My Every Breath extracts
Copyright © 2018 EmKo Media, LLC/Brittney Sahin
*Warning – some explicit language in content*
“Who am I?” I start at my sleeves, rolling them to the elbows, exposing the tattoos I normally hide on the inside of my arm.
I cross the office with slow and purposeful strides. The need to hit the son of a bitch is overpowering right now. “I don’t think you want to find out.”
Another strange sensation of familiarity crawls up my spine and splinters out, but it’s not like the feeling of a good whiskey as it spreads warmth through my chest—no, it’s more like the woozy feeling from too many shots of bad tequila.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why is this son of a bitch, and even Gia, giving me the feeling of déjà-f**ing-vu?
“Are you the arsehole who was hitting on my woman at the bar?”
“Your woman?” I snap back to the present, to the prickly sounds of this man’s Irish tongue grating on my ears. “Sounds to me like she isn’t yours at all.” I’ve always liked the Irish, but this bastard is leaving a bad taste for the country in my mouth.
“She’s for sure as hell not yours.” His jaw is tight, a slight tic in his cheek.
I glance over at Gia. She tugs her lower lip between her teeth as she studies us.
He cocks his head, and his green eyes tighten to thin slits. “Do I know you?” A long finger stabs at the air.
Yeah, the feeling is mutual.
“I do, don’t I?” He taps the side of his skull.
“I’m pretty sure you and I don’t hang out in the same circles.”
My arms loosen at my sides in anticipation, but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to charge at me yet.
“Gia, come on, let’s go.” I hold my hand palm up, offering her the chance to leave, but she doesn’t even flinch.
She stares at my hand like she’s in a trance.
“Are you that ballsy that you think you can waltz out of my club with my woman on your arm?”
“She’s not yours. I thought we cleared that up already.” My body remains ready, poised for action, as he strides my way. “She comes with me and no one gets hurt.”
God, I feel like I’m in some bad action flick right now.
He’s casually leaning inside the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, watching me.
“Do you fasten on a cape at night and go crusading around, saving young women?”
His long legs swallow the distance between us, and he stops shy of me by a foot or so. “I wouldn’t look good in tights.”
I don’t know about that.
His head angles, his eyes hold mine, and I’m done. I’m lost in that sea of blue.
“You, um . . .” Shit, my heart is beating so damn fast I can’t even talk. Not in English, at least. “You should really go.” I manage to string the words together, even though my pulse is climbing and I feel a squeeze of pressure, a tingling between my legs.
“Tell me something,” he says and steps even closer. Too close. All I can smell is him now.
“What?” I ask, almost breathless.
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