“You’re right.” The words are spoken softly.

  Slowly, I pivot to face Paddy again. There’s an expression of such shame and pain on his face that my stomach drops. I’ve never seen him look like that before.

  “You’re right,” he says again. “Except you’re not the one who’s stupid. I am. My grand-da is probably laughing in his grave right now.”

  I blink, confused at the bitterness in his tone. What does Paddy’s grandfather have to do with anything? I cross the room slowly until I’m only a foot away from him. I reach out and touch his arm. “Why would your grandfather be laughing?”

  He huffs out a humorless laugh, and his lips twist into a mockery of a smile. “He always told me I was stupid. That I was worthless. I tried not to believe him, no matter what he said or how old I got, but it’s clear he was right.”

  This time, it’s Paddy who turns away from me. He moves to where his gaming beanbag sits on the floor and drops into it. His knees come up, and he rests his forearms on top of them. He quietly stares straight ahead at nothing but a blank television.

  I follow and slowly lower myself to sit cross-legged on the floor next to him. Not wanting to push, I wait, hoping he’ll talk to me. I don’t have to wait long. Paddy takes a deep breath.

  “Brenna could read by the time she was three,” he begins. “Books were everything to her. Give her a book to read, and she was content to sit there for hours. They were her favorite thing. Still are. I, on the other hand, hated them.”

  Still not sure what this has to do with his grandfather, I remain quiet and patient, letting him tell me the story in his own time.

  “It didn’t take me long to figure out something was wrong with me,” Paddy says. “All the teachers knew it, too. I heard their conversations when they didn’t think I was listening. No matter how many books they put in front of me, I struggled to read them. They put me in special classes because I couldn’t pass the tests they gave me. My parents hired all the best tutors, but none of them figured out I had dyslexia until I was in high school.”

  Unable to bear it any longer, I scoot as close as I can get and wrap my arms around his. I rest my chin on his shoulder and speak directly into his ear. “I don’t know who these teachers were, and I don’t care what your grandfather said, you are not stupid. It doesn’t matter how many tests you failed or what classes they put you in.”

  “You have no idea the number of times I was called into that bastard’s office,” Paddy continues as though he didn’t even hear me. “He would threaten me. Punish me. All because I embarrassed him with my inability to do something as simple as read. He was the head of the entire Irish syndicate. The most powerful family. And I was a stain on that. He never let me forget it, either. When the physical punishments didn’t do anything, he started in with words. Insults. They hurt far worse than any backhand.”

  “I’m sorry he did that.” It seems like such an insignificant thing to say.

  I never met Paddy’s grandfather. All I know about him is from the stories Caitlín has told me. That he was vicious. Brutal. She’s one hundred percent convinced he had her uncle Collin killed when he screwed up on some arms sale and cost their grandfather millions of dollars. He wasn’t a nice man. But this? To beat a little boy? Never before have I wished someone was alive so I could kill them.

  “He’s the reason I never wanted to get married,” he confesses. “He would tell me that no woman would want me once she found out how stupid I was. She’d be too afraid it would be passed on to our kids. God, it sounds ridiculous now. But when you’re nine years old, you’ll believe anything.”

  I barely hold in my gasp. Nine? That horrible man was telling a nine-year-old that? It makes me sick. And makes me hate his grandfather that much more. I crawl on my knees until I’m in front of Paddy and palm his cheeks so he has to look at me. I stare into his eyes and take the biggest leap ever.

  “Your grandfather was a terrible, terrible man. He filled your head with nothing but lies. Do you know how I know?” I take a deep breath and finally tell him those words I’ve held locked inside. “Because I want you. I will always want you. I want to have children with you. Children with your smile and red hair. And they will be smart, just like their father, who loves taking guns apart and putting them back together because of the puzzle they represent. Don’t let him take the chance at happiness away from you. Away from me. You make me happy. I think I make you happy, too. And I love you, Paddy.”

