Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2)

by London Miller

  Only when the wheel started again did she draw away, but didn’t go far. His expression was hard to read in the dark of night, but she could feel the evidence of exactly how he was feeling as she shifted in his lap.

  “I can take you home if you want …” he said trailing off, his hold still possessive.

  She thought of his words from earlier. “But where’s the fun in that?”

  Chapter Seven

  On the drive to Kyrnon’s place, the panda bear stuck between their bodies, the skies had opened up, rain pelting them on their way to his loft. Luckily, Amber’s flannel protected her, but she didn’t doubt by the time they got to his place, she would be soaked through.

  She tried not to think too much about going to his place. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had a one-night-stand before, but she usually didn’t go back to their place. There was something about the security of her own space that made her more comfortable.

  Turning down a street in Brooklyn, rows of old warehouses that had been converted into luxury lofts over the last couple of years lined the street. Despite the number of cars, it was rather quiet besides the roar of Kyrnon’s pipes.

  The building they stopped in front of was an old mill if she wasn’t mistaken—a former cotton candy factory from years ago. And she could just smell the slightest traces of spun sugar in the air as they got closer.

  There was something about older, industrial spaces that she loved. They weren’t as polished and perfect, and depending on the loft, it could hold a lot of character in its walls.

  Driving around the side of the building, Kyrnon killed the engine, helping her off first before he did the same. Adjacent to the garage door he had parked in front of was a keypad, one that didn’t just require a four-digit code, but Kyrnon also had to press his thumb against a green checkered screen before a beep sounded and the whirrs of the motor for the elevator sounded.

  Sliding both doors to the elevator open, he gestured for her to go ahead of him before rolling his bike in.

  It was a short ride up a floor, and once they were in his place, she had her first look around. She might not have known what to expect, but she did know that what she saw fit him.

  An oversized Irish flag hung on the wall, a tarp on the floor in front of it with parts of a motorcycle littered on top of it. There was a large, comfortable looking sectional made of worn brown leather that helped divide the living and dining rooms, an island with a polished concrete top sectioning off the kitchen.

  And the kitchen … his kitchen was what dreams were made of. Stainless steel appliances. Dark cabinetry. If she could choose any kitchen to model her dream home after, it would be this one.

  And if she were being honest, she loved everything about his space. There was just so much room for everything, and with the sheer vastness of it, she knew he had to have paid a good amount for it. She was already over paying for her much smaller one bedroom, so she couldn’t imagine what this place cost him.

  Noticing the look of wonder on her face, Kyrnon asked, “D’you like it?”

  “It’s amazing,” she said, but he had to already know that.

  There was even a wall of windows so tall she had to crane her neck back to see the top, but even more interesting was how some of the panes had been exchanged for colored glass.

  “Just wait until you see the bedroom,” he said as he headed in that direction.

  The thing about lofts, it was hard to tell where one room began and the other ended, but from what Amber could see, Kyrnon had made it a point to have walls constructed around his bedroom, but these too were made of glass, only frosted, allowing some semblance of privacy.

  Laying both hands on the handles, he pushed the doors open, revealing what had to be a California king. While Kyrnon disappeared into his closet, she had a look around his bedroom.

  His bed was situated against the wall of exposed brick, soft gray linens covering it. The duvet was rumpled and hanging half off the bed like he had just rolled out of it and left it as it were.

  “Bad luck,” Kyrnon said popping back out, “I only have shirts.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t like the T-shirt he was offering her would swallow her, only just big enough to maybe go a few inches past her stomach, but it was the fact that his smile of triumph was so blatantly male that she was shaking her head. “Really? Is that the best you can come up with?”

  He gave his offering a little shake. “Laundry day isn’t for another two days—I have my schedules, you know. So, this is all I can do ye for.”

  “And you just happened to have worn every last pair of pants or shorts you own?”

  “What can I say … shite happens.”

  Fine. If he wanted to play that game, she would too.

  Popping the button on her jeans free, she tugged the zipper until the denim went lax and pushed it down her legs. That casual smile slipped from his face as his eyes shot down to her legs, but it didn’t disappear entirely.

  Now … now he just looked captivated and curious as to what she would do next.

  Stepping out of the wet denim, she left them in a pile at her feet, dropping her flannel on the floor next, and finally, she removed her crop top that was nearly see-through. When she stood before him in nothing more than her panties and bra, she looked back to him with her own smile and an eyebrow arched, waiting to see what he would do next.

  “Not shy then?” he muttered, almost to himself as he ran a hand along his face, blinking as though he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing correctly.

  Plucking the shirt from his hands, she took her time pulling it on before saying, “Not even close.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He stripped off his own shirt, tossing the wet material onto her own pile, then toed off his boots. It wasn’t until his socks and jeans were off too that she was definitely sure there was not an ounce of fat on him. Not anywhere. But as he stood upright, his head held high, she was sure she had never seen anyone look more proud of the effect they were having on someone.

