Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AXL
Pulling my phone out while I wait for Sorcha to be finished in the bathroom, I call Brown Thomas on Grafton Street in Dublin and ask for my mum’s personal shopper.
To my irritation, she is busy, but the woman I speak to gives me her number, so I fire off a quick text to get a wardrobe sorted out for Sorcha.
All the finest things the Rhodes money can buy.
I slip my phone back into my pocket just as the bathroom door clicks open.
Sorcha steps out and gives me a slow smile.
Her turnaround from last night has been remarkable.
I’m wondering what the cause was, but perhaps she has just decided to stop fighting as Ciar told her to.
“Ready for the next thrilling instalment of your education?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything.
I offer her my hand this time instead of taking it, just to see what she will do.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, her gaze flicking from my hand to my face, weighing the cost of accepting.
It’s a small surrender, but it’s a surrender, nonetheless.
Her fingers, cool and strong, slide into mine.
“Sure, but try not to get us expelled before lunch,” she mutters, letting me lead her out into the crowded corridor.
“No promises, sunshine,” I murmur, squeezing her hand. “Expulsion isn’t really a thing for a Rhodes. My ancestor was a founding member.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Really,” I say, my thumb stroking the back of her hand. “Edward Rhodes the Third. A miserable old bastard by all accounts, but he had excellent taste in architecture and a flair for ensuring his descendants never had to work a real day in their lives.”
Her lips twitch, a ghost of a smile she can’t quite suppress. “Must be nice,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.
“It has its perks,” I concede.
We reach the Business Management lecture hall, and I pull her to a stop just outside the door.
“What?” she asks, her eyes wary.
I lean in, my voice a low murmur just for her. “That little performance in the quad,” I say, my gaze dropping to her lips. “Was that you making a claim, or just marking territory?”
Her breath hitches, a tiny, satisfying sound. “What’s the difference?”
“One is a promise,” I whisper, my hand coming up to grasp her throat, my lips brushing against hers. “The other is an insult.” I pull back. “Your move, sunshine.”
I release her hand and walk into the lecture hall, leaving her to follow. I find a seat in the last row, a picture of casual indifference.
Sorcha follows me inside and slides into the seat beside mine. The heat of her gaze is a brand on my soul.
She leans in, her fiery hair brushing my cheek, her lips a breath away from my ear.
“A promise,” she whispers, the words a silken caress that sends a jolt straight to my cock.
Her hand lands on my thigh under the desk, daringly close to my dick, a claim as bold as her kiss. “I always keep my promises.”
I turn my head, my mouth grazing her temple. Her skin is soft, electric. She’s rewriting the rules.
The professor starts droning on about mergers and acquisitions.
I lean back, lacing my fingers with hers on my thigh.
It feels natural even though it’s as alien to me as it is to her.
Intimacy doesn’t run through the Rhodes family veins.
It’s a liability. Something that is construed as a weakness.
But with Sorcha, the liability feels like a calculated risk I’m more than willing to take.
Her hand is a brand on my thigh, a silent declaration that resonates louder than the professor’s monotonous lecture.
She takes notes, her head bent in a picture of studious concentration as her thumb strokes my inner thigh, a slow, deliberate movement that makes my cock twitch.
My thumb strokes the back of her hand, a slow, deliberate motion.
A silent conversation passes between us.
We have reached a tentative understanding through the means that any self-respecting mafia family does.
Through power and alliance. It’s about building something with the pieces of us, something sharper, more dangerous than any of us were alone.
Her fingers drift higher, the tips brushing against the hard ridge of my cock.
My breath catches. The little witch is playing with fire, and I’m the fucking accelerant.
I shift in my seat, a subtle adjustment to press myself more firmly against her hand.
A dare. Her eyes flicker to mine, a glint of pure, unadulterated mischief in their blue depths.
The professor drones on, oblivious as she rubs me into a rock-hard state.
Deftly, without even looking down, she undoes the zip on my pants and slips her fingers inside.
They hit flesh, and her smile widens, but she doesn’t look at me.
