Page 46 of Sinister Intentions

Holding her in my arms felt simply amazing as if she was made to be there and as if I was born to hold her.

Oh, no. I straightened and swept my hair back.

Jemma Donnelly might’ve overreacted, been weak like a baby, but then, there was the other side of her, the fierce, defiant woman who had the audacity to challenge me—had the guts to invade my privacy by following me.

As if she hadn’t done enough already.

So what if a part of me admired her boldness, both with the hacking and the way she stood up to me? I could despise her and think she was one interesting woman.

Girl. Fuck.

She was twenty-one. Barely still a teenager playing a dangerous game, one that could have severe consequences if she wasn’t careful—which she obviously wasn’t.

How did she even survive until now? And why didn’t Donnelly have tighter control over her if she was such a reckless mess?

I should give Matt a heads-up about his soon-to-be bride’s tendencies toward self-destruction.

So why did I bring her here? Why did I undress her? And why was I even thinking about her?

And yet, despite all the reasons, despite the warning bells blaring in my mind, I couldn’t deny the undeniable pull I felt towards her.

Somehow, her unpolished, raw personality was more interesting to me than any of the pretentious socialites—who usually fawned over me—could ever be.

And it wasn’t just physical attraction. Because, let’s be real. If I could choose, I wouldn’t take a woman with a bright green punk haircut who, all wet, looked like a drowned rat. And yet, her punk-rock appearance and soaked clothes did little to diminish her allure. On the contrary.

In jeans and a tee, and with her slim figure, she looked more like a boy than a girl.

A boy…with green hair.

I hadn’t thought about the incident in Dublin for a while, but suddenly, it all became painfully clear.

When we watched Fee jump out of that window to escape from her father’s house, a boy with green hair stood in that window, watching her, helping her.

Only it hadn’t been a boy. It had been Jemma—without her signature ball cap and wig.

Fuck me.

I narrowed my brows. She was like a cyclone, creating nothing but disaster and chaos wherever she appeared. She should come with her own pre-warning system.

I shook my head. And here, I thought she was just like all the other spoiled mob princesses. Shallow, boring, without color. But there was a depth to this girl, a complexity that intrigued me, that made me want to unravel all the mysteries she hid under her ridiculous wig and ball cap.

I gripped the tiled wall, letting the water cascade over me as I wrestled with these warring thoughts.

On one hand, she represented a threat, a potential weakness that could compromise everything I’d built. On the other, she was like a puzzle I couldn’t resist.

Unbidden images of her flooded my mind. How weak and scared she’s been bound to that chair; her drenched clothing clinging to her slim frame when we got out of the pool, such a contrast to her defiant glare over her shoulder; the curve of her long neck under the shower.

Her buttery-soft skin.

I cursed under my breath as I felt the familiar stirrings of desire, and my dick stirred and hardened.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to focus, to regain control.

She was a girl; soon enough she would be my sister-in-law. I had no business feeling anything when it came to Jemma Donnelly. I had no business even thinking about her and especially not being intrigued by her…or turned on by her personality or her body.

I should definitely not be turned on by her.

And yet. I groaned while I cupped my hand around my balls before I wrapped it around my dick.

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