Page 58 of The Love Destroyers

I roll my eyes at him. “He’s not your father.”

“Shit, now you tell me.”

I can’t help but smile, and I indulge myself by standing and giving his hard chest a little push. He layers his hand over mine for half a second, the press of his fingers spreading heat through me. Making me want it to travel over my body. But he releases me, and I promptly drop the hand.

His smile is still slightly amused. Indulgent. “What do you give their chances, divorce lawyer?”

I make a show of pursing my mouth to the side, thinking. Then I shake my head. “No, not going there. My mother’s been married three times, although to be fair to her, none of those marriages ended in divorce. The odds wouldn’t be great.”

“So what you’re saying is that marrying her might be the last thing Chuck does?”

I lift my eyebrows and put a hand on my hip. “If he screws her over, it will definitely be the last thing he does. She may be a pain in the ass most of the time, but she’s my mother.”

“There she is,” he says, grinning wider now. “Lucky for you, I don’t think Chuck even knows how to screw people over.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll upgrade their chances.”

“That’s generous of you.” He leans in a bit closer, and I’m so ridiculously tempted to lean in too. To tip up onto my toes. Instead, I yawn theatrically and lower down onto the couch, stretching out and making a pantomime of being comfortable, which isn’t hard, since this piece of furniture actuallyiscomfortable. Shadow immediately pounces onto my belly from the back of the couch, making me laugh as I say, “Well, have fun climbing the wall.”

“Oh, so you’re both going to leave an injured man to his own resources?”

I smile, sitting up quickly enough that I earn a scratch from Shadow before she pads off. Seamus is still standing over me—his body lean and muscular. He took his leather jacket off almost two hours ago, and the sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up, showing off a few tattoos—a Celtic symbol, a raven, some initials. “An old girlfriend?” I ask, pointing to them.

He shakes his head. “My parents.”

“Now I feel like a jerk,” I admit.

“I like jerks.”

“Do you have any more tattoos?”

“Yes,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s an interesting way of asking me to undress, but I’m willing to show you if you ask nicely.”

“No,” I lie, then watch, mouth agape, as he edges up the side of his shirt. “What are you doing?”

I want him to take it off.

I want to run my tongue over his abs and lower down to my knees so I can take power from him, and give it too.

I want—

He reveals a hard, defined chest, with a smattering of chest hair and a tiny tattoo on his lower chest—a red hatchback.

“No,” I say with a gasp.

“Yes,” he says, laughing. “There. I knew I could surprise you.”

I look up at him, asking permission silently, and he gives the slightest nod, so I run the tips of my fingers over his hard, hot flesh—feeling a pulse of neediness between my legs. Noticing the way he tips in slightly, as if he wants more of me. As if he feels this draw between us too. “Why? And don’t tell me it’s because they’re practical. Iknowyou’re not a man who likes practical cars.”

“How do you know?” he asks, smiling as I press my palm to the tattoo before forcing myself to pull my hand away, the skin alive with awareness of him.

“Your sister has shown me some photos,” I admit. “They’re impressive.”

His smile gets broader. “Checking up on me, huh?”

“It’s good to know what kind of miscreants are hanging around.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

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