She wraps her fingers around me, gently jerking me off in the middle of the lecture.
It’s the most brazen thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I want more.
I want to ravage her in front of a crowd, let them all see how fucking turned on she makes me.
Her rhythm is slow, torturous. A deliberate tease that has my blood roaring in my ears, drowning out the professor’s voice completely.
I shift my leg, parting my thighs to give her better access, a silent invitation to take more.
She does, her grip tightening. A low groan builds in my chest, and I have to clench my jaw to keep it from escaping.
This is her promise. A down payment in a public forum, a declaration that she’s not just playing our game, she’s raising the fucking stakes.
The scraping of a chair from the row in front of us signals the end of the lecture.
Students start gathering their things, the low murmur of conversation filling the room.
Her hand doesn’t stop. If anything, her pace quickens, a slick, determined friction that has my hips giving an involuntary twitch.
She’s going to make me come right here. The sheer fucking audacity of it is the most exquisite foreplay I’ve ever had.
I lean closer, my mouth brushing her ear. “Keep going,” I whisper, my voice a raw rasp.
Her breath hitches as the professor glares at us, but I make a show of slowly packing up my things, while Sorcha’s hand is wrapped around my cock. The professor leaves, wanting to escape to whatever safe haven he has that gets him away from the mafia’s elite.
I throw my head back with a low groan as Sorcha’s pace increases now that we are alone.
“Fuck, Sorcha,” I hiss through clenched teeth, her name a prayer on my lips. My vision whites out at the edges as my orgasm rips through me, hot and violent. I unload into her hand, in a thick, messy surrender. She has savagely ripped through my control, and it’s fucking beautiful.
She doesn’t let go. Her fingers tighten, milking the last shuddering pulses from me. She just watches my face, her expression satisfied, but glowing with something more profound, something proprietary. She’s just branded me in her own way.
When I can finally breathe again, she withdraws her hand slowly, the slick sound a final punctuation mark on what just happened.
She leans back and pulls up her top and does something that makes me drop to my knees in fucking worship of her.
She wipes her hand clean all over her stomach, marking herself with my cum.
She stares down at me as I grip her hips, wanting to touch her, to fuck her right here, but that would be a slap in the face to what she has just done to me.
This is her moment, and I’m not taking it away from her.
“You are not a queen, Sorcha,” I murmur. “You are a fucking goddess.”
Her smile is a slow, dangerous curve. She pulls her top down, hiding the evidence of her claim, but the knowledge of it is a brand on both of us.
My throat is dry. I push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady for the first time in my life.
I fix my trousers, the rasp of the zipper ridiculously loud in the silent hall.
She doesn’t speak. She just watches me, her eyes alight with a victory that has nothing to do with winning a fight and everything to do with conquering one of her kings.
“You’ve made your point, sunshine,” I say, roughly.
“Not even close, My Lord,” she murmurs and then turns her head sharply to the door.
Annastasia O’Shea is watching us through narrowed eyes. Her gaze isn’t on me. It’s fixed on Sorcha, a flicker of something possessive and pissed off in her eyes. The snake in the garden has arrived to find that the apple has already been eaten.
“Interrupting something?” Annastasia asks, her voice dripping with a sweetness that’s pure poison.
Sorcha turns, a slow, deliberate movement, and gives Annastasia a smile that could freeze hell. “Just finishing a private lesson,” she says, her tone a perfect echo of something I’d say. She’s learning fast. “Did you need something?”
The dismissal is a clean, sharp cut. Annastasia’s smile tightens. “I was just wondering about our arrangement.”
“That arrangement has been terminated,” I say. “Due to a hostile takeover. You understand business, O’Shea. The asset has been acquired.”
Annastasia’s eyes narrow into slits, the mask of civility finally slipping.
She looks from me to Sorcha, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air.
Sorcha doesn’t flinch. She just raises an eyebrow, a silent queen on her throne, daring the pretender to make a move.
The game has just levelled up. Annastasia O’Shea just became a much more interesting problem.