Page 28 of My Irish Mafia King

“That’s impossible,” he says huskily.

I take my notebook from my bedside table and return to the living room. The whole time, his icy blues roam over me. I always wondered if he wanted me. Now I know for a fact he does. It makes me feel intoxicated. My body is screaming at me not-so-subtly to jump into his lap.

I’d sit facing him, grinding my groin against his, feeling his hardness as he pushes it against my sex. Then I’d tear off our clothes and, and… But that’s where the fantasies end. That’s where the anxiety gets involved, messing with me.

“How does this phrase look?” I say, sitting beside him and opening the book.

He takes it. Our hands brush, and neither of us moves. He looks dreamily into my eyes. He has this hungry energy, like he’s been starving for months, starving for me.

He leans down and presses his lips against mine. The moment sweeps me away, my heart beating with a frantic rhythm like raindrops against a cave’s entrance. He smooths his hand up my side toward my breasts. When he rubs the outside of my shirt, my nipples ache, feeling ultra-sensitive.

He groans, squeezing me with more possession. I put my hand on his chest, then breathlessly ask him, “Are you trying to make doing homework impossible?”

His eyes swim. He looks drunk. “You drive me wild. Let me look.” He glances at the book, then smiles. “Let’s hear you say it.”

I remember the video tutorials, the notes I’ve taken on accents, then say,“Tá tú mo slánaitheoir.”

“Close,” he says with a smile that bolsters my confidence. “But you just told me ‘You are my savior’ like it’s a fact. You don’t want to give me a giant head…”

“Well, if the shoe fits,” I tease, loving it when he laughs. It’s a great feeling.

“Try again,” he says. “‘An tusa mo shlánaitheoir?’”

“An tusa mo…slan-tah-hor?”

“Slánaitheoir. Say it with me—slaw-nih-hor.”

“Slaw-nih-hor.”

“Better. Try again. Take your time.”

“An tusa mo shlánaitheoir?”

“That was perfect,” he beams. “Seriously, for a non-native speaker, that was brilliant.”

I smile. “Thanks, Killian. It’s so mind-boggling. Trying to get the accents and the grammar rules… yeah, it’s a lot. But one day, I’m going to speak it.”

He puts his hand on mine. “I know you will.”

When he gets that dreamy look in his eyes again, my temptation almost reaches boiling point. He looks at me like I’ve imagined he would so many times, like he could leap on me and claim me, smooth his hands up and down my body.

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.

“Like what?”

He makes me feel so freaking playful. I pull a super serious face, staring into his eyes.

“Like a serial killer?” he teases.

I laugh loudly, causing Clover to leap up from her bed, grumble, then curl herself into a ball again.

“No, like?—”

He grabs my leg again, leaning close. “I know how I’m looking at you.Tú gach rud a shlíonaigh mé thú a bheith…”

He slides his hand up my leg, moving his lips to mine for another kiss.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

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