Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
DEE
My eyes pop open, and for a minute, I think maybe I dreamed the whole thing.
Did Eamon really show up at my door and drunkenly confess he’s in love with me?
I roll out of bed and make my way to the living room.
Yep. There’s definitely a six-foot-six Irishman snoring like a bear, with his feet draped over the armrest of my secondhand sofa.
One of his arms hangs down over the side, his fingers just brushing the wood floor.
Nope, last night definitely wasn’t a dream. Now, we’ll have to see if the light of day changes his mind.
I tiptoe into the kitchen, trying to avoid the minefield of moving boxes and bubble wrap. My heart races in my chest as I hit the button on my ancient coffeemaker and pray it survives another day. While it groans to life, I steal a glance at Eamon through the doorway.
He’s got one bare foot while the other is still laced into those ridiculous, shiny dress shoes he wears. His jaw is slack, and his five o’clock shadow has progressed to full-blown stubble. And yet, somehow, the sight makes my heart do a little stutter-step in my chest.
While the coffee brews, I have a full-blown internal debate about whether I should wake him up or let him sleep. I decide to go with the classic “let the bear sleep” approach, mostly because I’m not ready to face this without a whole lot of caffeine on board.
I’m pouring a second mug for myself when I get that weird prickly feeling on the back of my neck.
I whirl around and nearly jump out of my skin because Eamon Whelan is standing right behind me.
Not just lurking, but looming, all six-foot-six of him, shirtless and rumpled and somehow looking even more gorgeous than humanly possible.
I swear to God, my brain short-circuits so hard I almost drop my favorite coffee mug on the floor.
He leans in, one eyebrow arched, blue eyes bright and way, way too awake for a man who drank half a distillery last night. “Do you have a cup for me?”
Okay, wow. I forgot how his voice does things to my insides. I clutch the mug to my chest like it’s a damn life raft.
“Sure,” I shoot back, trying to sound casual as I reach for my Tigger mug. I pour him a cup of coffee and hand him the mug. “How are you feeling?” He should have the mother of all hangovers, but he doesn’t seem to be hurting at all.
“Never better.” Eamon takes the mug, and his hand swallows mine, big and warm, just for a second. The contact is electric. I don’t know if it’s the caffeine or the massive, shirtless man currently crowding my kitchen, but my pulse goes from zero to pounding.
“I guess you don’t get hangovers like the rest of us.”
“Nope.” He smirks as he glances at the dancing tiger on the mug.
“Cute.” He doesn’t bother with sugar or milk.
Just tips the mug to his lips and takes a sip, watching me over the rim like he’s mentally undressing me one layer at a time.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I don’t combust on the spot.
“You live to fuck with me, don’t you?” he asks, voice gravel and silk, and I try really, really hard to keep my eyes locked on his face.
Not his chest. Not the way every muscle flexes when he lifts the mug.
Definitely not the way a little trail of hair disappears under the waistband of his slacks.
I nod, but it comes out more like a gulp. “I do.”
Eamon just grins. His eyes drop to my mouth and linger there like he’s replaying every filthy thought he’s ever had about me. “Why do you have me listed as Tigger in your contacts?” My eyes widen. I had no idea he knew that.
“I saw your tiger tattoo one night when you had to change your shirt,” I admit.
I couldn’t resist spying on him in the break room that one time.
Eamon’s eyes are laser-locked on me. “Plus, you bounce around causing mayhem everywhere you go.” I fidget as he stares at me.
“And you’re always growling.” Okay, so my reason for calling him Tigger isn’t perfectly thought out, but he just reminds me of my favorite cartoon character.
The look on his face is priceless. Total confusion, total alpha male, totally adorable.
He closes the distance between us so fast that I barely have time to squeak.
His big hands bracket my hips, warm and rough and so damn sure.
“You’re so goddamn adorable.” My back bumps the edge of the counter, but I barely feel it because his lips are suddenly on mine, hungry and wild and hot enough to melt my mind into a puddle of goo.
Holy shit.
His tongue pushes between my lips, and I open for him without even thinking.
All my sass, all my carefully crafted plans for our discussion, just kind of evaporate.
