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Crazed, I grab the clothes she picked out for bed and help her dress. It’s to cover her up. Otherwise, I’ll push her to her hands and knees and ease this ache killing me.
“Yeah, I did all the cooking when we lived in a villa.” She steps into the PJ bottoms, sans underwear.
“My villa.”
“That was yours?” she gasps, taking the top from me. “Oh, right! The room with all the pink kid stuff.”
“I keep Sophie’s vacation clothes there. I let Cormac use it.”
“It had a great kitchen, and the hotel had grocery service.”
“I know. I paid the bills.” I hadn’t realized I was feeding her, too.
She pulls the top down, but it gets stuck on her head.
Frustrated, I reach to help her, my knuckles grazing her bare breasts. My throat goes tight, and when our eyes lock again, I notice the vein in her neck throbbing.
“Thank you,” she whispers, looking just as wary at this tension between us. With rock hard nipples no less.
“You’re welcome.” Fuck, does she want me, too?
Cleaned up, she’s fucking stunning.
Even heavily pregnant, which makes me question just how sex deprived I am. I see beautiful women every day.
Yet, this poison apple has my mouth watering to take a bite.
“Did your brother thank you for all you did for him?”
“No.” I drop my hands to cover my growing erection. “But… I sort of confiscated his trust fund.”
“Right.” She nods. “That’s why Cormac started selling drugs.”
And turned her into a prisoner.
“If he had told me the truth… If he had told me…” I stop since I’m not sure what the hell I would have done.
“That’s on him. Not you, Darragh.”
The sultry way she says my name, dragging the r’s across her forbidden tongue, sends more fire through my veins. Her fresh scent wakes up a shameful and unwanted ache in my groin.
My body never reacted this viscerally to a woman before. I’m just as furious with her as I am with my brother.
Every second with Ana, though, cools the anger a little more.
“Let’s get you something to eat.” She smiles and walks toward the door.
All I think is I want to bury my face between her legs and eat her until she screams my name.
Ten minutes later, after I’ve tossed out the burnt steak tips Olivia left for me, I pour myself a much-needed tall glass of scotch.
Ana repurposes some left-over chicken thighs from the fridge, a bag of microwave rice, and a block of frozen broccoli. She fishes out a wok from the kitchen island, one I didn’t even know I had.
“Peanut oil?” she asks, opening cabinets.
Choking on my drink, I inform her, “No nuts. Ever. Sophie is allergic. Anaphylactic.”
Grumbling, I point to the tiny pink and white knapsack hanging by the garage door.
