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And Darragh doesn’t want me near his daughter.
I get it. I’m a criminal.
He acts like he doesn’t know the real me, even though we grew up in the same city.
Our families hate each other back home, I get that. Cormac didn’t care about the rival war in Astoria.
I admit, the first six months, the sex was hot.
That changed quickly when the money ran out. Money, apparently, Darragh withheld.
Just the thought of sex has my center clenching, but it’s not Cormac I see on top of me.
I see Darragh’s intense gaze leading me to his bed. I see him gripping my hands and squeezing them as he thrusts into me. I taste his tight jaw as I lick it while he takes me, claiming me. I feel his lush lips on my breast when he comes inside me.
I close my eyes and sink into the fantasy that tightens my nipples hard and turns my breathing suddenly erratic.
Darragh. Darragh.
The man is utterly gorgeous, and his sophisticated attitude turns me on. Even when he’s cold to me.
It’s like a challenge and challenges are catnip to me. Like all those games I played back home for an hour of freedom here and there.
I had to shut off who I was when Cormac got abusive. I had to hide my strength to survive. I had nowhere to go.
Now, I feel free and, well, Darragh looks like he needs to get laid.
God, I’m so confused.
I roll onto my side and push off the bed, rules be damned.
I assume that massive, gorgeous kitchen has tea bags. I’ll grab a mug of water, stick a bag in, microwave it for two minutes, and haul my ass back up here.
It’s Saturday morning, for crying out loud. No one gets up this early.
Slipping into maternity yoga pants that feel like a dream and an oversized white sweater, I duck out of the guestroom.
The entire top floor with all the bedrooms is silent. The gray clouds outside and gentle patter of rain keep the landing shadowed.
I pad down the stairs, but when I get to the bottom, I can’t remember where the kitchen is. Much of yesterday is a jumbled mess in my head.
After a few wrong turns, I see it at the end of a corridor, but the sound of grunting stops me in my tracks.
An open door reveals a sliver of light and a set of carpeted stairs descending to a basement.
Male grunting noises down there sharpen when I nudge the door open more.
Darragh…
What is he doing?
If that’s how he masturbates, I feel sorry for his dick. A dirty fantasy of him laying me out on the floor and burying his face between my legs crashes into me, and a wave of lust clouds my vision.
Whether he’s working out or beating off, I bet he’s sweating. Are his thick, sculpted muscles flexing and throbbing?
All the months of feeling nothing catch up to me.
But I can’t fall for Darragh. He’d never entertain something between us. I’m his twin’s ex.
