Fighting ​for Irish (Fighting for Love 3.) 6 csillagozás

“As long as I’m around, no one touches you without an invitation.” Unable to help himself, he lowered his head and whispered in her ear. “No one.”

She was perfect.

Perfect for him.

She shrugged. “I don’t like kissing on the mouth. Is that a big deal?”
He studied her for long moments. Finally, he said, “Depends.”
“On what?”
“The reason.”
She took a step back until his hands dropped, and then crossed her arms in front of her.
“I don’t get the attraction of having my face eaten.”
“Face eaten. You been kissing zombies?”
Zombies, no. But, monsters? Definitely. Trying for sarcasm she didn’t feel, she said, “Very funny.

“Irish,” Xan said through the comm-link. “You got sights on the shit brewing over by the billiards?”

“How many times have I told you we call it ‘pool’ on this side of the Pond? You sound like an ass.”

“Right, and you sound so bloody intelligent with your wicked smaht accent, ya feckin’ Southie.”

“Better than being a Yorkie, douchebag.”

“Tomorrow night, Murphy, I’m going to fight for what I want. And what I want is Aiden ‘Irish’ O’Brien. Forever.”

“There’s no life for me anymore without you, Kat. I’ll protect you until my very last breath. I swear it.”

The clean scent of some scientist’s idea of what the ocean breeze smelled like curled around her. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and drew it deep into her lungs. His sheets and pillowcase smelled like that and she was sure it calmed her better than any expensive aromatherapy ever could.

So what’s going on in Alligator Alley? Tell me you two eloped and are making babies on a beach somewhere.”

“I thought you wanted good news.”

“Are you kidding? That’d be awesome news. Then we’d be brothers through marriage and we could build the first Irish-Hawaiian team in MMA. Just think how cool our banner would be. Our logo could be a pineapple with a shamrock cut out of it.”

Crying women had always scared the hell out of him. He never knew what to do or say. Normally, he’d awkwardly ask them not to cry or try plying them with things to make them smile again.
But comforting Kat and holding her in his arms felt so… right.

Fuck. Aiden rubbed his fingers over his forehead. He must have heat stroke from the last few hours of his ride. Yeah, heat stroke sounded good. He’d go with that. The alternative—comparing a woman to something like lemonade—would mean the demise of his virility, and he could kiss his Man Card good-bye.