Page 25 of Carnal Wagers

“I say we are.”

Maybe that asshole tone worked on other women, but not me.

“Is that how your mother taught you to treat a lady?”

“You’re no lady.”

“Be that as it may, this is how it’s going to go.” I gave his arm a squeeze, and his eyes flicked to our connection. “You’re going to take me inside and let me buy you a drink.”

His lips twitched, which almost felt like winning an Olympic medal.

“Am I?”

“You are.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re no knight in shining armor, and you’ll prove that by not buying me the beer, but letting me buy you one.”

“I’m inclined to say no.”

“But you won’t.” I sauntered closer until our chests were mere centimeters apart. I pushed up on the balls of my feet to whisper in his ear. “Admit it, you’re curious.”

“About?”

“How a woman like me just took charge.” I pulled back to look into his eyes. “Giving even a millimeter of control isn’t your thing. But somehow, beyond all reason, you like it.”

His jaw twisted from side to side. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I like getting burned.” It was better than freezing to death in this tundra he’d dropped us in, in the last seven years.

He thumbed my chin. “You a spoiled little rich girl looking for a thrill?” He clicked his tongue and pinched my skin. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’m not the kind of man you want to mess with.”

“Men like you stand behind a woman like me, not in front.” I raked my nails up and down the arm that connected us. Two of us could play this game. “You have no idea what I can handle.”

“That so?”

“It’s a promise.”

The intrigue that flickered behind his gaze took no prisoners, promised no shelter, and gave no amnesty. The corners of his eyes crinkled as his thumb trailed down my neck.

“You always this brave? Or is it recklessness?”

Maybe it was the dichotomy of his touch, both light yet dangerous, that sparked something low in my gut, like I was chasing a high before a fall. He wasn’t nicknamed the Claw for nothing, yet I still offered up my throat to this Irish mobster, under the rain, in the middle of a Boston sidewalk.

“A little bit of both chases the demons away.”

“Some demons never leave.”

“We talking about metaphorical ones or the one in your pants?”

His lips thinned. “I don’t like an easy catch.”

“Why are you convinced you’re catching anything?” I challenged, one brow raised.

He scoffed, the quick burst of emotion softening his face, before the emptiness settled back in place. He made a gesture, and a shape detached itself from the pub wall, grabbed my umbrella off the ground, and handed it to the intriguing mobster before me.

I tried not to flinch at his guard’s sudden appearance. There was another on the other side of the doorframe. Plastered to the wall as they’d been, like human decorations, I hadn’t even noticed them. It was not my finest moment, but something about Cillian O’Leary grappled all my attention with both hands and squeezed.