“I’m fine. Do you have a cart or something? We can both bring everything in?”
He looks at me for what feels like the first time. Not like I’m the woman who was sent to destroy him, the Omega he didn’t want, or some pest that lives in his house. He looks at me like he wants to kiss me.
But he doesn’t. He drops his hands and nods.
“Yeah, let’s go get everything in so you can work on your nest.”
No hotter words have ever been said. I might need to do a little bit more online shopping to make sure everything is extremely perfect. I definitely need to have all the guys come in here and roll around or something because the scent is completely off.
Finn grabs a metal wagon from the garage and waves me off when I offer to help him load boxes into it. Instead he instructs me to use a utility cart on wheels to transport all the smaller items to the nest. I handle that while he carries the bigger items through the house for me.
It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, him dressed casually with his veins bulging as he sets all my crap in the nest. I want to gawk and get intimate with every single one of his tattoos, but I just pull my cart as we haul everything into the nest. It takes three trips.
Finn is sweating, and he smells amazing.
I expect him to cut and run now that everything is in the room, but he surprises me.
“Does anything need to get built or put together?”
I clear my throat, taking back my previous statement. That is officially the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“There’s well, um… it needs to be…” Fuck, how do I tell this man that there is a sex swing that needs to be bolted to the ceiling? “It’s okay.” I wave him off.
He looks at me, then around the room.
“I’ll go get my toolkit.”
Finn O’Brien, head of the Western Irish mob, has a fucking toolkit. As soon as he leaves, I run to the bathroom, sprinkle water on my face, and take a heaping wad of toilet paper to take care of the current situation in my panties.
Mean Finn, I can handle. Domineering Finn, okay, no problem. Sweet Finn, who carries my shit and puts together my heat furniture? This I don’t know how to handle.
He said he couldn’t be in my heat, that it’s something that he just couldn’t do, and I respected that. But how is he going to say that when he smells that good and is suddenly being so fucking kind?
I smack myself in the face a little and blink.
Get it together, girl, damn. He kidnapped you, remember? Left you in a room for three days in the same dress? Basically called you a spoiled mafia princess.I suppose the last one is kind of true.
But despite everything he’s done, everything that’s happened between us, I still yearn for him in a way I can’t explain.
When I walk back into the room, he’s on a ladder using some sort of tool to find where the support beams are.
His shirt rises, showing a sculpted section of his abdomen that’s decorated with black and gray tattoos I wish I could explore with my tongue.
No, wait.
“Are we going to talk about this,” I say, completely ogling him.
He does something with a screwdriver before he looks down at me.
“After your heat. I want us to both be clear-headed.”
“But we’ll talk?”
“We’ll talk,” he confirms, always acting so fucking mysterious.
He calls his tool a mother-fucking piece of shit, and it has me holding back a giggle. I just wish he would talk to me now. Or better yet, take me on a test ride on that swing, leaving the talk about feelings and our pasts for later.
He bites down on his lip as he concentrates, and I lose all my willpower.
