Page 48 of Claiming Pretty

The intensity of his words left me breathless, my heart pounding as his grip on me lingered. My resolve wavered, dangerously close to crumbling.

No. You chose Scáth.

I cleared my throat and stepped out of Ty’s grasp before I could do something irreparably stupid.

He let me go, but the heat of him lingered on my skin, crawling under my defenses.

I busied myself by roughly chopping the tomatoes before throwing them into the fragrant mix of onion and garlic sizzling in olive oil.

The kitchen filled with the warm, rich aroma, a scent that should have comforted me but only added to the stifling tension.

As I stirred the sauce, willing my hands to stop trembling, Ty moved beside me.

He reached across to fill the pot with water, his body pressing against the side of mine with casual inevitability. He didn’t move away immediately, his presence suffocating in a way that left me weak.

My resolve faltered, my grip on the spoon tightening as if it could anchor me.

Finally, he stepped aside, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Ty set the pot on the burner, his tattooed forearms flexing as he adjusted the heat. The intricate black ink that covered his skin seemed alive under the flickering light, his scars weaving through the designs like threads of pain.

I tore my gaze away, forcing myself to focus on stirring the sauce as the tomatoes broke down.

He reached past me to grab the salt from the shelf above and brushed his arm across my breast. The contact was brief, casual, but it sent a jolt of need through me.

My breath hitched, and my fingers slipped on thewooden spoon, and it bounced off the side of the pan and clattered to the floor, splattering red sauce everywhere.

Shit.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, smooth, as he leaned over my shoulder for the paper towels. His breath tickled my ear, and I froze, my pulse racing.

“Grand,” I said, my voice higher than usual. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Just grand.”

Ty dropped to a crouch behind me.

I froze, my grip tightening on the edge of the counter. I felt his breath ghost over the backs of my thighs, warm and deliberate. My knees threatened to buckle.

“You’ve made a mess, hummingbird,” he murmured, his tone low, almost teasing.

He dabbed at the red streaks on the floor and the counter, his shoulder brushing against the backs of my legs, his movements slow, precise—calculated.

I sucked in a shaky breath, trying to keep my focus anywhere but on him. On the heat of his body so close to mine.

On the way he nudged my legs apart as he reached between them to supposedly mop up another spot of sauce.

The air felt charged, thick with something unspoken. My hands trembled where they gripped the counter, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

Finally, Ty straightened, the paper towels streaked red in his hand. He tossed them into the trash and turned back to me, his expression calm, as though nothing had happened.

“All cleaned up,” he said smoothly, his gaze steady on mine.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice, and turned back to the stove, my cheeks burning as I snatched another spoon.

But even as I tried to focus on stirring the sauce, my legs still tingled where he’d touched them, and my heart wouldn’t stop racing.

I hated the way I wanted him even when I didn’t want to want him.

My mind screamed at me, reminding me of Ciaran, of the love we shared, of the promises I’d made.

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