Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
"You need to stop moving," Conall growls from behind me.
His fingers work the clasp of my grandmother's emerald necklace while I stand frozen in my childhood bedroom. The brush of his knuckles against my nape sends fire racing down my spine. When he steps closer, I feel the hard length of him pressed against my back through his suit pants.
"Conall," I breathe.
"I know." His voice comes out strained. His hands settle on my bare shoulders, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. "I can smell how wet you are for me."
Heat floods between my thighs at his crude words. In the mirror, I watch his eyes darken as they trail down my body in the black dress that leaves little to imagination.
"We should go," he says, but his hands don't move. "Your family's waiting."
"Let them wait." I lean back against him, feeling his sharp intake of breath when my ass presses against his hardness. "Touch me."
"Saoirse—"
I reach behind me, palming him through his pants. He's thick and hard and I want him so badly I ache. "Please."
His control snaps. One hand slides down to cup my breast through the thin fabric while the other grips my hip, grinding me against him.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he groans against my ear. "How many nights I've fucked my fist thinking about you."
The confession makes me moan. His thumb finds my nipple through the dress, circling until it peaks. I'm so wet I'm probably dripping.
"I want your mouth on me," I whisper. "Everywhere."
He spins me around, backing me against the dresser. His eyes are wild, predatory. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"I mean every word."
His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and desperate. I can taste the whiskey on his tongue as he devours me. His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, and I spread my legs for him without shame.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he breathes against my lips when his fingers find the wet silk between my legs. "All for me?"
"Only you."
He strokes me through my underwear and I cry out, gripping his shoulders. I'm already close, wound so tight I might shatter.
"Conall, please?—"
A car horn blares outside. He freezes, then pulls away like I burned him.
"Christ." He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving. "We have to go."
I want to scream in frustration. "Now?"
"Yes. Now." But his eyes linger on my swollen lips, my peaked nipples visible through the dress. "Fix your makeup. You look thoroughly fucked."
The crude assessment sends another wave of heat through me. I use concealer to hide my flushed skin, but there's nothing I can do about the wanting in my eyes.
The ride to dinner is torture. Every time we stop at lights, Conall's hand drifts to my thigh. Never touching, just hovering close enough that I feel the heat of his skin. My underwear is ruined, and he knows it.
"Stop looking at me like that," he warns.
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to pull over and finish what we started."
I do. God, I do.
Dinner feels like performance art. I sit in Dad's chair while my family discusses business, but all I can think about is Conall's fingers inside me, his mouth on my neck.
"Valentin Petrov has been asking about meetings," Mother says, and I force myself to focus.
"The Russian?" I ask.
"He specifically requested you," she continues with false innocence. "Said he'd heard about our family's new... leadership."
Across the table, Conall's fork clenches in his fist. The muscle in his jaw jumps.
"What kind of meeting?" I ask, though I suspect I know.
"Dinner. Somewhere intimate." Mother's smile is sharp. "The Petrovs appreciate beautiful things. And strategic alliances."
The implication is clear. Marriage. A business transaction disguised as romance.
"Over my dead body," Conall says quietly.
The table goes silent. Eamon raises an eyebrow while Cillian looks between us with dawning understanding.
"Excuse me?" I ask.
Conall's eyes burn into mine. "I said over my dead body will you marry that Russian bastard."
"That's not your decision to make."
"Isn't it?"
The challenge hangs between us, loaded with everything we can't say in front of my family. That he's already claimed me. That I belong to him whether we've said the words or not.
"Well," Mother says delicately, "this is interesting."
"What the hell was that?" I demand the moment we're in his car.
"You know exactly what that was." He drives like he's being chased, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"You don't own me, Conall."
"Don't I?" He pulls over abruptly, throwing the car in park. "Tell me you don't feel it. This thing between us."
"That doesn't give you the right to?—"
He's on me before I can finish, hauling me across the console into his lap. I straddle him in the driver's seat, my dress riding up to my hips.
"Doesn't it?" His hands grip my ass, pulling me down onto the hard ridge of his erection. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't get wet every time I look at you."
I can't. Because it's true.
"I've wanted you since you were eighteen," he confesses, his voice raw. "Do you know how fucked up that makes me? How wrong it is?"
"You never said anything."
"Because I'm twelve years older than you. Because I work for your father. Because you were supposed to be off-limits." His thumbs stroke over my hipbones. "But I can't pretend anymore. Not when other men want to put their hands on what's mine."
"Yours?"
"Mine." He captures my mouth in a brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue and possession. I moan into it, grinding against him shamelessly.
His hand slides between us, finding the wet heat between my legs. "Christ, you're dripping for me."
"I need you," I gasp against his mouth. "Please, Conall."
He pushes my underwear aside, his fingers sliding through my wetness. When he circles my clit, I cry out and arch against him.
"So fucking responsive," he groans. "I want to taste you. Want to make you come on my tongue until you scream."
"Yes."
"But not here. Not in a car like teenagers." He withdraws his hand and I whimper at the loss. "You deserve better for your first time."
"Who says it's my first time?"
His eyes go dangerous. "Is it?"
I lift my chin defiantly. "Maybe."
"Answer me, Saoirse."
"Yes," I whisper. "It is."
Something primitive crosses his face. "Good. Because I'm going to ruin you for every other man who comes after me."
At my door, we stand inches apart on my front step. My whole body thrums with need.
"Come inside," I breathe.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I come inside, I'm going to strip you naked and fuck you until you can't walk tomorrow. And you're not ready for that yet."
The crude promise makes me clench around nothing. "I am ready."
"No, princess. You're not." He cups my face, thumb stroking my swollen bottom lip. "But when you are, when you come to me and beg me to make you mine, I'll give you everything you can handle and more."
He steps back before I can respond, leaving me aching and empty on my doorstep.
Inside, I collapse against the door, sliding my hand beneath my dress. It only takes three strokes before I'm coming hard, Conall's name on my lips.
Tomorrow I'll have to face my family's questions and Valentin Petrov's interest. But tonight, I know exactly who I belong to.