I snorted. “Awww. Man, that’s a nice thing to say.”
His eyes darted to the thick gold band on my left hand. “I saw the ring, but lots of guys wear them. I can’t tell you how many of them I’ve met in clubs, only to be told that it’s just a piece of jewelry.”
I arched a brow for his benefit, and he squinted in response.
“What?”
“You think maybe you’ve been picking up guys who actually are married?”
“No,” he said defensively.
“Oh, okay,” I said patronizingly, playfully, feeling better, normal, back on solid ground with him.
“Shut up,” he grumbled.
I grimaced. “If you’re not getting many calls back, I think you gotta figure that some of the guys wearing rings are in fact very taken, and that you, my friend, were a booty call.”
“You really are a smartass.”
“Maybe stay clear of guys with bling from now on.”
“But they’re all so hot,” he confessed, his voice husky.
I snorted, which made him smile in response.
“So how long have you been married?” he asked, hands on his hips, still standing in my personal space.
“Four months,” I answered quickly.
He nodded. “Your guy away?”
“No, actually, he used to get deployed a lot, but not now.”
“So he just stayed home, and you came out?”
“No, he went out with some guys he was working with today.”
“Instead of coming with you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“That is not smart,” he told me.
“It’s perfectly fine,” I said like it was a given. “I’m made loyal, and I can handle myself, right?”
“Sure,” he agreed, putting his hand on the wall beside my head. “But it’s stupid to let you out alone.”
“I don’t—”
“It is.”
Ian.
We both turned to see Ian walking down the hall toward us, and I heard Daley’s breath catch beside me.
Until that moment, Daley had not seen pretty. Not that “pretty” was the word I would use to describe Ian. “Breathtaking” was the one that applied.
What I had going for me in the looks department was thick, defined muscles; good hair; and according to my husband, big, dark, beautiful brown eyes. But the man coming toward us had been blessed genetically. From the sleek, sculpted muscles that moved fluidly in a fusion of power and grace that combined seamlessly to put the rolling rise and fall in his stride, to his sharp, chiseled features: strong square jawline, lush mouth with a smirk of recklessness, and killer blue eyes—he embodied breathtaking.
He’d gone home to change—he’d put on the olive-green henley that molded to his sculpted shoulders and biceps, sleeves shoved up to show off veined forearms, and the faded jeans clung like a second skin to his long, powerful legs. Watching his advance overwhelmed me for a moment, but I managed to smile as he reached us.
“Hey,” I said, my voice a dry croak of desire.
He stared at me for a moment before turning to Daley and offering his hand. “Ian Doyle.”
“Daley O’Meara,” he greeted, clearly amused. “Doyle, huh? Apparently your husband’s fond of Irishmen.”
“One Irishman, certainly,” he said, his voice rough with a sliver of danger.
From Daley’s smirk and half shrug, he seemed not at all intimidated, more amused, and that was interesting because most men were, if not fearful, definitely wary of Ian.
He turned back to me. “I’ll get your number from Eli. I’d love to have you along for a gym workout or the next time we all go out.”
“Sure,” I agreed fast and hugged him when he leaned in.
It was quick, and then he gave Ian a nod before taking his leave. When I turned to Ian, he was glaring at me.
“What?”
“Are you kidding?”
I was at a loss, and then it hit me. “Oh, I should’ve done a better job introducing you guys. He’s a detective over in the—”
“The fuck do I care,” Ian growled, grabbing my bicep and rushing me down the hall several feet in the opposite direction, toward the back door where it was quieter, before knocking me into the wall.
“Ian, are you—”
He took my mouth hard, just leaned in and kissed me, nothing gentle about it, claiming, possessive, and hungry. He slipped one hand to my hip and the other around the back of my head, sifting his fingers through my hair as he held me still.
I opened for him, allowing the feasting, craving it, having missed him all day, wrapping my arms around his neck to hold him to me, wanting him closer, under me, under my hands, in bed. Pressing close, I moaned softly, which he must have liked, if the way he parted my legs with his thigh was any indication.
“Fuck,” he moaned like he was in pain, breaking the kiss but not stepping free of my arms, instead bumping his forehead against mine so we were sharing air.
“What’s with you?” I asked, curious.
“Where the fuck is my head?”
I smiled and kissed his nose. “I hope right here.”