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Killian completely ignores him, then wraps an arm around my back and effortlessly throws me over his shoulder.
Jeez.
This caveman behavior will be the death of me one day.
But I still giggle as the blood rushes to my head and I hold on to his back.
“I love the feel of your muscles,” I slur, stroking my hands wherever I can reach.
He grunts, the sound low and sexy, or maybe I’m just horny right now. “Fucking alcohol.”
Then he grabs a pillow on the way to the stairs and throws it at Nikolai, hitting him in the back of the head.
Gareth chuckles.
Nikolai jumps up. “What the fucking fuck is wrong with you, motherfucker? Stop throwing shit at me.”
Killian doesn’t even look at him as he continues up the stairs and into his bedroom.
He lays me on the bed gently and I whine in response as I lift myself on my elbows. I pause when I catch the scene of him removing his T-shirt to reveal those stone-hard abs and the hauntingly beautiful crow tattoos. Then, he kicks away his trousers so that only his boxers remain.
I’ll never get used to his physical perfection and the fact that it’s all mine.
Or to how happy I’ve been for the last couple of months.
Killian climbs onto the bed, lifts me on top of him, and closes his eyes.
I roll so my stomach meets his half-awake erection and I rest my chin on my interlinked hands on his chest.
Dark circles line his eyes and he appears tired, more so than usual.
He has loads of classes in med school this year, and as if that isn’t enough, the whole war thing between the clubs is getting worse.
I hate that Devlin got what he wanted and instigated chaos between everyone. As a result, the guys have a lot more on their plates lately. Jeremy is almost never around due to how busy he is, and Nikolai and Gareth only got tonight off so they can drink.
Everyone thinks Killian is a machine who doesn’t get tired no matter how many tasks he takes on, but he’s human.
He gets injured—like that broken arm—and while he’s a genius, he’s definitely not a robot.
“Are you tired?” I murmur.
“I’m not tired.” His voice rumbles against my chest, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m pissed off at you for drinking with the assholes when I wasn’t around.”
“It’s just drinking.”
“It’s just you speaking erotically for God knows how long. I turn murderous at the thought of anyone imagining you during sex.”
Right. He gets impossible at the thought of anyone else touching me. To this day, he’s still searching for the owner of the hand I posted on IG. No kidding, every time he meets someone from my family or acquaintances, he checks their hands.
Thank God Moses usually wears gloves.
I stroke his chest. “I didn’t think about it from that perspective.”
“Then start to.”
“Maybe Nikolai was right.”
This time, he opens one eye. “About?”
