The primal part of a man that craves the challenge, the chase, and even more—the conquering.
“You’ve suffered a serious concussion, Mr. Sullivan.”
I shrug. “I feel fantastic.”
“And some smoke inhalation. You may be delirious.”
“No—this is all me. Delirious would’ve been not jumping at the chance to kiss you the second I could.”
That comment ruffles all her pretty feathers.
“There’s no reason to get flustered just because you enjoyed it, pet,” I coax her.
“I am not your pet, Mr. Sullivan. And I don’t get flustered. And I certainly did not enjoy” —she wags her hand in my general direction in a flustered sort of way—“that.”
A grin tugs my lips. “I beg to differ. And your tongue’s been in my mouth—I think it’s all right to call me Tommy now.”
Her eyes darken to a shade near to black with passion or fury—with feeling. And I know that Henrietta was wrong. Apple Blossom isn’t stuffy—she just hasn’t met a man who knows how to bring out her reckless side.
Not until now—not until me.
She tugs on the lapel of her white coat, straightening her spine.
“I’m leaving.”
“Funny. Typically the girls I kiss like to tell me when they’re coming.” I wink.
Her cheeks flush a deep, dusky pink, and I just bet those pretty petals between her legs flush the same shade when she’s really hot for it.
Saying that out loud isn’t one of my better choices.
Because right after I do, she slaps me. Hard and fast. With enough force to jerk my head to the side and leave my left cheek pulsing with the sting. It’s impressive.
“Ow.”
And it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.
But looking back now, that’s really when I should’ve known.
In that perfect, indelible moment as we stare at each other—my eyes lapping her up and her jade gaze swallowing me whole, as we take each other in. Just a few dozen inches apart, taking and taking each other . . . and already craving more.
CHAPTER ONE
Tommy
“HEY, TOMMY! YOU GOT A crowbar we can borrow?” Seamus—a small, sandy-haired boy of about eleven—calls to me from across the street with a few of his lads standing behind him.
I drop the bag of trash in the bin and close the lid. Then I fish the pack of cigarettes from my pocket, slip one between my lips and light up, blowing out smoke as I answer.
“Are you planning to bash someone’s skull in with it?”
It’s a question that needs to be asked. Because in this neighborhood—it’s important to make a name for yourself, to build a reputation, by any means necessary.
Just like in prison.
Seamus grins wickedly. “Nah, not today. A lorry broke down a few blocks over. The driver gave us a fiver to make sure no one pops the back and takes his cargo.”
“So, you’re going to pop the back and take his cargo,” I state, because of course they are.
“Well, sure. It’s a Custard Cream and Jaffa Cakes truck. We gotta eat, don’t we?”
Fair point.
I tilt my head towards the back gate. “Crowbar’s in the shed. Don’t touch anything else and make sure you return it or I’ll be bashing your skull in.”
Seamus agrees with a wave.
I finish my cigarette, crush it out with the heel of my black, shiny dress shoe and head up the walk to the narrow, three-story brick house with bright pink flowers filling the window boxes. We keep our property respectable—even if the rest of the neighborhood is falling to shit.
I step through the dark green door, over the threshold and into chaos.
Otherwise known as a day that ends in Y.
Juniper, the one-eyed cat, chases Angus the hedgehog—who should’ve been named Houdini—down the hallway. The television is blaring in the parlor because Granny’s in her rocker and she’s been stone-cold deaf for longer than I’ve been alive. A car backfires outside and Roscoe the bulldog tries to squeeze himself under the sofa but his arse and wagging tail stick out. In the kitchen four of my seven siblings laugh and chat raucously while gearing up for breakfast.
Some people collect stamps or antique teaspoons.
My mum and dad collect mammals.
Hounds, cats . . . for a few years we had a goat named Barney who kept the grass in the rear yard perfectly manicured. And though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him, dark-haired, smiling Andy, who’s sitting at the end of the table, isn’t actually related to any of us. He was best mates with my oldest brother, Arthur, and somewhere along the way my parents just sort of acquired him.
My mother hands me a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge and I eat it while leaning against the counter.
“You’re looking sharp, Tommy,” my sister Winifred tells me. She and her two boys are home visiting for the next few weeks. They’re in from Australia, where her husband is stationed.