Page 9 of Dublin Brute

I close my eyes and press my cheek to the leather of Brendan’s jacket. Even at the speed we’re going and with thesmell of exhaust and night chill filling my senses, his manly scent still lingers in the air.

There’s something about his cologne, leather, and his natural scent blending together that creates a heady, musky, intoxicating mixture that speaks to me.

It’s wild and yet makes me feel safe.

It’s sexy and yet makes me feel calm.

Is that because it’s the smell that surrounded me as he saved my life?

I swallow, the image of his emerald green eyes boring into mine as he shielded me from the violence of the night.“I’ve got you, beautiful. Stay still.”

A pleasant shiver runs the length of my spine.

The guilt that envelops me is crushing, but maybe it’s natural to be hyper-aware of sensations after you survive a near-death experience.

And who am I kidding? Tanya would be fist-pumping the air if she saw the man I have my legs straddled around. I force a breath through the crushing weight squeezing my lungs, the sight of her lying face-first on the ground threatening to pull me under.

“You okay back there?” Brendan’s voice carries over the rumble of the engine.

I squeeze his waist tighter in response. My hands are tucked inside his open leather jacket and brush across abs that feel like forged steel. I hope the rest of him is tough as steel because he’s not wearing a helmet.

When we got to his bike, he sat the half helmet on my head and adjusted the chin straps to fit. When I realized he didn’t have a second one, I panicked, but he insisted he’d be fine. I reminded him that to ride without a helmet was against the law and he chuckled and told me laws were meant to be broken.

The amused look he flashed me then had my heart fluttering.

The man has a wonderful, sexy smirk. I have a feeling that if he ever gives me a full-on smile, I will be ruined for life.

An opening between cars appears in the next lane and Brendan gives the bike more gas. I tighten my hold on his abs as the beast we’re riding grumbles louder and we’re practically launched into the vacant space.

My goodness, how much power does this thing have?

I try not to think about it, comforting myself knowing that Brendan obviously knows how to ride and has already proven he can keep me safe. I’m sure he wouldn’t go to all the trouble of tackling me and saving my life, just to get us killed afterward.

I study the streets as we close the distance to the end of our ride. When we left the crime scene, all I wanted was to get home. Now, I wish I lived somewhere on the south side of the river so we could extend this trip and stay in this moment.

I lean forward, pressing closer to Brendan’s back. At the red light, he slows the bike to a stop and reaches inside his jacket. Despite the bite of the wind as we ride, his massive hand is toasty warm. He covers my hand where it rests on his stomach.

The touch is a sweet reassurance—the gentleness at odds with the rough and dangerous aura he gives off. The skin of his palm is calloused and rough and I wonder what kind of life could give him such a massively muscled frame and strong, calloused hands.

Construction, maybe? He’s very confident on the motorcycle. Could he be part of a bike gang? Dublin has a large MC presence, the Dublin Devils being an arm of the Quinn mafia family. My father doesn’t tell me much about the work his task force is doing, but a lifetime of living with an investigator has conditioned me to be observant.

It’s also hard to miss the Devils when they regularly patrol the streets north of the river. Panic lights off in my chest at the thought…

Could Brendan—the sweet and protective man who sheltered me from a storm of bullets—belong to a criminal organization like the Dublin Devils?

I splay my hands and brush them over the soft cotton of his Henley, and push that thought away. He’s not wearing a biker vest, and he certainly doesn’t act like a drug-running thug. No—that’s just my father’s influence tainting my reality.

Brendan is probably just a hard-working construction guy who likes motorcycles.

At the next light, Brendan chuckles and moves my hand up his ribs. “I’m not complaining, angel, but your wandering hands are making it difficult for me to remember you’ve had a rough night. I’m taking the gentlemanly road here and seeing you safe home, but if you keep it up…”

I suck in a breath and tense to pull my hands away.

As if he expected this, he holds them in place. “Like I said, I’m not complaining. You need to hold on, and I’m loving that. Just keep things above my waist. You’ve already been through one shock tonight. You really don’t need to know what’s going on below my belt.”

Is he saying…?

He chuckles again, and the rise and fall of his chest is mortifying. I close my eyes, my cheeks flaming hot with embarrassment. How do I respond to that? And why am I more intrigued with what’s happening below his belt than I am about the impropriety of giving this manly beast a hard-on?

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