  And what reason did he have not to be?

  The only tattoos he had were the twin bands on his forearm, and while his tattoos were few, he did have a number of scars. With everything on display, she could see the bite marks from the dogs, some around his sides and others on his legs. Others she had no idea how to describe but knew they had to have hurt when he got them, but none of them took away from his physical appeal.

  It only made him look better.

  Stronger.

  “You like what you see?” he asked crossing the floor back to her.

  Up close, she could see everything more detail, the sharp lines and contours catching her eye. There was a slight sheen to his skin, making him seem almost aglow.

  “Oh, definitely.”

  Running a hand through his hair to push the strands back out of his face, he said, “Mmm, wait ’til you see my cock.”

  “You can’t help that, can you?” Amber asked as she stepped around him and back out toward the living room. His low whistle behind her made her cheeks burn.

  “Irish charm, lovie.”

  As he turned right for the kitchen, he patted the island, silently asking for her to take a seat. Planting her hands, she hefted herself up and got comfortable.

  “Hungry?”

  Amber shrugged. “I could eat.”

  “Chinese?”

  “That works.”

  He was on the phone a minute later, ordering a number of different items, and when he finished, he tossed the device on the counter. Kneeling, he hunted through one of the bottom cabinets by her legs. When he found what he was looking for, he held it up in triumph, giving it a little shake for emphasis.

  Whiskey.

  Of course he had whiskey, though it wasn’t a brand she recognized.

  Staying close as he got to his feet, Kyrnon grabbed a pair of shot glasses from the open cabinets above her. Even after being out with her and having been rained on, he still smelled good.

&
nbsp; At this point, she was desperately trying to find something she didn’t like about him. With a face like his, that charming Irish brogue, and the way he just seemed so easy going … she was captivated.

  “First,” Kyrnon said as he poured them both a shot. “Let’s drink to our health.”

  He pressed a glass into her hand, clinking his own against it before he brought it to his lips, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed.

  Kyrnon didn’t even flinch.

  Setting his glass on the counter, Kyrnon declared, “A drunk man is an honest one.”

  Amber sipped hers first, warming up, then threw the contents back, her eyes watering as it scorched her throat. She could still feel the scalding heat as she set her glass down next to his. “That’s something my father taught me.”

  “Irish?” he asked, pouring another shot.

  “Scottish, actually.”

  “Smart man.”

  He was definitely that. “What part of Ireland are you from?” She knew, at the very least, he was from a northern region from the way his words dragged up at the end.

  “Garrison, a wee village in County Fermanagh.”

  “How long have you been here?” she asked, accepting the glass he passed her.

  “Stateside, you mean? Not long. I travel … a lot.”

  She wondered then whether he was just there on business, just visiting maybe, but then she didn’t want to contemplate the answer because that implied he would be leaving.

  Reading her expression, he amended, “But I’ll be around for a while.”

  Nodding, her gaze shifted over his chest, following the ropes of muscle, and the light dusting of hair. She hadn’t ever considered herself a girl that liked chest hair, but on him, it worked.

  “Get in a lot of fights when you were younger?” she asked, tracing her fingers over one of the scars that decorated his side.

  Tossing back another shot, he cleared his throat and said, “Bare knuckle boxing. I was a bit of a shite when I was a lad.”

  Yeah, she remembered what he had said earlier—quick temper and fast hands.

  “And these are nothing,” Kyrnon added, stepping between her legs, his body warm where her thighs touched. “I have worse.”

  Amber sat up a little straighter, boldly looking him over. “Do you?”

  Gently circling her wrists, he lifted her hands to his face, using his own fingers to press hers against his face along the sides of his mouth. At first, she didn’t know what he was trying to show her, not with the feel of the soft hair on his face, but as she ignored the sensation, she finally felt them.

  Beneath his facial hair, he had what felt like two incredible scars on either side of his mouth. Though she couldn’t see them, she couldn’t help but think she knew what they were, though she couldn’t remember the name.

  “The Glasgow Smile is what they call it,” he explained, pulling her hands away though he didn’t release her.

  “I don’t think I’m ever going to this Garrison place, and maybe you shouldn’t go back if this is what happens to you there.”

  A surprised burst of laughter left him. “Was all fine in the end, I promise you. But tell me, how’d you get this one?”

  His hand slipped beneath the edge of her shirt, tracing her left side, stopping where her thigh met her hip and the discolored skin there. She hadn’t even realized he noticed it.

  “Surfing in Bermuda with my brother. I hit a reef the wrong way.”

  She could still remember the way the coral felt when it bit into her skin, scraping it off. That pain had been like nothing else, and the healing process had taken weeks.

  Kyrnon whistled low, his thumb rubbing over the spot, offering comfort though there was no pain. “I hate water.”

  “You can’t possibly …”

  “I’m Irish, lovie, through and through. I stick to land.”

