Claiming Genevieve

23. Genevieve

23

GENEVIEVE

I ’m a mess of emotions by the time we get back to the estate.

Part of me is still buzzing, feeling as if I’m floating from the feeling of having danced again for a little while, even if it was something so completely different from what I’ve spent my whole life learning. The other part of me is aching—missing my life from before so much that for a few minutes in the car on the ride back to the estate, I feel like I’m fighting back tears.

And then there’s Rowan.

I could see, from the moment we stepped off the jet, that he’d come home. That this place is home for him. And I know, deep down, that having me here means something to him. For all that he agreed to the same thing I did—that this marriage is temporary and not at all real—it doesn’t feel as if he always remembers it. The way he speaks to me sometimes, the way he looks at me…I don’t know if it’s lust or something deeper, but there’s more to this for him.

But that doesn’t change anything.

When we arrive back at the estate, I feel momentarily breathless at how beautiful it is, just as beautiful in the moonlight as it was this afternoon in the full daylight. It’s like something out of a fairytale, and if things were different between Rowan and me, it would be impossibly romantic.

I bite my lip as I follow him out of the car and up the paving path to the front door. I can see why he loves this place. It feels like the kind of place a person could call home, not like the cold, stark, brutal aesthetic of Chris’s penthouse. Everything about this place is warm and inviting and luscious, and I remember, as we step inside, that Rowan told me he’d never brought another woman here before.

This means something to him. It all does. And he must be terribly disappointed that I’m the one he’s brought here, under these circumstances. I can’t help but think that he would rather have brought a real wife home here—if he ever did. That he would rather have shared this with someone he loves, someone he was planning to build a life with, rather than a temporary bride that’s acting as a placeholder wife and a surrogate for an heir.

I swallow hard, thinking of what we’ll be doing here in a few days, if we stay that long. It will feel different here. I can’t help but think that it will, no matter how hard I try to maintain distance between us. But I have to try.

I can’t let myself cave. Not now. Not even when he looks at me as if he’s drowning, not even when he touches me and I can feel myself lighting up from the inside out, as if his touch were all the warmth and sunshine I could ever need. Not even though I know that he’s shared something with me now that he’s never shared with anyone else.

I remind myself of that when we head upstairs and pause in front of the door to the guest bedroom. I can feel the tension running through every inch of Rowan’s body, and I feel sure that I know what he’s thinking. We haven’t spent a night apart since our wedding. I remember what he said to me, on our wedding night.

I want my wife in my bed.

But he didn’t argue when I said I wanted the guest room. Maybe I’m wrong, and I’m misinterpreting the way he looks at me. Maybe the bickering, and laughter, and the teasing are all a facade, and he’s tired of me. Tired of sleeping next to a wife he can only fuck one week a month.

Or maybe he’s a better man than I want to let myself believe.

Rowan’s gaze sweeps over me, and I see that flicker of longing in his eyes again—and something else, too. Something that almost looks like regret. I feel a pang in my chest at the idea that he might be regretting me .

“Good night,” he says finally. “Come knock on the door if you need anything.”

And then he turns, heading down the hall to the master bedroom.

—

I don’t sleep well. The bed is incredibly comfortable—soft and made up with luxurious bedding and a mountain of down pillows, but I still toss and turn, my dreams fitful and full of what happened last night. The gunshots, the brick breaking apart behind me, the run for the car—I wake up in a cold sweat, touching my neck where the scratches from the brick still sting a little, and try to go back to sleep. But it’s difficult.

I finally drag myself out of bed around eight, taking a hot shower that makes me feel a little more human, and throw on a pair of jeans and the wool sweater that I bought yesterday. I head downstairs and nearly run into Mrs. Brady at the bottom of the stairs.

“Morning,” I manage, and she smiles broadly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gallagher.”

That startles me. I don’t think anyone has actually called me that before, and I blink several times before managing to arrange my face in what I hope is a normal-looking smile. “Where’s Rowan? Do you know?”

“In the dining room, having breakfast. I’ll have someone send some in for you as well, if you just go on that way.” She gestures toward an arched doorway, and I head in the direction she pointed, soon finding a large dining room with huge windows overlooking the expansive estate beyond the manor house. Rowan is sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone between bites of food, and he looks up when I walk in.

“Morning,” he says, his voice a bit more subdued than last night. His gaze sweeps over me, carefully neutral, and I wonder at the change. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” I say, though I’m sure it’s clear that it’s a lie. I saw the dark circles under my eyes this morning. “You?”

