Irish Crown Read online

  Irish Crown

  Published by Nashoda Rose

  Copyright © 2018 by Nashoda Rose

  ISBN : 978-1-987953-19-0

  Toronto, Canada

  Copyright © 2018 Cover design and Photography by Sara Eirew

  Model: Mike Chabot

  Content Edited by Kristin Anders, The Romantic Editor

  First Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  Formatted by Champagne Book Design

  Proofing & Editing: Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Warning: Irish Crown is for 18+ due to language and sexual content.

  *Any editing issues are my own. I’m Canadian and may use the Canadian spelling rather than US.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, brands, and artists mentioned in the novel Irish Crown are the property of the respective owners and copyright holders. Any brands mentioned do not endorse or sponsor this book in any way.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books by Nashoda Rose

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Books by Nashoda Rose

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Nashoda Rose

  Irish Crown

  Tear Asunder Series

  With You (free)

  Torn from You

  Overwhelmed by You

  Shattered by You

  Kept from You

  Unyielding Series (A Tear Asunder spin off)

  Perfect Chaos

  Perfect Ruin

  Perfect Rage

  Scars of the Wraith Series

  Stygian

  Tyrant

  Credo

  Take

  What’s Coming?

  Ugly Perfects

  Vic Gate

  Ardent (Scars of the Wraiths)

  Edge of You (Tear Asunder)

  www.nashodarose.com

  To the readers.

  For the readers.

  Thank you for waiting.

  Thank you for believing in me.

  Sated. Completely and utterly sated. That was the word that sat warm and cozy in my belly as I lay curled in a half-moon on his bed.

  The white sheet fell across my breasts, then dipped low down my back to pool at the cusp of my ass. With one arm crooked under the plush pillow, the other was slung over my hip, palm resting on the indented mattress where the heat of his body still lingered.

  My skin tingled at the memory of his mouth.

  His velvet tongue.

  The weight of his muscled body on top of mine as he held my wrists above my head and pressed me into the mattress with hard rhythmic thrusts.

  He brought me to the edge of falling into a sea of daisies, the velvet petals fluttering deep in my core. Then he’d soften.

  Not his body, no, that was like a cement graffiti wall, but his movements.

  Slow. Tranquil. Deep.

  He leisurely peppered kisses across my flushed skin. Grazed my nipples with his teeth before drawing them into his mouth and sucking.

  He watched. He waited. He knew when my body needed more.

  When I couldn’t take the slow any longer, that’s when he’d give me more.

  Harder. Deeper. Faster.

  Seven hours in bed. We napped. We drank red wine and snacked on leftover pizza with extra cheese and mushrooms because that’s all he had in the fridge. But mostly, we had unbelievably, amazing sex.

  He didn’t know it, but he made me laugh before I even met him when he missed the soccer ball and fell on his ass at the Treasured Children’s Centre charity event yesterday. It was obvious he’d done it on purpose, so one of the kids could get the ball and try for goal.

  It was sweet. And yet there was nothing physically sweet about him.

  He looked every bit the badass. Tattoos scrawled across his skin everywhere except his legs, right shoulder, and face. His russet hair was long on the top, not overly, but chin-length with a slight wave, and the sides were shaved.

  Yesterday, he’d worn the long pieces tied in a bun. A bun I’d ripped out when my fingers raked through it the second we walked into his place, and he pushed me up against the steel door and kissed me for the first time.

  No. He didn’t just kiss me. He devoured me.

  Possessive. But giving.

  Controlling and yet guiding.

  His lips perfectly melding with mine even though he was over six foot to my five foot four.

  His square jaw had at least a week’s worth of stubble, and my chin, neck, and cheeks burned from it, and I bet I’d wear his imprint for days.

  And that was fine by me. I liked the feel of his coarse stubble when he kissed my neck. My mouth. I liked it a whole hell of a lot between my legs too and he’d done that a number of times last night, and this morning.

  I’d never been a sexual person. I liked sex. Liked it less after my a-hole ex-boyfriend. But of my top ten things to do, it would be my fifth. So, yeah, I’d rather spend an evening with my girls drinking wine or eat crème brûlée or read a good book.

  But sex just blew away crème brûlée, a book, wine with my girls, and I wanted more of that. More of him.

  I was crazy thinking I’d get more, but there was something between us and I swear he felt it too. He’d said that I was rare and he’d never had rare before, and he liked it—a lot.

  I’d never gone home with a man after one conversation. It was never worth it. It took me a while to become comfortable enough with a man in order to strip naked and have sex with him.

  But he laughed with the kids playing soccer, high-fived them when one scored a goal, and it was obvious he was good with kids, and that was important to me. It said something about a man. My ex wasn’t good with kids and that should’ve been my first red flag, but I’d been twenty-two and swept away by his charm.

