Chapter 18
18
PATRICK
E very nerve in my body is screaming at me to go after that bitch. Shove my Glock in her face. Find out what game she’s really playing.
But one game she might be playing is drawing Fiona out in the open. We’re on the edge of Southie. On the border of the Crew’s territory. And Aran Dowd is ruthless enough to know his life would be a hell of a lot simpler with Kieran Ingram’s daughter in a grave.
So I’m not leaving Fiona to chase that woman.
Instead, I spin my fidget ring and gulp the last of my coffee. It’s surprisingly good, without an ocean of salt dumped in.
Fiona makes a show of being fascinated by the mugs. There’s one of those jam tarts left on the plate, and she pushes it around with her index finger. She’s too busy avoiding my gaze to put it in her mouth.
In fact, avoiding me leads to her collecting the dishes and bringing them inside, like she’s been paid to do the work. She takes her time, maybe talking to Hannah or Kimi; with the sun’s reflection on the window, I can’t see what’s happening in there.
But when Fiona comes out the door, she walks directly to the Land Rover. She’s all legs and tits and shiny black hair. She’s opted for a strapless lace bustier, and she’s wearing tight black trousers that look like they’d feel slick under my palms. They cut off mid-calf, allowing her to show off her shoes—five-inch stilettos with cuffs around both ankles that make me think of every wicked thing I’ve ever made a woman do.
I follow her to the car like a dog on a feckin’ leash.
We’re halfway to the townhouse, and she still hasn’t said a word. So I go ahead and start the fight.
“Sunglasses aren’t the last thing she’ll want from you,” I say, staring at a red light like it’s the most important thing in my life.
“No shit.” Fiona seems fascinated by her manicure. Her fingernails look like they’ve been freshly dipped in blood, and she’s studying them like they’re engraved with all the secrets of the universe.
“No one hands out hundred-grand gifts without expecting something in return.”
“Contrary to what you seem to believe, I’m neither a child nor an idiot.”
“She’s not your fairy godmother.”
“Jesus Christ,” she shouts. “Give it a rest.”
I hold my tongue for five full minutes. That takes us into the heart of Back Bay. The space in front of the fire hydrant is open, so I take it.
She gets out before I put the car in Park. Barely looking both ways, she crosses the street, and she’s got her key in the door as I come up behind her. She turns the stairs into a track meet, and I’m honestly impressed at her speed in those heels.
I wait until she’s slammed and locked the door before I say, “There are worse things than going back on your promise at the wake.”
“Are there? ”
I’ve seen Fiona scheming. I’ve seen her egging on a room of grown men, making every single one of them believe they’ve got a chance to fuck her. I’ve seen her recovering from a beating she never deserved.
But I’ve never seen Fiona furious—until now.
“I made that promise to my father ,” she says, spitting out the word like it’s acid on her lips. “That means something. Not like—” She cuts herself off.
“Not like what?” I press.
She storms into the kitchen and assaults the cupboard, taking out a bag of coffee.
“Not like what?” I ask again.
She slams a filter into the coffee maker. Throws coffee into a grinder. Pounds the button until the entire apartment is filled with the racket of beans being reduced to dust.
When I can finally be heard, I repeat my question a third time. “Not like?—”
“ Him! ” she shouts. “Not like my father. Not like Saint Kieran, holy captain of the Old Colony Crew.”
She grabs a mug like she’s thinking of using it to brain me.
“He made me sit at his table, family dinner every fucking night, and I was never allowed to say a word. But I did it. He ordered me to attend the mayor’s Patriots Day fundraiser, year after year after year, even though every single person in the room sneered like I smelled like fish. But I did it. I visited family in Dublin, I brokered a peace in Philadelphia, I knocked down Braiden Kelly in favor of a mafia piece of shit, because that’s what my father told me to do. Everything. I fucking did it.”
“Fiona—”
“I shot four men on his orders, after he said I wouldn’t have the guts to follow through. I proved I was a good soldier. I showed him.”