“Fine.” From the way he says it, I think he’s lying, too.

Silence falls between us for a few moments, broken only by a maid bringing in a bowl of steel-cut oats for me with small china ramekins of cream, honey, and dried fruit, as well as a plate of thick bacon and fried eggs. She sets it all down in front of me, returning a moment later with a pitcher of water, and glances at me nervously. “Tea or coffee, ma’am?” she asks, and I pause for a second, thrown off. I’ve never lived anywhere with staff before, and it’s a little startling.

“Um, tea,” I request, and she nods, darting off. I look at Rowan helplessly. “This is weird.”

“It’s weird for them, too,” he says, taking a bite of sausage. “They’re used to just having me around and mostly being left to their own devices. Now I’ve brought a wife home, and they’re all trying to impress you.”

I blink. “They don’t need to.”

Rowan chuckles. “I’m sure they’ll figure that out.”

He falls silent again, and I pick up a spoon, poking at the oatmeal. “Thank you,” I say finally. “For bringing me here. I know I was upset about it, and I’m still not thrilled to be away from home—or to not have my cell phone—but I do feel safer. Really. So… thank you. And—” I hesitate, biting my lip. “I’m sorry for not telling you about the texts sooner.”

Rowan sets his fork down slowly. “I wish you had,” he says finally. “I can’t say I’m not more than a wee bit upset about it too lass. But you have things you’re upset with me for, too, I reckon. So we’ll leave it at that. I’m glad you feel safer now. You are.”

I nod, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. “So, how do we deal with it—with him? Chris? What are you going to do?”

Rowan’s face immediately smooths. “You let me worry about that, lass,” he says firmly. I open my mouth to argue, and he shakes his head. “I mean it. Let me handle it, Genevieve.”

“But—” I look at him. “I want to know what’s happening.” More than that, I want input. I have a feeling that I know what let me handle it means, the kind of solution that Rowan will come up with, and it still makes my stomach twist to think of someone being killed because they threatened me.

But I also don’t want Chris hounding me for the rest of my life. I don’t want to keep having to fear for my life. And I don’t know how to reconcile all of that.

Everything I’m thinking must show on my face, because Rowan reaches over and touches my hand. “He tried to kill you, milseán .”

I bite my lip, looking away. “I know.”

Rowan’s hand curls around mine. “You are my wife, Genevieve. And I said if he ever touched you again, I’d kill him.” His hand tightens. “His life was over the moment he hired someone to kill you.”

I swallow hard, pulling my hand away—not because I don’t want him touching me, but because suddenly, I do . And I don’t know how to feel, because I shouldn’t like the idea of my husband being willing to kill for me, should I? That he’d kill a man for touching me? For threatening me?

The maid comes back with my tea, and the moment is broken. Rowan looks away, back at his phone as he reaches for his fork, and we sit there in silence, the last thing he said hovering between us.

His life was over the moment he hired someone to kill you.

—

The rest of the first week in Ireland passes, and with every day, I’m more and more aware of why Rowan chose this place as his home for so long. The weather is unpredictable, chilly for early summer, and sometimes rainy and windy, but there’s a beauty to the landscape and the architecture and everything else around us that makes me aware of how difficult it must have been for him to leave it all. I’ve seen it in him, too, since we’ve been back—as if a tension that I hadn’t even realized was present has drained out of him.

We fall into a rhythm together over those days. We eat our meals together, and Rowan spends some hours in his office, talking with his father and doing what he can to help run things from here. I get to call Evelyn and Dahlia and reassure them that I’m safe. Rowan avoids talking to me about Chris, but I don’t push. A part of me doesn’t want to know what’s happening. I know that when we go back to New York, that will likely mean that he’s dead. I’ll have to come to terms with how I feel about that then, but for now, I don’t want to think about it.

What I do have to think about is the fact that we’re still supposed to be trying to get pregnant. I wonder, when I check my tracker and see that morning that it’s ticked over to the color indicating my fertile period, if Rowan might simply wait for me to say something, and if I don’t—ignore the fact that we haven’t had sex yet. I can’t help but feel that it will mean something if we sleep together here. That it will be different.

I know from the moment I walk into the dining room for breakfast that he’s tracking the days as carefully as I am. His gaze sweeps over me as I walk in, something hungry and primal in it, and a shudder runs down my spine. He looks at me as if he wants to eat me instead of the meal, and I swallow hard, retreating to a seat on the other side from him.

