"You saved mine first."
"Did I?" His thumb traces my lower lip. "Or did I drag you into something that could get you killed?"
I should move away. Should maintain professional distance. Instead, I lean into his touch, my body betraying every rational thought.
"Eamon..."
He stands, bringing us even closer. His uninjured arm circles my waist, and I can feel his heartbeat against my chest.
"This is dangerous," I breathe.
"Everything about me is dangerous." His mouth hovers inches from mine. "But you're not running."
Because I can't. Because despite every warning bell in my head, I want this. Want him.
His lips brush mine, soft at first, then demanding when I respond. I taste whiskey and danger and something uniquely him. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer.
The kiss turns hungry, desperate. His injured arm doesn't stop him from lifting me onto the kitchen counter, stepping between my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist, needing the contact.
"Fuck," he groans against my mouth. "I've wanted this since you walked into that pub."
"Eamon, we can't?—"
"Can't what? Feel this?" His hand slides up my thigh, thumb stroking dangerous territory. "Can't want each other?"
I'm drowning in sensation, in the need he's awakening. This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm here to gather evidence, not fall for the enemy.
But when he looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous, mission parameters become meaningless.
"Stay tonight," he whispers against my throat. "Let me keep you safe."
The offer comes with complications I can't fully process. But walking away feels impossible now.
"Okay," I breathe. "For tonight."
He carries me to his bedroom, and I realize I've crossed a line I can never uncross. Whatever happens next, it started here—in violence, medical care, and attraction too powerful to resist.
Tomorrow I'll remember I'm FBI. Tonight, I just want to be Sorcha.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The apartment shrinkswith Sorcha asleep on my couch. I stand in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug forgotten in my hand, watching her sleep. She's curled into herself, one hand tucked under the pillow where I know she keeps a knife.
Smart woman. Beautiful woman. Dangerous woman.
She wakes when I move closer, those gray eyes snapping open with combat alertness that no bartender should possess.
"Morning," she says, sitting up. My t-shirt rides up her thigh, exposing smooth skin that makes my mouth go dry.
"Coffee?" I manage.
"Please."
I pour two mugs, hyperaware of her moving behind me. When I turn, she's stretched like a cat, arms above her head, my shirt pulling tight across her breasts. No bra underneath. My cock responds immediately.
"Sleep well?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
