My breath catches at his tone, but I smirk, ignoring my pounding heart. Sleet drips off him as he stands there, wrecked. He steps forward, and one of the guards slaps a hand on his chest. He stops but pushes it off.
“Let him in,” I say.
Grayson rolls his head to the side like he’s gearing up for a fight, and steps into my condo. He shuts the door, still holding my underwear, and spins, eyes finding mine. Those gray irises devour me like prey. Very few men scare me, but Grayson … He does something else entirely. He makes me sweat and tremble.
He stalks toward me, tossing my underwear on my couch as he plows into me and pushes me back against the window. With the harbor behind me, he stares into my eyes, moves his hand to my neck, and offers a gentle squeeze. “You.”
I don’t dare speak, don’t dare break his paralyzing hold over me. His stern expression takes me in, tracing over my face until his gaze snags on my lips. He stares and stares. My breath comes faster, and my chest rises and falls wildly against his thumping pulse.
“You,” he utters again. He leans in, breath mingling with mine. Our noses touch, and the tip of his is cold from thefreezing rain. His mouth hovers above mine as his free hand skates up my thigh, fisting my dress. I burn, and the chilled window against my back isn’t helping. Slowly, his tongue darts out, a mix of smoke and whiskey wafting forward as it does. The tip licks my upper lip, and I moan, my eyes succumbing to the laden desire and fluttering shut.
There’s more pressure, and he chases his timid lick with another unhurried drag of his tongue along my bottom lip. “You.” He quivers once more, his hand climbing higher and higher, fisting more silk. Finally, the warm pads of his fingers meet my feverish skin, and he splays a hand over where my thigh meets the swell of my ass.
I shift against him, needing to quench this thirst, this ache. The corner of his mouth curls upward before he lowers his mouth to mine, and the kiss … hell, his kiss is disruptive to my being. His lips are wet, tasting like snow. Hand on my neck, he moves to slap the window beside my head—he anchors himself, never once letting up as his teeth scrape desperately along my trembling lip. I fist his coat and work to shove it down. He helps me, shrugging it off, and it lands on the hardwood with aplop. I move to his suit next, mimicking the same moves with the jacket, and then unbutton his white shirt until my hands meet his smooth chest.
I pull away from our kiss to look and inwardly groan. His sculpted pecs are pebbled with goose bumps but flexed. Ink explodes over his chest, spills down his muscled abs, and disappears beneath the sleeves of his shirt. I seek more, shoving the last of his top off to find both arms are completely drenched as well. A glint of steel garners my attention, and my mouth drops at the tiny hoop through his right nipple. He allows me to explore, his palm returning to the window as he leans forward, panting. Across one shoulder, a rosary winds into a crucifix, the beads bleeding. On the other side, a skull grins as flames skim itsjaw. Words weave around both: faith and damnation. Down his chest barbed wire rips into flesh while praying hands fall open. His arms bear police emblems and badges. One forearm has the wordsTo Protect, and the other arm hasTo Serve. More crosses and skulls break over his ribs with another Bible verse scripted through them.
“Grayson … this is …” My fingers float over each piece. I can’t imagine all this. I only have one tattoo, and the idea of sitting for sessions over and over again makes me twitchy.
His hand swings over, lifting my chin and prying my eyes off his chest to meet his gaze. He licks his lips. “Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“My tattoos.” He tilts his head, eyes pleading with mine.
“They’re beautiful. This is you, andyounever bother me.”
His focus darts back and forth, and his mouth lands on mine again. He tips my head, allowing himself better access. His thumb plays with the strap of my dress. “Tell me …” He dives in, nipping at the bottom of my chin with a hiss. “Tell me I can take this off. Tell me I can be with you. I’ve lived a life of rebellion, but I’ll stop if you say the word.” His tongue entwines with mine again, but instead of pressing into me, he lifts me off the ground. The bulge of his biceps, hot and sweaty, sears through my dress, and I gesture down the hallway toward my bedroom. I wrap my arms around his neck, peppering long, languid kisses on it. He groans, squeezing my backside each time I nip or suck. Every inch of me wants every inch ofhim.
For once, I’m selfish. I don’t think about how this could impact the Irish or my family. For once, I’m the boss, and I demand to have him,ifhe’ll have me. My body screams as he bursts through my bedroom door and drops me onto the bed. He quickly follows, shredding the exorbitant amount of throw pillows to the floor.
Chuckling, he moves over me, dragging fingertips so gently my skin puckers. “I’ve wanted you since you moved my phone in my office. You. Tell me I can make you mine.Onlymine.”
I stare at him as he frames my face with his muscular arms. I’m terrified I love him. I’m terrified I’ve messed up. But moreover, I’m terrified he feels the same, and that this will cleave my life apart as I know it.
“Only yours,” I whisper. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.
CHAPTER 14
GRAYSON
“What do we have?” I ask the deputy as I pull on my gloves.
“Another one, Detective. Decapitated head. Body in the recycling pile several feet away.”
I close my eyes. It’s been over a week with no movement. I hate to say that we’ve been waiting for the killer to strike again, but we’ve had zero progress. Shivering in the icy morning, I move through the recycling plant near Bunker Hill. It’d figure we’re over the river this time, though itdoessay something. The killer hasn’t left a body over here. Now that’s changed.
I duck under the crime scene tape. It’s jarring, being back at work after a couple of days checked out. Aoife and I spent the whole weekend locked away in her condo. We played games, she made an excessive amount of chicken nuggets, we ordered dessert from the downstairs restaurant—more than three times—and shared moments I never thought I’d have. I left yesterday morning reluctant and hesitant to let her out of my sight.
I’m not sure what will happen going forward; I was too ashamed to ask. I’ve struggled with my opinion of the mob way longer than I’ve known Aoife. I’m not a stranger to pushing back against the system, so I’m not sure why I’m so botheredby their presence when the chief isn’t. As Aoife told me stories of her family: going to the aquarium to visit the penguins, making waffles with all the toppings, and boxing lessons in the ring. I realized why it bothers me. Why do these questionable organizations seem to have the strongest familial ties? Yet, my family, considered your cliché wealthier family, doesn’t have these genuine moments.
I sigh, moving through the scene. The coroner’s arrived, so while they off-load their supplies, I approach the body. It’s tossed outside the bays, piled high with aluminum, glass, plastics, paper—all pushed into mountainous scrap hills. Two legs hide behind another dumpster, but the black pants and shirt, on what appears to be a male, stand out on the snow-dusted ground. He’s muscular, the leather jacket eerily familiar. I crouch down, inspecting the jagged cut. Similar to the others. I glance at the fingernails—not too many defensive wounds. A man of his size would put up a fight, wouldn’t he? All the victims would.
As the coroner approaches, I pull away.
“Detective,” one of the deputies says. “Head is this way.”
Reed squats over it, staring. I only make it partway there before the face reveals itself and nausea creeps up into my throat. Reed mutters “the Irish” as Ronan’s face, left cheek plastered in the snow, comes into full focus.