He looks at me, and I think he can see my reticence. “Good morning,” he says finally, and returns to his food, finishing it in silence before getting up and leaving the room.

I don’t see him for the rest of the day. I spend my time wandering around the estate, knowing that I’m putting distance between us on purpose, trying to avoid Rowan until I can figure out how I feel about all of this. How I want to go about tonight. I’m trying to make sure I can put it off until tonight. And I have a feeling that he’s avoiding me, too…but for different reasons.

He’s avoiding me so that he doesn’t lose control.

I can feel the tension between us during dinner, strung taut as a vibrating wire. We try to make small talk over the meal, but it feels awkward. I can feel the heat sliding over my skin every time Rowan looks at me, every time I take a sip of wine, and his gaze flicks to my mouth. I’m aware of the time ticking down until it’s time to go to bed, of every passing minute, and I know he is, too.

The air feels too thick to breathe by the time we’re done eating. Rowan finishes his glass of wine, sets down his napkin, and pins me with a look so hungry that it makes my stomach clench with a fearful awareness of just how much he wants me. How long he’s been waiting for this.

He stands up, slowly, and takes a slow breath as he looks at me. “Upstairs,” he says finally, his voice a low command — and it startles me. It’s the first time he’s ever spoken to me like that, ever demanded anything. But I can hear how thin his patience is stretched in the way he says it, hear the hoarse rasp of lust — and arousal floods me as I slowly stand up, too.

No. This has nothing to do with lust. Nothing to do with desire. It’s a job. An obligation ? —

I repeat that to myself, over and over, as we head upstairs. I feel like I’m trembling from the inside out, more nervous than I’ve ever been before. I can feel every part of myself wanting to let go, to turn and reach for my husband, dig my fingers into his shoulders, and drag him to me. I want to kiss him the way he kissed me in his office, on the plane, feel him against me, hard and eager and desperate for me. I want him to fuck me, to show me all the things he’s been teasing me with since the night we met—and I clench my teeth, shoving all of those desires down, forcing them back into the dark.

This marriage is temporary. This arrangement will end. And if I let myself taste what Rowan has to offer — if I let go, I’m terrified I’ll never find anything that can satisfy me ever again. That I’ll spend the rest of my life wanting something I can’t have.

I’ve already lost one thing that meant everything to me. I can’t lose anything else.

And after all the mistakes I’ve made recently, I’m terrified I’ll make another.

Rowan pushes open the door to the master bedroom, and I follow him inside. Someone built a low fire in the fireplace, making the room pleasantly warm, and Rowan turns to me as the door shuts behind me, already reaching for the buttons of his shirt. His eyes rove over me again, still hungry, and I swallow hard.

“Remember, the rules?—”

“I know the rules.” His voice is sharp, harsh, full of need and an emotion I can’t quite place. “But for the next week, wife , I get to have you in one way, at least. And a month was too long to wait to be inside of you again.”

Something clenches inside of me at that. Rowan undoes the buttons of his shirt swiftly, and as it falls open, I try not to look at the hard ridges of muscle that it reveals, at his broad chest and chiseled stomach. I reach for my shirt instead, dragging the silk blouse I wore today up over my head, and the moment I let it fall to the floor, Rowan makes a sound that I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man make before.

It’s akin to a growl—a hoarse, lustful sound, and with one quick movement he strides toward me, picking me up and carrying me back to the bed. He spills me onto it, my ass at the edge as I fall back onto the soft mattress, and he jerks open his belt with the other hand, pulling his thick, rigid cock free as he leans forward over me, still half-dressed. He yanks the button of my jeans open, dragging them down my hips along with my panties, and tosses the remainder of my clothing aside, his cock clenched in his other hand.

He slides the swollen head through my folds and moans, his eyes closing as he lets out a hiss of pleasure at the sensation. “So wet,” he groans, his hips snapping forward. “Always so fucking wet for me?—”

I start to protest, to argue that it’s a biological response and not for him, when he sinks into me so roughly and so deeply that it takes my breath away. He fills me in one swift thrust, sinking all the way to the hilt, and I let out a cry of surprise as my body tries to adjust to accommodate him. He’s long and thick, almost too much so, and the last time we did this he was more careful. But it’s as if something has snapped, and he drives into me again, groaning as his hands fist in the duvet on either side of my head.