  I lean forward and press my lips to his, putting every ounce of that love into my kiss. There’s no holding back. I don’t know what the rest of this night will bring, but I don’t want to go another minute without trying to figure it out.

  Chapter 39

  Paddy

  * * *

  My heart nearly stops at Anya’s words of love. Her lips touch mine, and it races again. This kiss is different from every other one we’ve shared. It’s more. It’s as though she’s stopped holding back all her emotions and shared them with me. They’re powerful. Healing. As though she’s washing away all the ugly and hateful words Grand-da spewed at me.

  I clutch her to me, holding Anya tight and deepening the kiss, trying to match her feelings with mine. She answers the rising passion between us. Our tongues duel. Our movements grow frenetic. Rushed. As though we’re scared to lose this feeling. We won’t, though. Because neither of us will allow it.

  My arms loosen their hold enough that I can pull back. Anya has been brave enough to stop hiding tonight. It’s only fair I do the same. She stares at me from eyes heavy with arousal. Her chest rises and falls as she drags in air. I’m nearly as breathless. My gaze studies the beautiful and kind face in front of me. I wait until her expression clears so there is no misunderstanding. She deserves to hear me say the words.

  “I love you, too, Anya Petrov Donnelly,” I tell her. “I don’t want to fight it anymore because you do make me happy. Until I met you, my smiles and laughter were a shield. A mask to hide my true self—the one I didn’t think anyone could love—from the rest of the world. You make every one of my smiles feel natural. Real. I’m done hiding, as well.”

  Tears spill down Anya’s cheeks. Her smile, though, lights up the room. I hadn’t lied when I said that looking at her makes me feel better.

  “I want to make love to you,” she says softly. Shyly. “Or, at least, try. I’m scared, though.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  She takes a deep breath. “That I’m broken. That I can’t be the wife you need. That I’m going to freak out the minute things get to be too much.”

  I cradle her jaw between my palms, caressing her cheeks with my thumbs. “Then we’ll stop. And we’ll keep trying. For as long as you need to. It doesn’t have to happen tonight. Not if you’re not ready. I don’t want you to do this because you think it’s something I need. You feeling safe is far more important to me.”

  She lays trembling hands over mine. “I’ve always felt safe with you. Even from the beginning. It’s why I asked you to marry me. Maybe something deep inside me knew that this is where we’d end up. I am ready. Truly. I just need you to go slow.”

  “We’ll go as slow as you need to. You’re in control here,” I assure her. “If I touch you in a way you don’t like, tell me. I’ll stop, and we can adjust. If I move too fast, stop me.”

  Anya nods. “Okay.”

  She scoots backward so I can stand. I reach out for her. There’s no hesitation. She places her palm in mine, and I help her to her feet. Once she’s steady, I thread my fingers through hers. I enjoy the simple pleasure of holding her hand. We move together, crossing the room before we make our way upstairs.

  At the top of them, I pause. “Your bedroom or mine?”

  Anya’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. Her gaze bounces between my end of the hall and hers until she makes her decision. “Yours.”

  I lead her to the right and reach around the doorframe to flip the light on. There’s only a brief hesitation before she follows me in. My bed—the one she pointedly ignores—is unmade, and a few clothes are scattered on the floor at the foot of it. We stand in the middle of the room. I remain patient, waiting for a signal from her.

  “I’m in control,” Anya whispers so softly it’s barely audible. As though she’s talking only to herself.

  “You’re in control,” I say a bit louder.

  Her head jerks up, and our eyes meet. I nod in confirmation. She returns the gesture with a stuttered inhale and then closes the distance between us. Her gaze homes in on the middle of my chest. She stops when only inches separate our bodies. Her full breasts nearly graze my jacket. I clench my fists at my sides to keep from reaching for her.

  With a shy glance upward before returning her eyes forward, Anya places her hands on my chest. My muscles twitch beneath her gentle touch. We’re not even skin to skin yet and already I’m hanging onto my control by a thread. I refuse to let loose, though. I’ll never forgive myself if I scare her.

