From the Don's Son's Plus-Size Girl to His Brother's Claim novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: Fulton Street

"Good," I said.

Killian blinked.

"Good?"

"I hope it still hurts when it rains."

Something cracked in his face, almost a laugh.

He opened the passenger door for me.

"Where am I taking you?"

I looked at him in the streetlight.

My mother's sign was still on her window. My words were still in Tiziano's phone. Half of Chicago had watched me slap a man on a roof.

And the only person who'd ever read all of me and not laughed was standing there holding a car door.

"Fulton Street," I said.

He went still.

"Meghan."

"Don't make me say it twice. I'll lose my nerve."

He didn't make me say it twice.

He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on my knee, and he didn't take it off once, not even at the lights.

The iron stairs had never seemed so long.

At the top, he flipped on one lamp by the kitchen, and the loft went gold and shadowy.

He took my coat off my shoulders and hung it on the hook by the door.

Then he turned around, and he didn't.

He picked me up.

I squeaked like an idiot. "Killian. I'm not little."

"I've noticed."

"You'll hurt your back."

"I carried a hundred and twenty pounds of gear up a mountain in Kandahar." His mouth was at my ear. "You're lighter, and you're softer, and I like you better."

I wrapped my legs around him because there was nothing else to do with them.

He carried me down the length of the loft to the big bed under the steel windows, and set me on the edge of it.

The city was out there, all lights.

I pulled his sweater off over his head.

He let me.

The scar ran white across his shoulder in the lamplight, and there were others too, smaller, on his ribs and his forearm.

I put my mouth on the big one.

He shuddered.

"I want this," I said into his skin. "I've wanted it since the stairwell. I wanted it at the lake. I want it right now."

He laughed, shaky, into my hair.

"Say it again."

"I want you. Every inch. I'm not doing anything halfway ever again."

He tipped my face up and kissed me so hard the bed creaked.

His mouth came down on mine again, deeper and slower.

He kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth.

His hands found my hips through the dress and held on.

Then he pulled back just enough to breathe against my lips.

"I'd know you in the dark," he said.

I reached for the tie on my wrap dress.

"My hands are shaking."

"Good."

I undid the tie and pushed the dress off my shoulders.

The dark blue pooled at my waist.

I was just in my black bra and panties in the lamplight, with the city behind me.

His eyes went over me slowly, like he was reading every inch.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said.

"Don't do that," I said. "Don't lie to me."

"I've never lied to you."

I stood up and let the dress fall to the floor.

I unhooked my bra and dropped it beside the dress.

I slid my panties down my hips and kicked them off.

I stood there naked in front of the window with my heart pounding.

"Leave the lamp on," he said. "I want to see all of you."

His voice had gone rough.

He reached for me and pulled me against his chest.

The wool of his trousers was rough on my bare thighs.

His mouth went to my neck, then lower, kissing down to my collarbone.

"You have no idea what you did to me for a year," he said against my skin. "Every message."

"I have some idea."

He laughed, low and hot, and bit the curve of my shoulder.

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