48. Eamon
Eamon
The restaurant is silent. Not the comfortable kind that settles over an upscale place like this after a lull in conversation. No, this is the brittle, stunned silence that follows violence where it doesn’t belong.
Jerry Callahan groans as he’s dragged toward the exit, his nose a mess of blood, his pride shattered right along with it. My men flank him, shoving past stunned patrons, muttering apologies to no one in particular.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back, ignoring the weight of a hundred eyes on me. It wasn’t my most subtle move, but I regret nothing.
I’m about to walk out when a familiar figure strolls back into the dining room.
Cian.
His gaze sweeps the restaurant, then locks onto his table, where he finds an empty chair. His smile fades.
He turns, eyes narrowing as he approaches me. "Where is she?"
Taking my time adjusting my cuff, I finally ask, "Who?"
His expression twists with irritation. "Aoife. Where the fuck is she?"
I finally look at him, letting a slow, mocking grin curve my lips. "Do you mean the girl from the front desk? Your date? Shouldn’t you know where she went?"
Cian exhales sharply, his patience obviously fraying. “Cut the shit, O’Sullivan.” He lowers his voice just enough to keep the conversation between us. “You’re too smart to not know that she’s the Aoife Quigley.”
I don’t blink, playing at indifference.
Cian studies me, eyes narrowing before he presses on.
“You’re in a war with her brother, and now you’ve got her working for you?
That’s a bold fucking move.” His voice drops even lower.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll fire her.
Tell her to pack her shit and send her back home where she belongs. ”
A veiled threat. A demand wrapped in concern.
I let the silence stretch between us, watching as he waits for my reaction, smug in the belief that he’s just given me valuable information. He handed me her identity like a fool. Either he's sloppy or he’s testing me.
Then I step in closer, lowering my voice. "Is that a threat?"
He still wears a smug expression, but there’s tension beneath it now. "Just some friendly advice. You’re smart, O’Sullivan. You don’t want to make an even bigger enemy of the Quigleys."
"And you don’t want to make an enemy of me. "
His jaw twitches. But I don’t give him the chance to respond. Instead, I turn and walk out of the restaurant.
By the time I step into the penthouse, I’m ready to put this entire night behind me. Except the second the door closes, I realize I’ve walked straight into a storm. Aoife’s waiting for me, arms crossed, eyes blazing with fury.
"You started a fight over a man hitting on me?" she snaps. "Are you serious?"
I shrug off my jacket, keeping my movements slow and measured. "He deserved it."
Her laugh is sharp, incredulous. "I can take care of myself, Eamon."
I turn to her, my temper flaring despite myself. "And you’re going to tell me this is how you take care of yourself?" My gaze drags over her. "Walking into that room dressed like this. Making sure every bastard in there was looking at you like you were theirs to take?"
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down. Instead, she takes a step toward me, her chin tilted up, her eyes dark and playful. "You’re the one who told me to have dinner with him," she reminds me, her voice slow, deliberate. "I figured I’d play the part . "
She takes another step closer, slow and predatory, forcing me to hold my ground.
Then, she leans in, her mouth just shy of my jaw.
"Cian put his hands on me, you know . Dragged his fingers dangerously high.
" Her voice is barely above a whisper, enough to set my blood on fire.
"And he wanted me to spend the night with him. "
Red-hot rage explodes in my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
I grip her wrist, yanking her flush against me, my voice a low growl against her ear. "I don’t give a fuck what information Cian has." I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, making sure she understands me . " That was the last fucking time he, or anyone else, touches what’s mine."
I don’t give her time to speak, to argue, to push me further. I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing the sound she makes—a gasp, a curse, a challenge. Maybe all three. Her nails rake down my chest, not in protest but in provocation, and it only fuels the fire already roaring through me.
This isn’t soft. It’s not sweet.
It’s anger and want, betrayal and need, all twisted together into something dangerous.
I spin her around before she can catch her breath, pressing her hands to the back of the couch. Her body arches, instinctively knowing what I want, what I need. My fingers drag up her thighs, bunching her dress at her waist, exposing the curve of her ass. She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t flinch.
She’s waiting for it.
“Is this what you wanted?” I rasp, my voice rough, barely human. “To make me lose control?”
She doesn’t answer, not with words. She pushes back against me, a silent demand that makes something primal snap inside my chest. “Always pushing,” I growl, pressing her back against the marble, pinning her beneath me.
I tear at the thin scrap of lace keeping her from me, my fingers sliding against her slick heat. Aoife lets out a strangled sound, her body jerking, but I don’t give her time to adjust. I slide two fingers inside her, thrusting deep and fast, my thumb pressing against her clit as her body tightens.
“Tell me,” I demand. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” she breathes. “I belong to you.”
My belt hits the floor with a hiss, the zipper a sharp rasp that cuts through the thick air between us. I shove my pants down just far enough, then grip her hips, grounding myself in the feel of her beneath me.
I enter her in one hard stroke, burying myself deep.
She cries out, raw, wrecked, but doesn’t pull away. Her body welcomes the punishment, the depth, the fury in every motion. I move with a rhythm that has nothing to do with grace. It’s a claiming. A warning. A confession I’m too fucked up to say aloud.
I fuck her hard, relentless, chasing every moan, every sharp inhale, until she shatters around me. Her body trembles, clenching tight. I drive into her twice more, then I’m gone, a guttural sound ripping from my throat as I empty myself inside her.
For a moment, the only sound is our ragged breathing.
Then Aoife lifts her head, that wicked little smirk back in place. “Guess I won that round.”
I let out a low chuckle, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare thigh. "You really think this is a game, mo chroí ?"
Her smirk deepens. "Isn’t it?"
“Games have rules." I press a slow kiss to her throat before pulling away. “And eventually, someone loses.”