“You—”
“I killed three more on my own. One word from Da, and those assholes could have been buried at sea. But he didn’t care. He didn’t punish them. I did, though. I promised I’d get revenge, and I keep my fucking promises!”
She slams the mug onto the counter so hard it collapses into a pile of knife-sharp shards. I don’t think she realizes how much she’s told me, how much of her past I know now. She howls—in pain or fury or frustration—and she starts to grind her hand into the mess.
“Stop!” I shout, one syllable that she can’t cut off, that she can’t deny.
I’ve known girls who cut. Women who hurt themselves because pain is the only sensation that registers. Hell, I’ve been a Dom for plenty of subs who need to ache before they can come.
But I won’t stand here and watch Fiona do that to herself.
She’s startled enough by my shout that she freezes. She’s breathing hard. She bites her lip. Then, with perfect calculation, she flexes her wrist and slowly leans into the shattered mug again.
“I said stop,” I tell her. And I close the distance between us, grabbing her wrist to keep her from harming herself.
I feel the small bones beneath my fingers. This close, I can see her eyes are dilated; they flicker with every rapid breath she draws. Her lips are parted, just enough that I can see her sharp, white teeth.
“What will you do if I don’t?” she asks. And then she shifts her weight onto one of those cuffed stilettos, jutting out a hip and raising her chin. “Daddy.”
I pull her arm to her side, stepping even closer. “Don’t call me that unless you mean it.”
She looks at me steadily. “Whatever you say, Daddy .”
She’s perfectly, devastatingly calm, so I force my voice to stay even. “This isn’t a game.”
She pouts. “But what if I like to play?”
“I have rules.”
Her smile is radiant. “Then it is a game! ”
“Number one,” I say, ignoring her brattiness. “No little girl of mine hurts herself.”
She looks at the ruins of the mug on the counter. Her fingers curl, protecting the red marks on her palm where she hasn’t yet broken the skin. Rubbing her hand against her hip, she does that devastating thing again, looking straight at me. “Yes, Daddy.”
“My little girl doesn’t throw tantrums.”
I see the precise second she realizes I’m serious. I watch her start to argue. She wasn’t throwing a tantrum. She was justified. We’re standing in her home; she gets to make the rules.
One by one, she throws away her protests. Eyeing me steadily, she says, “Yes, Daddy.”
Only a hint of breathlessness gives her away. That, and the heat rising off her, carrying the scent of lemon and clove. I’ve smelled that soap in her shower. I’m suddenly throttled by the desire to lather up my hands, to run them over every feckin’ inch of her.
I’m still holding one wrist as she moves her free hand to the scalloped edge of her top. Catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she traces the lace design with her fingertips. This close, I can make out the twin darts of her nipples, straining at their black silk cups. I brush against one with the back of my fingers.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” she says, closing her eyes and throwing back her head.
I want to suck on the pulse point just beneath her jaw. I want to scrape her throat with my teeth. I want to bury my face between her magnificent tits.
But more than that, I want to make more rules for my little girl.
Because this is different for me, even though I’ve spent thirty years learning every way it’s possible to fuck a woman.
As a kid, I paid attention in Health class. It didn’t take long to realize the importance of all those line drawings, the location of a woman’s clit, what it’s actually good for .
As a man, I learned how to listen to a woman’s body. Every one is different, each one can tell me what she needs, what feels good, when she’s about to come.
As a Dom, I explored being in control, setting limits for my subs, pushing each beyond her expectations for herself. I know the line where pleasure turns to agony, where anticipation collapses into mindless terror. I’ve mastered power, every single way I can wield it.
Sex cages the brain squirrels. Sex silences the Bell. Sex heals all the broken bits inside my brain—rough sex, hard sex, sex that leaves my women bruised and aching. That’s why I haven’t fucked a woman without laying down cold, hard cash since Jenn wrapped our Ford Escort around that goddamn tree.