  “Is this okay?” she asks quietly.

  “It’s perfect. You can touch me any way you want. It will always be okay.”

  Anya gives a shaky nod and then glides her hands up so they slide under my suit jacket. She continues her path and pushes it over my shoulders and down my arms before pulling it completely off. A brief hint of panic crosses her face, but it’s gone in a blink.

  “I don’t know what I should do with this,” she says nervously.

  My finger goes under her chin, and I gently tip her head back. I send her an encouraging smile. “Have you looked around this place? I’m not the tidiest person.” I chuckle lightly. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. “Chuck it on the floor for all I care. It will just add to the messy aesthetic I already have going on.”

  I accomplish exactly what I set out to do. Anya laughs. It’s fecking beautiful. Taking me at my word, she gleefully tosses it onto the collection of clothes forming at the foot of my bed. Then her eyes meet mine, and there’s a twinkle of amusement in their deep blue depths.

  “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever just thrown clothes on the floor before?” she says with no small amount of awe.

  “It’s rather freeing, isn’t it?” I waggle my eyebrows.

  She giggles, and it’s like pure music. “It is, actually. Surprisingly so.”

  “That’s just the beginning. I’m still wearing plenty more for you to remove and throw down there with them,” I remind her with a cheeky grin but also hoping I’m not pushing too far. “You know, for practice until you get the hang of it.”

  Anya’s eyes widen, and for a second, I worry I fecked up. Until peals of laughter spill from her lips. She covers her mouth as though trying to hold it in, but she can’t control it. She laughs until she snorts, which only makes her laugh that much harder, and she’s almost in tears. After several minutes, she manages to catch her breath, and her laughter slows until only a few small chuckles remain.

  “You’re incorrigible.” She shakes her head, but there’s a smile still on her face, so I’m not too concerned.

  The levity passes because her expression turns serious—focused—again. With more agonizing slowness, her fingers move from button to button, loosening each one from its hole until my shirt parts in half. This time, when her palms hit my chest, I can’t hold back the low groan. The spark singes my skin and sends pleasure rioting through me. Anya freezes, her eyes wide and cautious and lips parted.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I tell her.

  “You didn’t. Not really. It just startled me. I’m okay, though. I…like touching you.”

  Her shy, hesitant admission makes my pride swell. Not that I’m self-conscious about my body, but the fact that my wife gets pleasure from it is certainly something I’m glad of. “And I like you touching me.”

  I love the flush that rises up Anya’s chest and neck. My words seem to bolster her confidence because she repeats the movements she made with my jacket. Those soft, small hands glide up my naked chest, and she relieves me of my shirt. I’m standing there in nothing more than my dress pants and socks. My shoes had been left at the door.

  My cock hardens more than it had when this whole disrobing began. Her sweet innocence brings out my protective instincts. The fact that that Polish bastard, Gornak, tried to take that from her makes a murderous rage course through my veins. Maddox better get back with me soon. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait to put that fecker in the ground.

  Anya licks her lips, and, unwillingly, another groan spills from me. This time, the expression in her gaze isn’t fear. It’s almost self-satisfaction. As though she understands the power she has over me. Except her newly gained confidence seems to desert her when she reaches for the button of my pants. Her hands tremble, and she pauses. Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, and she raises her gaze to meet mine.

  “It’s okay if this is going too fast. We can stop,” I reassure her. My cock almost weeps with my words, but if I need to take myself in hand in the shower to ease its ache, I will.

  Anya shakes her head, her blonde hair dancing around her shoulders. “No, I don’t want to stop. I just need a minute. Will you kiss me?”

  I smile softly down at her. “I’m glad you asked.”

  My lips claim hers in a gentle kiss that quickly heats up. We’ve had enough practice with kissing that Anya quickly regains her confidence. This is where she feels sure of herself. Soon, both our passions rise again. The breathy sounds she makes have me almost beating on my chest like a damn caveman.

