Page 178 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

In the absence of having much else to occupy my thoughts, I’ve spent the past four days with everything going around in my head.

Did Irish say he loved me, or was it just the smoke addling my brain? If he did, did he say it to give me peace of mind in my final moments, or did he mean it?

Because, ever since, those twenty generic words have just kept bouncing around in my brain.

You and Eoin have my blessing to move on with your lives together, darlin’. I wish you all the best.

I haven’t spoken to him, but then I haven’t spoken to anyone really. My business number is on divert to the office, and only Dylan and Delaney currently have my new burner number. Will I give it to Eoin or Padraig? I’m not so sure that I will, or at least not yet.

It’s overcast once more. I’m sure the weather changes on the approach to this place until it becomes so oppressive that you can’t physically breathe. I inhale the misty air deep into my lungs. I know exactly what it feels like not to be able to breathe.

I’ll take this dense air anytime over none at all.

I cut the engine, remove my helmet, then shake my hair free. There’s no need to take the keys out of the ignition. It’s not like anyone will follow me here or attempt to steal the hog. They’d need to have a death wish turning up without an invitation, given Eoin’s mood most days.

I dismount my ride and make my way around the side of the containers on foot. I want to surprise the eldest Duster. It’s the first time I’ve come here uninvited. I’ve worn my fuck-off big boots to navigate the uneven surface more easily. We’re still trying to salvage my leathers, so I’ve had to resort to wearing combats and a puffer jacket today.

I can hear him before I see him, or at least I can hear who or what he’s hitting. I stand outside yet another container I’ve never been in. How many are in use? I don’t even know. It’s just another sad reflection on how little I really know about him compared to how much he knows about me.

I stand outside the rusty door. Is it locked? Should I knock? All I can hear is the thudding noise as he punches or kicks whatever he’s taking his anger out on.

Pressing the handle down, I push the door ajar. Arousal flows through me at the sight I’m met with.

Eoin O’Connell is in nothing but a pair of grey training pants. His inked, toned upper body is covered in sweat, each rivulet running down and darkening the waistband. Veins protrude from his insanely lean build, a body he must work on all day, every day, to achieve the level of fitness I see in front of me.

I watch as he punches and kicks at the heavy bag, every hit hard enough to kill a man. I should know, I’ve used similar and done almost that.

He’s not wearing gloves. He’s not wearing footwear. He looks feral. Anger rolls through me that he never once told me he was trained in MMA or that we even had that in common.

He made me spar with Declan when, all this time, I could easily have sparred with him. What’s even more infuriating is the overwhelming need I feel to lick the sweat from his body.

I stand and watch. Every punch, every kick, is making me wetter between the legs. I want to fight him. I want to fuck him. Right now, I don’t know which I want to do more.

Fuck him.

I hate him. I love him. Right now, I don’t know which is the overriding emotion.

Love him.

“Are you enjoying the view, Miss Jones?” I watch as he grabs hold of the heavy bag before letting it go and turning around to look at me, his eyes blazing green.

I’m breathless as I take him in. So powerful. So dangerous. So perfectly masculine. So imperfectly scarred.

My eyes drop to the toned V dipping into his pants. I silently curse myself as my tongue darts out to moisten my lips. His eyes track the movement.

“It would appear so.”

“Fuck you.”

“That. Fucking. Mouth,” he says under his breath.

“You’re a goddamn liar.”

“I did what I had to do.”

Dylan has obviously told him about our conversation. More rage barrels through me.

“You had no right.” I stare at him across the room.

---