So whatever the fuck this is between Fiona and me, it’s new. It’s different. It washes my brain in a soothing bath of menthol, slowing everything down, making everything slip into place.
Her neck is still arched like she’s waiting for a vampire to suck her dry. She moans again before she whispers, “Fuck me, Daddy.”
I know exactly what I need to say. What I need to do. I catch her chin between my fingers and force her head up. I shake her once, hard, until she looks me in the eye. I say, very slowly, very clearly, so there can be no misunderstanding, “My little girl doesn’t swear. Because if she does, when she does, my little girl is punished.”
I don’t give a fuck about swearing. But I very much care about obedience. I want my rules to be a challenge. To be difficult for my sub to follow.
I think Fiona will test me, then and there. But I can see she isn’t certain. She barely knows me; we’ve only been together for a week. She’s just a little afraid of what will happen, now that she’s awakened the animal inside me.
“Yes, Daddy,” she says, visibly swallowing every foul word she knows. She’s proving she can be wise .
“What was your favorite stuffed animal when you were a kid?” I ask, still holding her chin.
“Bunbun,” she says, clearly confused. “A rabbit.”
“Bunbun,” I repeat. “That’s your safeword. That’s what you’ll say when you need me to stop.”
“I won’t—” She’s already twisting, already shifting her hips toward me, shoving her tits against my chest.
I step away, dropping my grip. “You have it if you need it.”
“I’ll never use it.”
I stare down her defiance. “You’ll be safe.”
She wants to protest further, but she’s already learned better. “Yes, Daddy,” she says, so soft it’s almost a whisper.
“Good girl.”
The rush of blood to her cheeks is like a wildfire. Her eyes go wide and she rocks back on her heels, just enough to let me know she didn’t expect her own reaction. And if that’s enough to surprise her, then she doesn’t know what’s about to hit her.
“On your knees,” I order, snapping my finger to enforce the command.
She drops like I’ve shot her with my Glock. When she gulps for breath, that black lace stretches across her tits. She doesn’t hesitate to go for my belt, sliding it from its loops and draping it around her neck like a towel after a workout. But she hasn’t begun the exercises I have in mind. She looks up at me and says, “Thank you, Daddy.”
I think about sliding the belt through its buckle, about wrapping the leather around my fist and cinching it tight enough for the edges to crease her throat. We’ll get to breath play eventually. But for now, I just need to remind her I’m the one in control.
“Suck my cock.”
I realize control is a lie, the instant she takes me in her mouth.
Sure, I have her calling me Daddy. I’ve got her on her knees. I’m dreaming about holding her feckin’ leash.
But when her lips close around my dick, the menthol bath in my brain starts to boil. She whines a little as she accepts the size of me. I feel the back of her throat. Her fingers dig into my thighs as she fights her gag reflex. She loosens her jaw and stretches her neck and then she does it—she takes my full length.
She’s good with her tongue. Her lips, too. Her mouth is hot and wet and she knows just how hard to suck.
I’ve been hard since she called me Daddy, but now my bollocks actually ache. I bury one hand in her hair. I slow her down because I mean to last.
“My God, Scáthach ,” I groan. “You have no idea how good that feels.”
This time, when she blushes, she whimpers, and the little sound vibrates all the way to the base of my spine. As I catch a stuttering breath, I get a whiff of hot, excited girl.
“You’re amazing, little girl,” I tell her. “You’re doing such a good job.”
Her grip tightens on my thighs. Her tongue swirls down to lick my balls. I see stars, sprayed across the wooden cabinets in the kitchen.
“Stop,” I gasp. And when she doesn’t listen, I tug on her hair, sharp enough that she has to pay attention. “Stop, little girl.”
She shifts back to sit on her heels, easing my cock from her lips. “Why’d you do that?” she asks, looking up at me. “You were so fucking close.”
Fucking close .
I told her not to swear. And now, staring down at her past my raging hard-on, my fingers still wrapped in her hair, I realize just how much I hoped she’d break one of my rules.
Now, my little girl has to pay.