Page 42 of Brutal Obsession

A parade of women throwing themselves at me? I can handle that, no problem. They scratch an itch, but that’s all it ever is. Meaningless sex. Forgotten almost the second they walk out the door.

That probably makes me sound like an asshole, but I never string any of them along. I offer no promises and am always upfront about what a hookup with me is…and isn’t.

But Harper is different. One taste of her, and I already know.

Keeping Harper to myself for four days? That might just kill me.

I hang my head, pinching the bridge of my nose hard enough to summon a headache. And that’s when the full weight of my exhaustion sandbags me at once. I’m so tired I could sleep here, standing up, for two weeks straight.

Instead, I head back into the bedroom. Harper sits up on the mattress when she sees me. Her disheveled black dress still somehow looks amazing.

Regret weighs down my tongue. I didn’t intend to sleep with her at the outset of this mission, but I knew my resolve might fail me. Downstairs, I lost my composure, and after the way she told me that she wants me to fuck her? There’s no way I’ll sacrifice the opportunity of doing just that, even though I’m not in the right frame of mind at this exact moment.

Damn. I wanted to tear that dress off with my teeth, but I barely have the energy to undress myself. I pull the Hawaiian shirt over my head, too exhausted to fight with the buttons, and kick off my board shorts. The only thing I’m wearing now are the boxer briefs I wore beneath my street clothes.

When I glance up at Harper, her face is as pink as fucking pixie dust.

My slow-moving brain takes far too long to register that she’s checking me out. And I can tell she likes what she sees, despite herself.

Not to be cocky, but they all do.

There’s something extra gratifying about Harper doing it though.

I tell myself that this proves that at her core, she’s no different from all the other women who pant after me. Any hung, built dude would possess the ability to tempt her.

Even as the thought forms, I know it’s bullshit. Finn’s built. And while I don’t make a habit of checking out my friends’ dicks, probably well-endowed. Only son of Shane Gallagher, leader of the Irish Kings, rich as all fuck.

Yet she had his ring on her finger and still ran away.

If she was attracted to him at all, she would have stayed.

“What are you doing?”

She blurts out the words, concern and confusion warping her beautiful features while I fling back the covers, climb into bed, and pat the empty space beside me.

“Come on.”

“Huh?”

“Bedtime.”

“You mean?—”

“I mean put your head on this pillow, close your eyes, and fall asleep.”

She blinks at me like I’m not making any sense. The lost look on her face forces me to crack a smile, even in my sleep-deprived stupor.

“What?” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t tell me you object to getting some shut-eye.”

She bats my hand away. “You expect me to sleep here? In the same bedwith youall night?”

“Uh, yeah. What, did you think I’d let you sleep in a different room after you tried to run from me? Not happening, princess.”

She opens her mouth to argue but nothing comes out.

Defiance returns to her expression, just the way I like, and then she flops onto her side, facing away from me.

She’s cute, even when she’s fussy. Like a feisty blond Chihuahua or a Pomeranian.

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