Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(25)

He gave his offering a little shake. “Laundry day isn’t for another two days—I have my schedules, you know. So, this is all I can do ye for.”

“And you just happened to have worn every last pair of pants or shorts you own?”

“What can I say … shite happens.”

Fine. If he wanted to play that game, she would too.

Popping the button on her jeans free, she tugged the zipper until the denim went lax and pushed it down her legs. That casual smile slipped from his face as his eyes shot down to her legs, but it didn’t disappear entirely.

Now … now he just looked captivated and curious as to what she would do next.

Stepping out of the wet denim, she left them in a pile at her feet, dropping her flannel on the floor next, and finally, she removed her crop top that was nearly see-through. When she stood before him in nothing more than her panties and bra, she looked back to him with her own smile and an eyebrow arched, waiting to see what he would do next.

“Not shy then?” he muttered, almost to himself as he ran a hand along his face, blinking as though he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing correctly.

Plucking the shirt from his hands, she took her time pulling it on before saying, “Not even close.”

“Fair enough.”

He stripped off his own shirt, tossing the wet material onto her own pile, then toed off his boots. It wasn’t until his socks and jeans were off too that she was definitely sure there was not an ounce of fat on him. Not anywhere. But as he stood upright, his head held high, she was sure she had never seen anyone look more proud of the effect they were having on someone.

And what reason did he have not to be?

The only tattoos he had were the twin bands on his forearm, and while his tattoos were few, he did have a number of scars. With everything on display, she could see the bite marks from the dogs, some around his sides and others on his legs. Others she had no idea how to describe but knew they had to have hurt when he got them, but none of them took away from his physical appeal.

It only made him look better.

Stronger.

“You like what you see?” he asked crossing the floor back to her.

Up close, she could see everything more detail, the sharp lines and contours catching her eye. There was a slight sheen to his skin, making him seem almost aglow.

“Oh, definitely.”

Running a hand through his hair to push the strands back out of his face, he said, “Mmm, wait ’til you see my cock.”

“You can’t help that, can you?” Amber asked as she stepped around him and back out toward the living room. His low whistle behind her made her cheeks burn.

“Irish charm, lovie.”

As he turned right for the kitchen, he patted the island, silently asking for her to take a seat. Planting her hands, she hefted herself up and got comfortable.

“Hungry?”

Amber shrugged. “I could eat.”

“Chinese?”

“That works.”

He was on the phone a minute later, ordering a number of different items, and when he finished, he tossed the device on the counter. Kneeling, he hunted through one of the bottom cabinets by her legs. When he found what he was looking for, he held it up in triumph, giving it a little shake for emphasis.

Whiskey.

Of course he had whiskey, though it wasn’t a brand she recognized.

Staying close as he got to his feet, Kyrnon grabbed a pair of shot glasses from the open cabinets above her. Even after being out with her and having been rained on, he still smelled good.

At this point, she was desperately trying to find something she didn’t like about him. With a face like his, that charming Irish brogue, and the way he just seemed so easy going … she was captivated.

“First,” Kyrnon said as he poured them both a shot. “Let’s drink to our health.”

He pressed a glass into her hand, clinking his own against it before he brought it to his lips, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed.

Kyrnon didn’t even flinch.

Setting his glass on the counter, Kyrnon declared, “A drunk man is an honest one.”

Amber sipped hers first, warming up, then threw the contents back, her eyes watering as it scorched her throat. She could still feel the scalding heat as she set her glass down next to his. “That’s something my father taught me.”

“Irish?” he asked, pouring another shot.

“Scottish, actually.”

“Smart man.”

He was definitely that. “What part of Ireland are you from?” She knew, at the very least, he was from a northern region from the way his words dragged up at the end.

“Garrison, a wee village in County Fermanagh.”

“How long have you been here?” she asked, accepting the glass he passed her.

“Stateside, you mean? Not long. I travel … a lot.”

She wondered then whether he was just there on business, just visiting maybe, but then she didn’t want to contemplate the answer because that implied he would be leaving.

Reading her expression, he amended, “But I’ll be around for a while.”

Nodding, her gaze shifted over his chest, following the ropes of muscle, and the light dusting of hair. She hadn’t ever considered herself a girl that liked chest hair, but on him, it worked.

“Get in a lot of fights when you were younger?” she asked, tracing her fingers over one of the scars that decorated his side.