“That’s right,” he groans. “Fucking moan for me, wife . You can pretend you don’t want my cock all you want, but it feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? Stretching that tight, pretty pussy?” He draws out almost to the tip and slams into me again, his face contorting with pleasure. “ Fucking Christ , you feel so fucking good?—”

My legs come up automatically to wrap around his hips, and Rowan hisses with pleasure, his eyes snapping open to meet mine. “That’s right, wife,” he groans. “Pull me in. Show me how much you want that cock. You can lie the rest of the time, but you can’t lie right now, can you? I can already feel how much you want to come for me.”

“I’m not going to come,” I hiss, on the verge of shoving him off of me. I’m so angry I can feel my face heating with it, angry at his taunting, at the filthy words spilling out of his mouth, at how they’re making me feel. I tense, trying to fight off the pleasure, to make it clear that this is a transaction and nothing more, the price I agreed to pay for Rowan’s help and a different future at the end of all of this. But every stroke of his cock inside of me feels like fucking heaven, touching places that I didn’t know could be touched, and with every moment that passes I can feel myself slipping closer and closer to the edge.

“You should come for me,” Rowan grinds out. “Because I’m going to fuck you until you do, taibhseach . I won’t come until you come all over my cock?—”

“I doubt that,” I bite out, throwing my head back to look up directly into his eyes, even as I feel myself clench and tighten around him. “You won’t last.” I tighten again, purposefully this time, and he lets out a groan that sounds almost pained. “You’ll come first.”

Rowan’s eyes glint, and he reaches up with one hand, cupping my chin as his thumb sweeps over my lower lip. “Is that a challenge, taibhseach ?”

The touch sends a shudder of pleasure through me. I should pull away. I should remind him that touching me like that is against the rules I set down at the very beginning, that the only way he should be touching me right now is in the most necessary one. But as he thrusts again, his thumb sweeping over my lip as he sinks into me, I can’t find the words to tell him to stop.

His thumb presses down, pushing between my lips as his grip on my chin tightens, and he thrusts harder, faster, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes are dark with lust, his muscles wound tight, and I know he’s close. But so am I.

I can see what he’s thinking as he pushes the tip of his thumb between my lips. I know he’s imagining his cock there, pushing the swollen head into my mouth, how warm and wet it would feel. Another pulse of desire lances through me at the fantasy, and my hips arch despite my best efforts, pulling him in deeper as he moves with me.

It feels so fucking good. Every thrust, every shift of his body against mine, made hotter by the fact that I’m naked underneath him and he’s still clothed, the chiseled swath of his bare chest and stomach in the open space of his shirt, all the bare flesh that’s visible. His copper hair falls forward into his face as he thrusts again, his face an agonizing mask of barely controlled lust, and I have to stop myself from reaching up and brushing it back. If I do, I’ll kiss him. If I touch him, I won’t be able to stop.

He pulls his hand away from my face, his hands convulsing in the blankets. “ Fuck ,” he breathes, and I laugh raggedly, stilling my hips again.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “It feels so good, doesn’t it? You’re going to come, aren’t you? You’re going to fill me up?—”

Rowan’s eyes snap open again, and his jaw works. “I should put something in your filthy mouth, taibhseach . Just so you’ll— fuck —” He groans again, his body shuddering as his hips grind against mine, and I can feel him fighting for control.

“That won’t get me pregnant,” I murmur sweetly, certain that he’s about to lose it—and then he shifts ever so slightly, the next thrust putting pressure directly on my clit.

The orgasm hits me in a staggering wave, crashing over me in a burst of pleasure that catches me so off guard so suddenly that I can’t stop the cry that spills from my lips. My back arches, my hands scrambling at the blankets as I claw at them, my head thrown back as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure washes over me, intensified by every rough thrust of Rowan’s cock inside me. I’m still coming, still clenching around him when I hear him groan raggedly and feel him shudder, and that heat fills me as he comes, his hips rocking against me as he drives his cum into me as deeply as he can.

He’s panting as he sags forward, holding himself up on his elbows, his cock still twitching inside of me. Breathless, he looks away, staying there for several long moments until he finally pulls back, his cock still half-hard as he slips out of me. He looks at me, his clothing in disarray, and he runs his hand through his hair in a sharp, jerky movement before pivoting on his heel and striding toward the bathroom without a backward glance.

The door slams behind him, leaving me there—naked on the bed, his cum hot on the inside of my thighs.