Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2) by London Miller

happened to you.”
    He shook his head. “Don’t be. It all happens for a reason and despite it, here I am.”
    No matter how uncomfortable the story made her, she was still glad to know it. And, even if it was a bit premature, she was starting to think that Kyrnon didn’t mince his words. He said what he wanted, no matter how it made a person feel.
    He was blunt.
    She liked it.
    The Wonder Wheel came to another stop, and this time, they hung from the top, the car swaying slightly. Kyrnon shifted his grip on her, and just that quickly, she became all too aware of the position they were in, and just how close they were.
    And as she shifted her gaze from the small window in the door to him, it was clear he was aware too.
    “Story time over?” he asked, his voice gone low, his eyes fixated on her mouth.
    “Yeah.”
    The word was barely out of her mouth before he had a hand curled around the back of her head, tugging her down to press his mouth against hers. While his lips might have been soft, his kiss was firm, unyielding.
    She returned it with a sigh, her fingers curling into his shirt. Now she was happy it was so dark around them, making it impossible for anyone to see.
    It was easy losing herself in the feel of him—the way his grip tightened on her like they just couldn’t be close enough.
    Only when the wheel started again did she draw away, but didn’t go far. His expression was hard to read in the dark of night, but she could feel the evidence of exactly how he was feeling as she shifted in his lap.
    “I can take you home if you want …” he said trailing off, his hold still possessive.
    She thought of his words from earlier. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Chapter Seven
    O n the drive to Kyrnon’s place, the panda bear stuck between their bodies, the skies had opened up, rain pelting them on their way to his loft. Luckily, Amber’s flannel protected her, but she didn’t doubt by the time they got to his place, she would be soaked through.
    She tried not to think too much about going to his place. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had a one-night-stand before, but she usually didn’t go back to their place. There was something about the security of her own space that made her more comfortable.
    Turning down a street in Brooklyn, rows of old warehouses that had been converted into luxury lofts over the last couple of years lined the street. Despite the number of cars, it was rather quiet besides the roar of Kyrnon’s pipes.
    The building they stopped in front of was an old mill if she wasn’t mistaken—a former cotton candy factory from years ago. And she could just smell the slightest traces of spun sugar in the air as they got closer.
    There was something about older, industrial spaces that she loved. They weren’t as polished and perfect, and depending on the loft, it could hold a lot of character in its walls.
    Driving around the side of the building, Kyrnon killed the engine, helping her off first before he did the same. Adjacent to the garage door he had parked in front of was a keypad, one that didn’t just require a four-digit code, but Kyrnon also had to press his thumb against a green checkered screen before a beep sounded and the whirrs of the motor for the elevator sounded.
    Sliding both doors to the elevator open, he gestured for her to go ahead of him before rolling his bike in.
    It was a short ride up a floor, and once they were in his place, she had her first look around. She might not have known what to expect, but she did know that what she saw fit him.
    An oversized Irish flag hung on the wall, a tarp on the floor in front of it with parts of a motorcycle littered on top of it. There was a large, comfortable looking sectional made of worn brown leather that helped divide the living and dining rooms, an island with a polished concrete top sectioning off the kitchen.
    And the kitchen … his kitchen was what dreams were made of. Stainless steel appliances. Dark cabinetry. If she