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Dermot groaned. Rolling off of her, he covered his eyes with his arm. God, what had he done? Last night had been…well, he could be forgiven for not thinking clearly after all he’d been through. But he hadn’t been under any enchantments this morning. He could have thanked the woman for her assistance, promised her a check as an expression of his gratitude and to ensure her silence, and been gone.
But no. He’d gone out of his way to explain his hidden desire, making sure she fully understood how much he enjoyed getting his ass slapped. And then he’d begged her to do it again. Him. Begging for a spanking. God, the press was going to have a field day with this. They loved tawdry sex scandals.
He could see the headlines now. “Most Eligible Bachelor’s Secret Bedroom Shame” “Kick-Ass Millionaire Enjoys Getting Ass Kicked” “Spanking Makes Stone Hard”
He’d been so careful. For years, he’d camouflaged his inability to come the normal way as solicitousness for his partner’s needs, and a preference for hand jobs that couldn’t possibly get his partner pregnant.
He groaned again, as an even worse thought hit him. Last night, the witch had said his seed was sterile, good only for creating saplings with a dryad. But he had no idea how long that condition lasted. Was he infertile for good? Or might his sperm even now be eagerly attacking one of her ripe eggs?
God. Either one would be a disaster. He slammed his head into the pillow, but it was too late to knock any sense into his brain.
The woman rolled to her side and brushed her fingertips across his chest. Despite himself, he felt his nipples tensing.
“Is it a problem you’re having?”
She sounded like an uneducated farm girl again, which he’d noticed she did under passion. His masculine pride longed to indulge in some puffing and strutting, at this proof of how deeply he’d rocked her with his lovemaking. But now was not the time.
“We didn’t use protection,” he said, still shielded by his arm.
Her hand on his chest stilled. “Oh.”
That answered his question, then. The dryad’s effect was just for last night.
“I think it will be okay,” she said softly, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “My last period was not too long ago. I shouldn’t be able to get pregnant now.”
Dermot snorted, thinking of the old joke. What do you call a couple who relies on the rhythm method for birth control? Parents.
Speaking of which, he could just imagine explaining this disaster to his parents. “Mom, Dad, I met this beautiful Irish witch. She saved me from a dryad and I got her pregnant.”
He groaned again. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh! It’s right you are!”
She breathed deeply, no doubt making her delicious breasts jiggle and sway most alluringly. Dermot resolutely kept his arm over his face. He would not look. He would not be tempted again.
“My name is Eileen Daniells. What’s yours?”
He dropped his arm and stared at her. She watched him out of those guileless blue-green eyes, waiting for his answer. “You don’t know?”
She shook her head, pursing her lips. He couldn’t think about those lips, where they’d been, what they’d done. He forced his gaze back to her eyes.
“You looked familiar when I saw you last night,” she admitted. “I thought you had come from that big wedding. You’re obviously an American.”
There was no point in lying to her. All she had to do was pick up any news account of Tami’s wedding and his photo would be there. The fact that he’d attended his former nanny’s wedding had been billed as a great human interest angle, a softening of the Stone image.
“My name is Stone. Dermot Stone.”
She smiled, as if the name meant nothing to her. “Dermot is a good Irish name.”
“My mother is Irish. Well, of Irish descent. She always makes sure everyone knows her family moved to America long before the potato famine brought so many Irish immigrants over.”
He worried for a moment that he’d offended her, but she just nodded sagely. “I understand what she means. When the American publishers first started approaching me, one had the nerve to ask if I wanted an American ‘expert’ to ghost write my books, after I’d already sold three of them here. We’re the most literate country in Europe—well, maybe second after Iceland, it depends who you ask—but the fools couldn’t get past my accent.”
“That’s why you decided to get rid of your brogue?”
“Yes, they—” She frowned at him. “How did you know that?”
“It comes back when you’re excited. I figured it was a recent change.” He paused, then asked the question hammering at his heart. “What kind of books do you write?”
