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.



Contains mature themes.