Page 45 of Ireland

“I am, yes.” He smiled when she bristled. “I knew I had a very limited window in which to show you who I am before the situation with Vidal came to a head.”

“And you didn’t think being honest about that and your name was a better tactic?”

“I could ask you the same.”

She studied him for a long moment, cataloging the flagrant invitation of his virile body. His arm draped over the armrest, his fingertips stroking channels into the metallic velvet. His right hand lay atop his thigh, near his groin. And his charisma…it lured her so irresistibly it was an effort not to go to him, straddle him, and take what she so recklessly wanted despite everything.

He looked so at home in the space she had meticulously designed, and the sensual décor complemented him, made him even more sinfully attractive—the king of the voluptuary’s haven she’d created.

“I was protecting myself,” she said finally. “I wanted you to like me for me.”

“I do. Very much.” His gaze shifted from warm to heated. “And my motivation was the same.”

“Hmm.” She looked away, still trying to align what she knew with how she felt. “So why not take me to bed and win me over that way?”

“You know why.”

Pursing her lips, Ireland unfolded from the sofa and padded barefoot to the nearest window. “Am I supposed to give you points for not taking me to bed under false pretenses?”

“Yes, damn it.” The shift in his voice revealed that he’d stood, too, and then followed her. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t say that lightly.”

She faced him with a tight smile and narrowed eyes. “But you did it for you, Ronan. To claim gallantry at the very momentyour deception became known. What’s the difference if you fuck me as a Boudreaux or a McCaffrey? Or have me now versus yesterday?”

“I assessed which would give me the greatest probability of tomorrow and the day after. And I’m prepared to grovel as long as necessary.” He stopped in front of her and extended his hand. “Ronan McCaffrey Boudreaux.”

After a brief hesitation, she accepted the introduction, marveling at how strongly affected she still was by the sexual attraction between them. She was used to losing immediate interest when a relationship slid sideways to any degree. But the moment her skin touched Ronan’s, her lips parted on a sharp inrush of air, her fingers flexing involuntarily against the sudden surge of electricity.

“Ireland Elizabeth Vidal,” she said, her voice betrayingly husky.

Lifting her hand, he kissed her knuckles. When he straightened, his gray eyes were stormy. And watchful.

She pulled her hand back and walked around him, knowing it was up to her to decide the next steps. Should she insist they return to Vidal and get the mess sorted out? She didn’t have to look at her phone to know there were missed calls from her father and maybe Christopher, possibly even Gideon, if they’d elected to drag him into the fight.

Better they do that than she.

Her hands fisted at her sides. There was really no point in going back. Ultimately, it was up to her and Ronan to find the way through the crisis.

She looked around the living room as she crossed it, noting the two closed doors on each side that led to the second and third bedrooms. The primary suite’s double door entrance was wide open, and she went to it, intending to pause on thethreshold but lured deeper inside by Ronan’s scent. She felt him following, felt that ineffable pull between them.

Before her was the massive round bed that had been custom-made to realize her vision. It had a curving headboard anchored by crescent-shaped nightstands that nestled against the sides of the bed. A ruched silk coverlet in vivid sapphire pooled onto the top of a raised dais. Above, on the ceiling, hung a mirror of equal size to the bed.

Ronan came up behind her, close enough for her to sense his warmth but not near enough that they touched. His proximity set off a low and deep trembling inside her, so she moved away. Reaching the edge of the dais, Ireland turned and looked at him propped casually against the jamb, his hands in his trouser pockets. His relaxed posture was misleading. His gorgeous face had the taut, focused look of a hungry predator biding his time before pouncing.

She climbed the short steps. Had she come to the bedroom just to remind herself of its decadence, or had she led him here because the gnawing craving for him had become unbearable?

Grabbing the hem of her linen dress, she yanked it over her head before she answered that question. She heard his harsh exhale, then felt the searing heat of his gaze as it slid over her.

But he didn’t move.

She held his covetous stare as she slid her thumbs under the delicate lace of her panties and pushed them down her legs. Stepping free, she faced him again completely naked.

“I’m not airbrushed now,” she murmured, turning around with arms wide. “Disappointed?”

“Delirious,” he corrected, moving to grip and stroke the bulge of his erection through his slacks. “I didn’t quite believe we’d actually get here.”

“Would you like me to go?” she teased, trying for worldly in the hopes of masking the chaos inside her.

“I’d like you to come,” he said gruffly. “Around my tongue, my fingers, my cock. Until I’ve wrung you out.”

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