My brain is running on nothing but Eamon: his taste, his scent, the way his stubble scrapes my chin as he deepens the kiss.
I grab fistfuls of his hair and yank him closer, not even trying to play it cool.
His chest is hard and insanely warm under my hands.
The kiss goes nuclear while we devour each other like we’ve been starving for years.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets my ass right on the edge of the counter.
Before I can even gasp, he’s wedged between my knees, hands gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll have bruises to remind me of this.
His mouth is all over mine, hungry and wild and a little bit dangerous, and I can’t get enough.
My brain is whirling at this point. I wind my legs around his waist, and Eamon groans against my lips. “I meant what I said last night,” he growls. “You can’t leave. Not now. Not ever.”
I pull back and stare into his eyes. “It was actually this morning.” I can’t help myself.
“You live to push my buttons, don’t you, Sunshine,” he growls and nips at my bottom lip. The tiny sting sends shivers down my spine that turn into full-on goosebumps when he drags my lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over the spot.
My head falls back as I groan. “The sass just comes naturally. Kinda like breathing.”
“I live for your smart ass attitude.” He kisses me again, and this time, I lose track of everything.
I’m dizzy with the way Eamon holds me, the taste of him, the thunder in my veins every time his tongue meets mine.
Every inch of my body is awake and aware and screaming yes, yes, yes, even though my brain is making whimpering noises in the background.
He grinds forward into the cradle of my thighs, pushing me back on the countertop, and my girly parts tingle.
I swear, the Formica might crack under my ass, but I’m way too turned on to care.
Eamon’s hands move over my body, both rough and gentle, hungry and reverent, like he can’t decide if he wants to devour me or worship me.
Fucking hell. I want it all.
I wind my hands in his hair, tugging at the short salt-and-pepper strands, and the growl he lets out has my panties instantly soaked.
He breaks away, breathing hard, pressing his forehead to mine. “This is happening. Full stop. I’m done pretending.”
“We have to talk,” I insist, hating my reasonable side.
“We will talk,” he promises, mouth brushing mine before I find the will to protest. “After. Right now, I’ll die if I don’t make you mine.”
“We definitely don’t want that.” I drag his lips back down to mine.
He lifts me off the counter, cradling me like I weigh nothing, and carries me down the hall toward my bedroom.
My heart is pounding so hard I think it might explode.
I’m vaguely aware that my hair is a mess, my pajamas are ancient, and my apartment looks like a crime scene, but none of it matters because Eamon is kissing me like there’s no tomorrow.
He lifts me up and deposits me onto the bed—a little reckless, a little gentle.
My gaze sticks shamelessly to him: the way his chest rises and falls, the ropes of muscle in his arms, that wild swirl of black-and-blue ink curling under his ribs.
I drink it all in, greedy. My eyes snag on the tiny scar above his left nipple, and for the first time, I notice a thin, silver barbell through his left nipple.
Holy hell. That’s so freaking hot, I nearly forget to breathe.
He stands over me, chest heaving, and it hits me that I’ve never seen him this raw, this unguarded.
Oh. My. God.
He’s so goddamn gorgeous. And dangerous. I swear, every cell in my body is vibrating from the way he’s looking at me.
He doesn’t say a word as he unfastens his belt, slow and deliberate, all heat and focus.
My brain goes into full meltdown, and I can’t look away or even blink.
He slides the belt out and drops it to the floor with a heavy thunk.
For a second, I honestly think I might pass out because, holy hell, he’s even hotter out of a suit.
His slacks hang low on his hips, and the shape of him is so insanely male it scrambles my IQ down to single digits. My mouth actually waters.
“You like what you see, Sunshine?” His voice is low and rough and one hundred percent smug.
“It’s okay.” I shrug, not sure how I manage to lie with a straight face.
But Eamon doesn’t call me out. He just gives me this lazy, cocky half-smile that makes my brain completely short-circuit.
“That so?” he murmurs, and then he’s crawling up the bed, all muscle and heat and pure, undiluted male.
My breath catches in my throat as he brackets my hips with his giant hands and drops a kiss right between my breasts, just above the neckline of my ancient sleep tee.
Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble.