Page 7 of Taming Irish

Chapter 2

Shane

Iknewthe second the woman looked up at me with those soft, vulnerable, brown eyes that I should have walked away. She’s nothing like the women I usually take to my bed. The stewardess, who had been practically begging to wrap those pouty lips around my cock, is more mystyle.

Women like her know therules.

ButMakena.

She’s everything I try toavoid.

Sweet.

Innocent.

Damaged in ways that can make a normally sane man go mad with the need to try and protect her, but with a quiet confidence that makes her seem almostunapproachable.

Girls like her are the downfall of men likeme.

I watched it happen to my closest friends. Saw them spiral until they were so wound up in the girl that they forgot what really mattered –themusic.

That was the only thing that used to drive each of us. Wild Irish was our passion, our dream. The four of us—Cillian, Owen, Aiden, and myself—spent years creating the perfect sound, the perfect image. But then, one by one, they caught the damn bug that’s been destroying good men since the beginning oftime.

Love.

Aiden was the first to fall. And for my sister, of all people. Then Cillian, and most recentlyOwen.

Sure, they seem happy. And maybe they really are. But that kind of happiness is for suckers who forgot how much fucking fun it is to besingle.

I love mylife.

Despite what the guys think, there’s no void inside me just waiting for the perfect woman tofill.

I’m the one that does thefilling.

And I’m damn good at it. I take care of the women who come to my bed – if we make it that far. But no matter if I have them coming against the kitchen counter, or screaming my name in the back of the tour bus, Ialwaysmake themcome.

Yeah, I’m cocky. But I have a reason to be. Women loveme.

And not just because I play for one of the most popular rock bands in the world. But because I know exactly how to make a woman’s body sing in ways she never thoughtpossible.

And hell if I’ll ever give thatup.

Slowly, I unthread my fingers from hers, then pull the mini bottle from my pocket and hand it toher.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice cracking with nervousness. She unscrews the lid and downs it quickly, wincing when the burn hits her throat. She shifts in her seat, and I notice that she tries to move away from my touch, which is a complete paradox to the heat I see in her eyes. “Do you live inIreland?”

“Most of the time,” I say, giving back one of her vagueresponses.

She wants me. But for some reason she’s standoffish. Like she’s afraid of the pleasure she knows I can give her. I’m also starting to think she doesn’t know who I am. Which is a complete ego-buster.

Sure, my face isn’t as recognizable as Cillian’s, but I’ve been on enough talk shows, and enough magazine covers in the past year, that it’s difficult to go anywhere without beingrecognized.

Part of me is disappointed that she doesn’t know who I am. I don’t know why, but I want to impress her. But, as cocky as I am, I’m not a bragger. And I don’t need my status to get a chick to spread herlegs.

I’m Shane Hayes. That in itself is enough to have girls begging for ataste.

“I was checking out some talent in the New York area,” I say, stretching out, making sure my calf brushes up against hers and watching as a hint of color fills hercheeks.

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