  I was a safe kind of girl, and what went with that was knowing exactly what would happen before it happened. I had sticky notes for everything, and when I made plans, I stuck to them.

  My dad had worked most of his life on an oil rig, and he said I’d have been good at it because you had to be reliable, responsible, and dependable, or it could cost a life. So, I got all that from him.

  Now retired, he lived just outside of the city on a farm. Not a w
orking farm, but an old house with a few acres, some chickens, and two great dogs my friend Charlotte had rescued, Blue and Midnight, to which he swore never got on the furniture. But whenever I visited, they were always on the couch or curled in his old recliner. He’d become the local handyman in the community and was pretty damn good at it.

  My job was the unplanned part of my life. Often hectic. And I never knew what would come through the hospital emergency doors, so I was prepared for anything and everything. It was why I liked to keep every other aspect of my life organized.

  Sleeping with a man I barely knew was uncharted territory. But I was thinking this was the best territory I’d ever been in.

  I rolled onto my back when I heard the shower turn off. Steam leaked under the door and filled the air with the delicious scent of coconut and papaya.

  I slowly slid my foot up the side of my calf, imagining his rough hand.

  We hadn’t really talked much after that first kiss. More like moans, groans, and the numerous swear words that emerged from deep in his throat in a raspy growl. There’d also been a few abrupt instructions like “open your legs, pet” or “on your knees, baby.”

  I swallowed, pressing my thighs together at the memory.

  The bathroom door opened and my heart skipped a beat as Deaglan emerged in a fog of steam with a towel slung low around his hips. Pearls of water clung to his skin, and the black ink on his tattoos was vibrant over his muscled shoulder, chest, and arms. He flicked off the light, then strode across the room toward me.

  God, there wasn’t an ounce of uncertainty in his stride.

  Deaglan was a work of art. A sculpture I’d been lucky enough to explore every crevice, hill, and valley. Granite hills and rock valleys.

  I sighed, hugging the pillow closer and waiting with bated breath for him to come back to bed.

  I didn’t have to work today, so I kind of hoped he’d do that thing with his tongue again.

  My body quivered and I bit my lower lip.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress, and without a single glance my way, he said, “Pet, I have shit to do.”

  I tensed.

  Then the daisy heads snapped off and the velvet petals shriveled up in my belly.

  Uh, what?

  Suddenly, that hot, raspy Irish accent didn’t sound so hot.

  Okay, I wasn’t expecting a proposal or anything, not by a long shot, but I did expect a morning kiss and a possible number exchange for a possible second date. Or rather, first date.

  He didn’t even pretend like he’d call.

  God, was I that naïve?

  I sat up, taking the sheet with me. “Excuse me?”

  He bent, picked up his cargo pants from the floor and tugged them on.

  “I called a cab. It’ll be here any second.”

  My heart slammed into my chest. He called me a cab? Was I supposed to think this was okay because he called me a cab?

  Because it wasn’t. It totally wasn’t.

  There was a brief honk outside.

  Oh. My. God.

  Jesus, when did he call me a cab? When he had his finger in my ass during the last throes of passion?

  Deaglan walked shirtless across the room, if you could call it a room because it was more like a garage in a warehouse or something. He actually had a motorcycle parked beside the couch.

  He stopped to grab his wallet off the black leather armchair next to the matching black leather couch, then opened the steel door and disappeared outside.

  The tingling, heated skin and euphoria of our sexual escapades for the last seven hours burst like a dart to a water balloon.

  What a complete dick. I didn’t even know how to react as I sat frozen in bed with disbelief.

  I realized that despite our conversation we had sitting on the picnic table at the charity event last night, I had no idea who Deaglan was. I didn’t even know his last name or what he did for a living.

  Not that it mattered any longer.

  I didn’t want to know.

  All I wanted was to get out of here and never see this asshole again.

  Tossing back the sheet, I scrambled out of bed before Mr. Insensitive returned.

  I found my knee-length, yellow sundress under the bed next to one of my light blue sandals with the pink soles. My strapless bra was on the seat of his bike and I found my other sandal next to the front tire.

  My eyes frantically darted around for my white lace thong.

  Shit. Where did I put it? Or rather, where had Deaglan ripped it off? I couldn’t remember anything except his hands sliding up under my dress as he lifted me off my feet and shoved me against the wall.

  Then it was a frenzy of mouths and hands and body parts.

  My cheeks heated thinking about it, and my sex clenched.

  Damn it. I so hated myself right now.

  I saw my robin egg blue purse on the armchair, and I walked over, grabbed it and hitched it over my shoulder.

