A wave of lust made her dizzy, and she breathed deeply to slow her pounding heart. She felt insatiable around him. A time or two she’d briefly entertained the outrageous thought that he might not be human. That maybe he was some mythical sex god, perhaps Priapus beckoned by the needy inhabitants of the city that never slept. Or some creature of long-forgotten lore, a Sidhe that had the ability to heighten pleasure to extremes mortals weren’t meant to taste.

“Katie-lass.” His voice floated down from the top floor of the fifteen-room duplex, dark and rich, his Scottish accent making her think of peat smoke, ancient stones, and aged whisky.

Only Dageus MacKeltar could get away with calling Katherine O’Malley “Katie-lass.”

As he descended the curving staircase and entered the thirty-foot living room with its vaulted ceilings, marble fireplace, and panoramic view of the park, she remained motionless, drinking him in. He wore black linen trousers, and she knew there would be nothing beneath them but the most perfect male body she’d ever seen. Her gaze drifted over his wide shoulders, down his hard chest and his rippling abs, lingering on the twin ropes of muscle that cut his lower stomach and disappeared into his pants, beckoning the eye to follow.

“Good enough to eat?” His golden eyes glittered as they raked her body. “Come.” He extended his hand. “Lass, you take my breath away. Your wish is my command this eve. You have only to tell me.”

His long midnight hair, so black it seemed as blue-black as his shadow beard in the amber glow of recessed lights, spilled over one muscled shoulder, falling to his waist, and she sucked in a quick breath. She knew the feel of it sweeping her bare breasts, abrading her nipples, falling lower, across her thighs as he brought her to peak after shuddering peak.

“As if I need to say anything. You know what I want before I know myself.” She heard the edge in her voice, knew he heard it too. It unnerved her how well he understood her. Before she knew what she wanted, he was giving it to her.

It made him dangerously addictive.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She wasn’t certain she’d ever seen it reach his eyes. They never changed, merely observed and waited. Like a tiger’s golden eyes, his were watchful yet aloof, amused yet detached. Hungry eyes. Predator eyes. More than once she’d wanted to ask what those tiger-eyes saw. What judgment they passed, what the hell he seemed to be waiting for, but in the bliss of his hard body against hers she forgot time and again, until she was back at work and it was too late to ask.

She’d been sleeping with him for two months, and knew no more about him now than the day she’d met him in Starbucks, across the street from O’Leary Banks and O’Malley, where she was a partner, thanks partly to her father, the senior O’Malley, and partly to her own ruthlessness. One look at the six foot four, darkly seductive man over the rim of her café au lait and she’d known she had to have him. It might have had something to do with the way he’d locked eyes with her as he’d lazily licked whipped cream off his mocha, making her imagine that sexy tongue doing far more intimate things. It might have had something to do with the pure sexual heat he gave off. She knew it had a great deal to do with the danger that rolled off him. Some days she wondered if she’d be defending him as one of her controversial high-profile clients in the months or years to come.