Page 6 of Mine
A hundred volts of electricity shoot over my spine. Those two words set something swooping in my stomach.Clearly, I’m in shock or something because the sensations he’s stirring in me are downright unhinged.
Fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The whiskey hits the back of my throat, but the burn has nothing on the way his eyes smoulder into mine. We stare, silently assessing one another for a long beat before he turns his attention back to my cuts, cleaning them gently.
Clearly I’m traumatised, because I should categorically not be noticing his huge six foot four inches of rock solid muscle. Or the white fitted shirt which sculpts his broad shoulders. The top two buttons are open, revealing the top of a frankly terrifying, but intriguing tattoo—an ominous looking black raven. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick slabs of muscle dusted with dark hair and prominent, masculine veins. That’s some serious forearm porn he’s rocking.
The thick, black-framed glasses balancing on his strong Roman nose make him look like a dark, villainous version of Clark Kent.
The man is the wordmalepersonified.
No one has cared for me physically since my mother died.
No one washed me.
Held me.
Showed me any type of warmth or compassion.
Yet this man, this big, burly, murderous monster, is treating me like his queen. It’s utterly surreal.
Finally, when he seems satisfied, he grabs a towel from behind the bar and gently pats my feet dry.
‘Thank you,’ I blurt awkwardly.
His focus falls to my face again, this time like he’s committing every inch to his memory. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Aoife O’Shea.’ I take another small sip of whiskey. Again, the burn has nothing on what Dominic Kincaid is doing to my insides.
Of all the men in the world, why is the one I’m supposed to hate the first one I’m attracted to?
He’s the epitome of everything I’ve spent the last four years trying to escape from, yet an image of him on his knees for me for other reasons hijacks my head.
Yep, I’m definitely in shock.
‘Aoife.’ My name sounds positively sexual as it leaves his lips.
I’m sure there’s a syndrome to cover what’s happening to me right now. He might be a villain, but in this weird, fucked up moment, he feels like my hero. A blush flushes my cheeks.
His mouth curves upwards, like he can read every filthy thought in my head. ‘So, I have a solution to your little problem.’
‘Little problem?’ My hands have just about stopped shaking, but even the prospect of stepping outside this bar sets them rattling again. And that’s assuming he’s going to let me.
‘I’d say it’s a colossal problem.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache flares behind the backs of my eyes.
Where am I going to hide?
I have nothing.
Nobody.
Nowhere to go.
And on top of it, I basically signed my father’s death warrant.
Since I was a child, I’ve taken care of my dad. I cooked. I cleaned. I tried to keep him off the drink and out of trouble, which is a full-time job. One that I couldn’t commit towhilst working three other jobs to pay my way through college.