  I scanned the garage one last time for my white thong, but it was nowhere to be found. Lost along with my dignity.

  What had I been thinking going home with a guy like him? He was hot. Sexy as hell, and I’d noticed the abundance of girls gaping at him last night.

  But I liked that he walked right up to me and introduced himself.

  He’d been a little cagey, but sweet, playful and definitely cocky. And physically, the complete opposite of my ex with his tattoos and ruggedness.

  He didn’t hesitate to introduce me to his friends, Connor and Deck, who also wore cargo pants and looked badass, and their wives, Alina and Georgie, who were super nice.

  Georgie was hilarious, had pink-streaked hair, owned two coffee shops, and was five months pregnant. Alina was a photographer, sweet and also pregnant. Alina and Connor had a little girl, Skye, who sat on the picnic table beside me and drank her apple juice while a barn cat perched on her lap. She talked about Simon, her cat, that slept with her every night until she fell asleep and then trotted off to her daddy. Then she whispered that her daddy didn’t like orange cats, but Simon liked him anyway.

  I discovered Georgie is Connor’s sister and that they are friends with Chess and Tristan Mason, who had opened the Treasure Children’s Center for abused kids.

  I walked across the cement floor toward the door, then stopped when Deaglan appeared, blocking the doorway and my escape.

  A flash of heat warmed my skin at the thought of what this guy must think of me. Not that I should care, but I did because I didn’t normally do this sort of thing and he probably thought I did. And yeah, even after two years of building myself back up, I still had those haunting uncertainties. The tight little ball I’d shoved in the far corners of my mind unraveling and making me doubt myself.

  I straightened my spine and crumpled up the ball.

  “Cab will take you wherever you need to go,” Deaglan said as he shoved his wallet in the back pocket of his cargo pants.

  What I felt like saying was “go fuck yourself,” but instead I said, “Thanks.”

  I clutched the shoulder strap of my purse so hard the leather crackled.

  Don’t take it out on the purse.

  He stepped closer, and I knew he was about to touch me. What I didn’t know was whether it was to kiss me or toss me over his shoulder and throw me out. I was leaning toward the latter with the way things were going and I wasn’t about to give him the opportunity.

  “See ya,” I said, hoping he’d move out of the way.

  He didn’t.

  Shit.

  I stepped past him and my body brushed against his. Then, with as much dignity as I could muster, I walked out the door.

  Unfortunately, Deaglan followed with his hand on the small of my back.

  I approached the cab idling in the alley. I didn’t know where we were, but there was no chance in hell I was taking a cab he paid for.

  He opened the passenger side door, but before I could escape, his fingers curled around my wrist. “Eva….”

  “Don
’t,” I said quietly.

  He hesitated a second, then nodded and released me.

  I slid onto the tattered vinyl seat and ignored him as I took my cell out of my purse and tapped on the screen.

  Deaglan stood there a second before closing the door.

  “Where to, Miss?” the driver asked.

  “Uh, if you could wait a second, please.” I glanced out the side window and waited until Deaglan disappeared into his place.

  I opened my door. “You can keep whatever he paid you. I don’t need the ride. Thanks anyway.” I’d call Uber as soon as I was far enough away from Deaglan’s place.

  “You sure? It’s not the safest area, Miss,” the cab driver said, looking in the rearview.

  I smiled. “I’m sure.” Besides, I carried pepper spray in my purse.

  I shut the door and walked down the alley as the cab sped away.

  Deaglan could kiss my ass.

  “Mr. Johnson. Please, you need to take your pills,” I urged, holding out the white cup with the four, multicolored pills at the bottom.

  My smile fake.

  My control teetering.

  And my emotions like the metal ball in a pinball machine. Because the cab driver had been right two days ago. The area hadn’t been safe for a woman alone at six in the morning wearing a sundress. And my pepper spray didn’t do me any good when it was in my purse. The purse the guy was trying to grab.

  “Get that poison out of my face.” Mr. Johnson waved his hand and it knocked the cup from my hand and the pills scattered across the floor.

  Patience, Eva. Mr. Johnson is a sweet old man who is just scared.

  This wasn’t Mr. Johnson’s first time in the Emergency Room. It was his fourth in the last seven months, mostly because of his diabetes, but six months ago he broke his hip after falling off his grandson’s skateboard. What an eighty-four-year-old was doing on a skateboard, I had no idea. Mr. Johnson had been uncooperative then and even more so now. But today he wasn’t here for his hip or his diabetes.

  He was here because his wife called an ambulance when he complained of chest pain. Mr. Johnson insisted he had the strongest “ticker” in this place, and his self-diagnosis was heartburn.