screaming my name.” The promise hangs between us, raw and honest.
She swallows hard. “I don’t want you to stop.”
I close my eyes, fighting for control. When I open them again, her gaze is steady on mine, challenging me. Daring me to make good on my words.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking for.”
I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. She arches against me, and I feel every curve through the thin fabric of my tee. My control is hanging by a thread.
“Last chance, Nuala. Tell me to stop now, or I’m taking what I want.”
Her eyes flash with that fire I’m addicted to. “Then take it.”
The thread snaps.
I crush my mouth to hers, releasing her wrists to grip her thighs. I lift her easily, and she wraps her legs around my waist. The t-shirt rides up, exposing her, and I groan, pressing her harder against the wall.
“Oh, don’t mind me.”
The voice of Connor echoes through the bedroom, and I curse, turning my head to glare at him as Nuala squeaks and scrambles to get down and cover herself. She ducks into the bathroom, slamming the door closed, and it feels like punishment.
“You are such an arse,” I growl, marching towards him and shoving him back into the living area. “Who told you you could come in?”
Connor smirks. “I was knocking for about five minutes, kiddo. I don’t wait around much longer than that.”
“So, you just let yourself in? Where did you even get a key from?” I run a hand through my hair, pissed off on Nuala’s behalf. She is embarrassed, and I want to go to her and tell her it’s okay.
“Where did I get a key from?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Delivery, by the way.”
He gestures to the bags adorning the couch.
“This is… this is…”
“What?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “You walk into my home all the time without someone letting you in.”
My mouth drops open, and then I close it. I growl and then say, “That’s different. That’s your place of work as well.”
“No different. She’s pretty.”
“Eyes off her,” I snarl.
He gives me a scathing look. “Jaysus, boy,” his accent thickening in his distaste. “I’m old enough to be her grandfather.”
“Hardly,” I grit out, hoping she doesn’t like the silver fox type. Who knows? I barely know anything about her except what she does to me, and that I need to keep her breathing.
“It’s good to see you grabbing life with both hands, Logan,” he says after a beat. The sincerity in his tone takes me aback. “What? You think I didn’t notice how withdrawn you’ve been since you left the church?”
I shrug, not wanting to discuss this with him. Not now. Not when Nuala is hiding in my bathroom because he barged in at the worst possible moment.
“I’m fine,” I say curtly.
Connor moves to my kitchen, opening cupboards until he finds the whiskey. He pours three glasses without asking.
“You’re not fine. But you’re better than you were.” He slides a glass toward me and leaves the third on the counter as he picks up his glass. “That girl in there—she’s good for you.”
“She’s not a therapy session, Connor. She’s a witness I’m protecting.”
He laughs, the sound rough and knowing. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
I drain the whiskey in one swallow, welcoming the burn. “What do you want?”
“Besides walking in on my nephew trying to seduce a witness?” He grins at my glare, but then goes deadly serious, and family ribbing is over. “I want to know what you’ve found.”
“What makes you think I found anything?”
He says nothing, just glares at me with those icy eyes.
After about ten seconds, it works, and I cave.
I grab the notebook from where I left it and toss it to him.
He catches it one-handed, flipping through the pages. His expression darkens with each turn.
“What am I looking at?”
I move closer to where Connor stands poking at the notebook. “Loan records. Someone was running an off-books operation, tracking debts that shouldn’t exist on paper.”
“Whose operation?”