Page 7 of Her Irish Twins
“Inside, now.”
“Fuck off.”
“Look,” I growl. “Gavin and I, we’re with the Irish Syndicate, here on special assignment from Dublin to watch you.”
“Why the fuck are you watching—”
“Listen, love,” I grumble. “The facts are, some not nice fuckers were there to kill you, and we stopped them, at no small danger to us and ours. So how about we get inside the fucking apartment, yeah?”
She chews on her lip, but slowly, she nods.
“Fine,” she mutters, brushing past me and stepping into the safe house.
Gavin half-grins, shaking his head.
“Fuck me,” he mutters with a small laugh.
“Yeah,” I growl back. “This is going to be interesting.”
I follow my brother inside and lock the door before turning back to Charlotte, who’s now standing in the middle of the fairly large loft-style apartment, arms over her chest.
“Look, sorry,” she says quietly.
“For?”
“For being kind of a bitch just now,” she smiles wryly. “And thank you for before, really. I really do owe you my life, I think.”
“No problem,” Gavin says quietly as he walks across the apartment. He steps into a bedroom and comes back out, tossing me something—it’s sweatpants. I chuckle as I pull them on, liking the way Charlotte sort of gasps as I drop the hat from my cock. Gavin walks over, still bare-assed naked, and pulls on a pair himself, and he’s definitely grinning as he catches her eyeing his package too.
Pants on now, we stand before her. Charlotte’s eyes drop to my arm, and she frowns.
“Oh, Jesus, you’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug. “I’ll clean it in a few.”
She just shakes her head. “No, do you have a first aid kit?”
I arch a brow, and she smiles shyly. “I’m a nurse. Come on, we need to get that patched up.”
She doesn’t even wait for an answer, she just takes my hand and drags me towards the bathroom. I follow, glancing back to shrug at Gavin before she pulls me inside, half shutting the door.
“Sit,” she directs, pointing to the toilette. I close the lid and sit down as she rummages under the sink and actually does manage to pull out an old looking first aid kit. She pulls out some peroxide and a small surgical sewing kit, and she frowns.
“This, uh… this might hurt.”
“I’m a big boy.”
She blushes, biting her lip as she wets a wad of toilet paper with the peroxide and brings it up. I grit my teeth as she cleans the graze-wound from the one shot one of the guys back in the hotel was able to squeeze off. The needle is next, and she deftly sews me up in a nice clean line.
“So, those men…” she says quietly as she pulls the last loop through.
“I really don’t know who they were,” I growl.
“And you’re both, what, the mob or something?”
“Irish Syndicate.”
She swallows, biting her lip as she neatly ties off the surgical string. I frown.