  She presses herself closer, pushing her breasts into me. My legs part, and she steps into the cradle of them. It’s a familiar pose. One we’ve spent the last weeks learning and practicing. My hands find her hips, and her arms loop around my neck. We kiss until we have to come up for air.

  “Better?” I ask once I can breathe normally again.

  Anya nods. “Better. Do you think we could lie down, maybe?”

  I study her closely. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Gently, I take her hand and lead her to the bed. I crawl in first so as to not loom over her and lie on my side facing her. She climbs in beside me and mimics my pose.

  “Will you touch me?” It’s a tentative and quiet question.

  “Where?” I ask.

  Anya reaches for me and places my palm over her breast. Her fingers tighten around mine. I hold perfectly still, letting her adjust to the sensation. My palm burns with her heat despite the fabric that separates it from her bare flesh. The tiny pebble beneath it hardens. She shudders.

  Her eyes meet mine, and heat flares in her gaze. “I’m ready for more.”

  Chapter 40

  Anya

  * * *

  My body is alive with emotions that batter around inside me. Fear. Hope. Trepidation. Arousal. But mostly, love. It soars through me, bringing light to everything it touches. It calms the rest of them to a degree that I’m ready to keep going. To keep trying. I want to make love with my husband. With Paddy.

  He moves his hand, sculpting and molding my breast. The hardened tip tingles with a mix of pleasure and pain. It’s like when they get really cold and ache. The warmth of Paddy’s touch thaws the icy soreness, easing it. But with each caress, I want more. I want to feel his skin against mine.

  My fingers encircle as much of his wrist as I can, stopping him. His eyes jerk up to meet mine. There’s worry in his expression like he’s fearful he’s scared me. Quite the opposite. He allows me to move his hand, and ever so slowly, I slide it under my sleep tank.

  If he was warm before, he’s even hotter against my bare flesh. So much so that my skin almost bursts into flames.

  “More, please,” I breathe out.

  Paddy swallows hard and kneads my breast. I lean forward and kiss him, adding another layer to the pleasure he’s giving me. Then, my own hands roam. Over his broad shoulders. His thick arms. His hard, powerful chest. My fingers dance along the lines of the abs I always admire when he teases me by walking around the house half-naked. I’ve memorized them with my eyes. It’s time I memorize them by touch.

  Pleasure bombards me. The heat of Paddy’s touch brings sweat to my skin. I’m so hot. Burning from the inside out. I can’t take it anymore. Before I can let the fear take over, I’m leaning away from him and sitting up. His questioning gaze sears into me. My fingers brush the hem of my shirt, and with only a moment’s hesitation, I pull it up and over my head, tossing it over the edge of the bed.

  I lie down, caressing his chest, and raise my gaze to his. “More.”

  Paddy leans forward and gently brushes his lips over mine. His kisses travel, first along my jaw, then down my neck. He reaches the crease where my shoulder meets it, and I can’t help but giggle at the ticklish sensation his touch brings. He smiles against my skin but doesn’t stop.

  My fingers clutch his shoulders. I need to ground myself in him. To keep centered. He makes me feel so good, but there’s also that thread of panic that lingers just beneath the surface. We’re both aware of it. Paddy takes the most care with it. Assures it that he won’t hurt me. It settles but doesn’t go away completely.

  “More?” he asks.

  I nod. “More.”

  Hot breath ghosts across the upper slope of my breasts. Then an inferno encapsulates it. My whole body is on fire. Paddy’s tongue lashes against my nipple. I spear my fingers through his hair, desperate for him to continue. He chuckles, and the vibration rumbles through me and hits me right in my core. I shudder with the pleasure. On its heels, though, is the memory of another laugh. An insidious one. I go rigid. Cold air brushes across my chest.

  “Look at me, Anya,” the firm voice commands.

  My eyes fly open, and my gaze latches on to Paddy.