  Maybe she would try to convince him to surf one day. There were days when she missed driving down to the beach with her board on the roof, ready to hit the waves just as the sun was peaking over the horizon.

  She was going to have to get back to California soon.

  A buzzer sounded suddenly, Kyrnon’s gaze going over to a panel in the wall. Carefully moving away from her, he hit a few buttons, an image of the delivery guy appearing on the screen.

  “Aye, be right down,” he said into the mic.

  He was obviously quite serious about his security, the thought of that scratching the part of her mind that made her wonder about just who he was.

  And how was she supposed to ask that?

  If he was affiliated with any mob, it wasn’t like he could come right out and say it.

  But …

  Maybe she could run his name by Mishca, or even Niklaus and see whether they knew him.

  Kyrnon disappeared into his bedroom, coming back out with a pair of shorts on. When he saw her smirk, he threw out his hands. “They just appeared.”

  As he went down to get their food, Amber threw back her next shot. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the first, and by the time he came walking back into the kitchen with a bag of food, there was a pleasant warmth settling in her stomach.

  Maybe it was lust.

  Maybe it was the whiskey.

  But whichever it was had her looking at Kyrnon in a different way. She became far more aware of his presence, and maybe, as he glanced in her direction, he felt it too.

  “My bed or the couch?”

  The question was innocent enough, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking of other possibilities. Pushing off the counter, she dropped down onto her feet. “Your couch is fine.”

  And whatever he had planned for it.

  Moving to the living room, she got comfortable, accepting the food he passed her. Grabbing the remote for the television, he switched it on, flipping through the channels until he reached…

  “Turn it off, I can’t watch this episode.”

  Kyrnon looked at her in surprise, then back to the television. “What in the hell do you mean? This was one of the best —”

  “You take that back,” Amber said, balling up a napkin and throwing it at him. “The Red Wedding scarred me for life.”

  Though she shouldn’t have been surprised. After that beheading at the end of the first season, she should have known that the author obviously hadn’t given a single fuck, but she had kept on, thinking that was the worst she would experience.

  Wrong.

  Now she was just a masochist considering she still watched it.

  “Come now, his strategy was shite from the start. He should have known that he if he didn’t bend to…”

  Plucking the remote from his hand, she changed the channel. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Chuckling, he dug into his food, allowing her to pick whatever they watched. She didn’t particularly mind what was on, but she didn’t want to end up a sobbing mess because a fictional character she had grown to care about had died.

  Finally settling on another movie on one of the HBO channels, they ate in silence. And as she finished, placing the container in front of her, she found that she rather liked just being next to him. The silence didn’t feel awkward at all.

  She was content to watch the scenes play out, at least until he reached for her legs and drew them up onto his lap. He didn’t look to her as he did it, his fingertips drifting over her skin moments later.

  This time, when she looked back to the movie, it wasn’t nearly as easy concentrating, too enraptured by his touch on her. That desire she had felt back in the kitchen came rushing back with a flourish. And with the pleasurable roughness of his hands, it wasn’t like she could easily ignore what he was doing.

  At first she could have mistaken his touch for something innocent, but with each brief stroke of his fingers, his touch went higher and higher until she was so acutely aware of his ministrations that restlessness took over her.

  She looked to his face then, wondering if she would see that same arrogance in h
is face, but she didn’t find that because his gaze was rapt on her legs.

  He followed the path his fingers took, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Everywhere he touched made her feel lighter than before, until she was shamelessly parting her legs, aching for his touch to move just a little more inward.

  A smile quirked his lips as his gaze dropped to the apex of her thighs, drinking in what she offering. The expression on his face shifted then, from arousal to something darker, something that she could almost feel.

  She still wore his shirt, and her bra and panties, but with the way he was looking at her, she felt naked almost, like he could see every inch of her despite the clothes.

  Turning toward her, one minute he was on the other side of her, the next he was between her thighs, his lips just a breath away from her own. This time she didn’t wait for him to kiss her, instead going up to kiss him.

  This one wasn’t as soft as the last, but hungrier with the way he coaxed her into surrendering and giving him everything. It wasn’t until she felt the rigid length of his cock pressed against her through his pants that she drew back with a gasp, the contact sending waves of need through her.

  “Are you mine for the night?” he asked as he ran a hand along her hip, slipping beneath the hem of the shirt she wore.

  “Kyrnon …” It shouldn’t have even been a question.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, already dragging the shirt up her stomach, then over her head and finally tossing it off to the side.

  She was his.

  She was definitely his.

  * * *

  He needed to fuck.

  It was as simple as that.

  From the minute he had gotten her here, and she had quite boldly undressed in front of him, it had been a battle of his self-control not to put his hands on her right then.

  The rain had soaked through her clothes, making her skin appear more supple and bronzed. And besides the scar from her surfing accident, her skin was smooth and unblemished.

  The challenge in her eyes had been enough to excite him, to make him crave her so fucking much, but he had waited — for reasons he thought were dumb now.