Beautifully, wonderfully, toe-curlingly complex. That’s Killian O’Sullivan – running back for the New York Vulcans complete with lucky green jockstrap and an appetite for trouble. A smart woman would steer well clear, but I’ve decided to head right for the pretty blue eyes of the storm.
I find him one night half-naked in an alleyway (long story) short on pants but definitely not short on something else. Helping a stranger in need is one thing, but dating a Vulcan is quite another. He lives on a knife’s edge. Me? I’ve got… complications (even longer story). It’s a solid no-go. Absolutely not.
Still, there’s a flicker of desire that’s working itself between my legs that seems damn near unstoppable if I let it burn unattended. But a guy who looks good in a skirt (yep, another story) and smells like a bottle of Jameson? I have an inkling, a little tingle that tells me it would be a bad, no good, terrible kind of idea. Because getting into his pants is one thing. But getting into his head is quite another.