Page 29 of Ireland

He was the flawless one. Ireland was awed that she’d found him, this contrary and complicated man. The warmth of his body proved he was real, but it still seemed impossible. Too good to be true.

Her lips parted, and she sought his mouth, kissing the corner of it, licking the seam. His low, pained groan vibrated against her.

“If I have a taste,” he said huskily, brushing his lips across hers with enflaming lightness, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

“Why stop?” she whispered, straining to deepen their contact but held back by his hand in her hair.

“I ask myself that question every few seconds.”

“It’s okay,” she breathed, teasing his lips with a flick of her tongue. “I’m not going anywhere, either.”

Ronan broke with the power of a breached levee, crushing her against him, his lips sealing atop hers. He cupped her head in his hand, angling their mouths to fit tightly together. Between them, she felt his arousal, the heft and hardness of his cock straining against her lower belly. The ache inside her intensified with fierce need, her whimper a sound she’d never heard herself make before.

Ronan’s answering growl poured into her, weakening her knees. His tongue swept deep, stroking along hers, fucking her mouth with dominant precision.

He held her weight effortlessly, kissing her with consummate skill, tasting her with lush deep licks. She was captive in his arms, limp and trembling, completely at his mercy. She moaned, shivering violently, overwhelmed by the riot of sensations gripping her body.

But her lips were moving, her tongue tangling with his. He tasted like brown sugar, lust, and bourbon, a melding of equally energizing and intoxicating flavors. How had he hidden such rampant male need? Restrained it? Now, it was like fire, licking across her senses until she burned with it.

She wanted to taste him all over, to lick the inky spikes of his tattoo sleeve, and to run her mouth over his golden male skin until she found the paler flesh untouched by the sun. Her clit throbbed in time to her galloping heartbeat, and she grew wetterby the second, so aroused she wanted to scream at the torment of it.

The kiss was the most erotic act she’d ever engaged in, the melding of their mouths so unrestrained that they were devouring each other, their lips sliding against each other wetly, their tongues twining and caressing. Her hands were freed, and she thrust them into his hair, humming with delight to finally feel the thick strands that felt like rough silk. He cupped her buttocks, lifting her, holding her as she wrapped her legs around his lean hips.

Tightening her thighs, Ireland rose above him, arching his neck back so that she took control. She rubbed against the hardness of his erection, thrilling at the rumble of warning that vibrated from his chest. Ronan was leashed, barely, and the thought of further breaking his control was electrifying.

Minutes. She was mere minutes from having what she desperately needed, and she wanted to rush yet also to savor.

The sound of the doorbell was like a torrent of ice water.

Feeling crampy, bloated, and cranky, Eva leaned her head against the headrest of the Bentayga and closed her eyes. She hated menstruating, and that hate was making her bitter. Or was she just moody? The way her emotions shifted lately, she couldn’t say for sure.

If she’d referenced her period calendar, she would’ve scheduled lunch with her best friend on a different day and stayed home, curled up with her husband and a bottle of wine. But the thought hadn’t entered her mind until now. Irrational wishfulness, maybe? Or just negligence.

So here she was, in the back of the Bentley while Gideon was probably working in his home office, although she hoped he’d take her advice and invite Ireland over for breakfast. Her sister-in-law craved Gideon’s personal and private attention but rarely initiated getting it.

“Hey, sweetheart…? You okay? You look pale.”

The concern in her father’s voice opened her eyes, and she met his gaze in the rear-view mirror. She sighed. “Time of the month.”

Victor winced. “Ah. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah…” She looked out the window. “Me, too.”

Was he regretful for the same reason she was? Of course, if the person who threatened them were known and imprisoned, there would be no lingering doubts about Gideon’s safety or hers. But she couldn’t put off the passing of time any more than she could stop the hidden yearning that hollowed her. Soon, the choice would be out of her hands. She wasn’t getting any younger.

They pulled up to the valet stand in front of Tableau One, and it was easy to see why there was a crowd in front of the restaurant’s large bay windows. Cary Taylor—former model, entrepreneur, and influencer extraordinaire—was indulging the line of people wanting to take pictures with him. And they wouldn’t be disappointed with what they walked away with. As stunningly beautiful as he was in person, Cary looked even more unreal in photographs, having been blessed with the rare photogenic quality only top-tier models could lay claim to.

Her father rolled down the driver’s side window to speak to the approaching valet. “I’m just dropping off. Won’t be more than a minute.”

Nodding, the valet stepped back. With the car still running, Victor did a thorough visual sweep of their surroundings before opening the door and unfolding his tall frame from behind the wheel.

Everything about him screamed law enforcement, despite having left the job a dozen years prior when her mother was murdered. That was the impetus for him to move to New York and take over the responsibility of keeping his only child safe from the dangers of being married to one of the wealthiest men in the world.

That Gideon was also the child of a notorious Ponzi scheme orchestrator who’d ruined lives only widened the threat.So many of Geoffrey Cross’s victims held Gideon unfairly accountable, believing his present success had to have somehow been built upon their stolen funds, despite the work of the Department of Justice, which recovered a significant amount of the losses, and Gideon’s personal contributions to righting his father’s wrongs.

For some, everyone with the last name Cross should pay the price for Geoffrey’s misdeeds. It was impossible to gauge how many truly dangerous enemies they had, making it imperative to investigate every possible hazard.

Her father came to her door and opened it, his black suit jacket concealing a holstered firearm while still showcasing his broad, muscular shoulders. There were social media accounts dedicated to photos of him, and while he cringed at the avid attention paid to his good looks, Eva was proud of him and found it amusing.

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