Chapter 9 Siobhan #2
I remain perfectly still, but it’s not fear of discovery keeping me motionless. It’s the awareness that the slightest shift would create friction between our bodies that might shatter what little control I’m maintaining.
Footsteps pass the alley entrance, pausing momentarily before continuing. Liam doesn’t immediately move away, his gaze dropping to my face with an intensity that makes breathing suddenly optional. His eyes are darker than before, pupils dilated in shade of the alley.
Or maybe not just because of the light.
“They’ve passed,” I say quietly, needing to break whatever is building in the silence between us.
“Not yet,” he counters, though his attention seems focused less on external threats and more on the curve of my mouth. “Better to wait a bit longer.”
A bit longer of his body aligned with mine, of his cock digging into me, of awareness crackling between us like static electricity seeking ground.
The rational part of my brain is screaming warnings about territory, family politics, and professional boundaries, but it’s increasingly drowned out by the part that wonders how his mouth would feel against mine, how those hands would feel on my body.
“You never answered my question,” I say, seeking distraction from the heat building between my thighs. “What business brings Liam O’Neill to an artist’s studio in contested territory?”
“Perhaps I’m developing an appreciation for contemporary glasswork.” The deflection carries a trace of genuine amusement, but his voice has dropped to a register that feels like lips trailing down my spine.
“Lynch specializes in abstract forms that explore tension between opposing forces,” I reply, professional knowledge providing safer ground than the current between us. “Not typically of interest to those outside the collection community.”
“Opposing forces creating something unexpected when they meet.” His gaze drops to my mouth again, lingering. “Seems relevant to current circumstances.”
Jesus. The observation carries layers of meaning I’m not prepared to examine, especially not with his thigh pressed between mine in a way that makes coherent thought increasingly difficult. I should shove him away. I don’t. Instead, I lean into the hard line of his body, and that’s on me, not him.
“Current circumstances being temporary alignment against common inconvenience.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Too breathless, too warm.
“Is that all this is?” The question emerges softer than his usual tone, almost genuine curiosity rather than calculated inquiry. His hand comes up, fingers brushing my hair back from my face in a gesture so gentle it’s more devastating than our physical proximity.
I don’t have an answer that doesn’t terrify me. Before I can formulate any response, he shifts slightly, glancing toward the alley entrance. “Clear now,” he says, professional assessment replacing whatever momentary openness had appeared. “We should move separately from here. Less conspicuous.”
He steps back, the sudden absence of his proximity creating an almost physical sensation of loss I refuse to acknowledge. My body feels cold where he had been pressed against it, and I have to fight the insane urge to pull him back.
“The side street leads to Camden Row,” he continues. “You can get a taxi there without drawing attention.”
The return to practical concerns steadies me, though I can still feel the imprint of his body against mine like a brand. “And you?”
“I have arrangements.” Of course he does. Contingency planning is likely second nature after years navigating Dublin’s criminal landscape.
The reminder of our actual connection provides a necessary perspective. Whatever unexpected awareness exists between us, our relationship remains bloody enemies. “I trust there won’t be further complications after this.”
“Depends on your definition of complication.” Something flickers in his expression. A challenge or invitation, perhaps both. “Small world, Dublin. Paths crossing seems inevitable.”
I should respond with polite dismissal, reinforce boundaries already compromised by circumstances. Instead, I hear myself ask, “How did you know about the raid before it happened?”
Genuine curiosity, but also testing, probing the extent of his information network, assessing potential value beyond the immediate situation.
“Same way I know your father has increased surveillance on your gallery operations since our meeting,” he answers. “Information is currency in our world, Siobhan.”
The use of my first name is deliberate, marking a shift from public formality to something more personal and it sends a thrill through me that has no place in this conversation. I should correct him, maintain professional distance. I don’t.
“And what currency purchases that level of law enforcement intelligence?” I ask instead, professional interest in his operational methods overriding caution.
Something like respect flickers across his features. “Not what you might expect. One of Lynch’s neighboring artists—the sculptor in the corner studio—her brother is Garda drug unit. Family dinner conversations prove surprisingly informative.”
“Human intelligence rather than institutional corruption,” I observe. “More reliable in many ways.”
“You understand the value of relationship cultivation, then.” His assessment carries appreciation beyond mere acknowledgment. “Your gallery network functions similarly, I suspect.”
The observation is astute in recognizing parallel methodologies despite different contexts. “Art circles run on relationships and trust,” I acknowledge. “Not entirely different from certain aspects of family business.”
“Though with less bloodshed, typically.”
“Typically,” I agree, surprising myself with the humor underlying my response. “Though you haven’t attended certain gallery opening conflicts between competing dealers.”
His laugh is unexpected, genuine, revealing a warmth absent from our previous interactions. It transforms his features from merely handsome to something that makes my stomach flip. I want to make him laugh again. I want to see what other expressions I could draw from that controlled face.
Fuck times three. This is dangerous territory.
“I should go,” I say, suddenly needing distance from this unplanned revelation of common ground.
From the discovery that Liam O’Neill is a human under the mafia boss exterior he is very convincing at.
From the undeniable fact that I’m attracted to him in a way that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with how my body still tingles where he touched me.
He steps aside, clearing my path to the alley entrance, but as I move past him, his hand catches mine briefly. The contact sends another jolt of electricity up my arm.
“Until next time, Siobhan Kelly.” His voice wraps around my name like a caress.
The certainty in his tone, the inevitability of next time presented as established fact rather than possibility, should concern me. Instead, it creates a rush of anticipation that has my heart racing all over again.
I pull my hand away and continue past him without comment, maintaining composed dignity despite the heat still pooling in my core. The street beyond the alley appears clear of both police presence and my father’s surveillance, allowing a smooth transition to Camden Row where taxis regularly pass.
Only once I’m safely inside a cab, with directions given to the gallery rather than home, do I allow myself to process what just happened.
Not just the narrowly avoided complications of police presence, but the more concerning discovery of unexpected connection with someone firmly established as my enemy, and the even more concerning realization that I’m physically attracted to him in a way I haven’t experienced with anyone before.
I’d been pressed against him in that doorway, feeling every hard plane of his body against mine, and had wanted more, professional boundaries and family politics be damned.
Liam O’Neill should represent nothing more than a man who hates my family as much as my family hates him.
Instead, he’s becoming something far more dangerous: a person rather than a position.
Someone whose intelligence and methodology I recognize as parallel to mine, despite our opposing interests.
Someone whose physical presence affects me in ways that are completely fucking inappropriate to our circumstances.
My mother’s warning echoes again, but this time I see she meant all men in this life. But what happens when one of the pieces steps off the board and reveals itself as something more complex than its assigned role?
And what happens when you find yourself wanting to know exactly how it would feel to kiss the enemy?
As the taxi navigates Dublin’s afternoon traffic, I find myself without an answer to that particular question. It’s a rarity that concerns me more than the afternoon’s close call with the authorities.
The boundaries I’ve so carefully maintained between gallery operations and family business, between professional identity and Kelly obligation, between calculation and personal response, all suddenly seem more permeable than I’d realized.
Liam, with his unexpected insight and careful control, hiding something lethal underneath, represents precisely the kind of complication those boundaries were designed to prevent.
The kind of complication I’m finding harder and harder to resist.