“Fuck you,” I hiss, spinning toward him and lashing the whiskey straight into his face. “He’s the one I want, not you.”
The whiskey splashes across his face and darkens the front of his shirt. For a second, he goes still and his pupils blow wide.
The liquor drips from his coarse-haired jaw as he stands there, breathing steadily, watching me like he’s recalibrating rather than reacting.
Then he drags his thumb across his cheek, looks at it, and smirks.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You Irish girls are feisty, aren't you?”
He kills the space between us in one confident step, close enough that the warmth of him brushes my skin and the hazel ring around his pupils thins.
“You hoped that would get a rise out of me,” he says, voice like gravel. “That I’d lose control, so you’d have to fight me again.”
He lifts his hand, brushing stray hairs from my cheek.
“Seems like you’ve been thinking about our first date, too,” he continues, gaze locked on mine. “Because I have to admit, the way you moved under me… the way your body twisted into all sorts of positions… that was fucking hot.”
When his thumb grazes my jaw, I flinch, clench my teeth and stay still, not giving him the physical battle he’s after.
“And as for the boy you think you want,” he says, the humour draining from his expression, “you’ll learn that a real man is way more satisfying.”
My pulse stutters.
“You’re mine now, Tierney.” He holds my gaze another second before glancing down at his alcohol-soaked shirt. “And let’s clear something else up.”
His knuckles nudge my chin to make me look at him. I throw my hand up and grip his wrist in a warning.
“You don’t throw things at me. Period.” The gravelly texture returns to his voice now. “You get one pass tonight because you’ve had a long flight and you’re adjusting to your new home.”
I yank his hand away from my face andhe lets me do it. Though just as quickly, he snatches my other wrist and tugs me into him.
“Pull a stunt like that again, and I won’t be as patient.”
He releases me, steps back, and strips off the damp shirt in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the nearest couch.
“And patience,” he adds, eyes raking over me as his inked chest muscles flex, “is not something I’m famous for.”
“That’ll be the only thing we have in common,” I grit. “Touch me again and I won’t be as patient.”
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles, the hitch of his lips unbothered. The movement tightens his stomach and heat flashes through my veins before I can strangle it.
“Ah,” he says. “So we’re setting boundaries now.”
He steps closer, crowding me, and I refuse to back up, to let him think he intimidates me.
“You get to live in my penthouse rent free.” His face dips lower. “Use my credit cards whenever you like, and have the privilege of calling me yours.”
His gaze wanders from my lips to my eyes.
“And in return, I’m not allowed to touch you. Is that how you think this works?”
“Oh, Bronx…” I say, feigning a smile. “Do you really think I’m impressed by your penthouse or that I need money? I’m not some poor girl you stole off the street.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“And why would I ever call you mine? I didn’t choose you. This whole arrangement is a transaction, and it’ll be over within six months. I promise you that.”
“I can’t wait to hear you recite your vows with that fiery Irish accent of yours,” he says, tone taunting. “It’llmake the ownership official.”
