Chapter 27
Kellin
After practically fleeing from Maeve’s room earlier like the hounds of hell were after me, I couldn’t shake off my excess energy. And by “energy,” I mean, my dick refused to go down.
I planned to hop in the shower and pump one out before it dawned on me that I didn’t want to come with Maeve on the other side of the door, so I went on a five-mile run instead.
Given Southern California’s temperate climate, there’s no excuse not to work out in this city. The mid-fall weather here is a dream compared to NYC. Since I began my mission, I’ve noticed little details like that. Or more accurately, since I started getting closer to Maeve Gallagher.
The woman’s crawling under my skin.
After that glorious run, I showered, brushed my teeth, and ordered a Gruyère and portobello mushroom omelet with diced potatoes and toasted sourdough.
The chef, while a royal prick, can cook his ass off.
I can understand why she keeps him around.
I’d put up with a lot of attitude for food this good too.
But even as I sip my second Americano and watch hotel video surveillance that Rory set up, I can still taste her in my mouth. Sweet and musky. Like earthy honey.
Addictive. I just want to be back between her legs.
Groaning, I scrub my palms over my face.
Finn would demand my head on a platter if he knew what was happening here.
Yes, my instructions were to get close to her by any means necessary.
Which includes getting physical. But the new head of the Irish Kings had no reason to believe the order might cause problems.
I never talk about women. Never bring any around the NYC Kings.
My history with the fairer sex is more cyclical than the seasons.
My past lovers have always known where they stood with me, which is to say nowhere.
The vast majority of my sexual encounters over the course of my life are exactly that and nothing more.
Even during the two stints where I attempted the boyfriend route with Danielle and then Morgan, I failed miserably.
Danielle, an artist I met a couple of years after college, appreciated my tats, and I liked her tits. At first, her artistic side intrigued me, but I couldn’t commit for more than a few months.
Several years later, I met the boxer. Morgan.
Her body was tight, and we both possessed an endless supply of stamina.
But after a year of great sex and less than nothing to talk about, the relationship became a tire with a tack in the tread.
Deflating without either of us realizing what was happening.
One morning, I woke up, and we were over.
I guess I could’ve told Maeve about one of these women when she asked about my past. I didn’t need to clam up.
I realize that women get curious. They like to know if the man they’re sleeping with can commit to a long-term relationship.
I pause. Could I, with Maeve?
The idea should alarm me. Instead, I find myself seriously considering a future with her before I catch myself.
What am I even thinking?
I didn’t come here for that. Or to muse about her sweet-tasting pussy and dream of crawling back between her legs. Especially not while watching video surveillance for the Irish Kings.
Of course, no one could’ve predicted the sheer chemistry that sparked between us right from the beginning. Or how much Maeve would impress me with her determination to succeed or tempt me with that fiery streak and innate sweetness.
The way I left her this morning… I hate myself.
She was wet and ready, but more than that, the emotion in those seductive brown eyes about killed me.
Like a fucking coward, I ran because I didn’t know how to answer her questions. Couldn’t handle how she stirred feelings I believed myself incapable of experiencing.
The truth is I don’t deserve her.
Maeve practically shines with integrity. I believe her when she talks about her family. She’s not like them.
And whether or not she realizes I know about her mafia background, she doesn’t let that bleed into her conversations. She discusses them as if they’re just another dysfunctional family. She’s genuine. She displays her emotions and urges for all to see. Or at least for my viewing pleasures.
I’ve never met a woman like her.
One who says what she wants and means what she says.
She’s bold, as proven by the way she came on to me that first night.
She’s not afraid of me even though she should be. I’m not a good guy. Truth be told, I’m a monster. Just ask the goon who tried to rape her.
Oh, right. He can’t answer. And the fact that that reminder fills me with dark satisfaction only proves how much of a monster I truly am.
I’m bored with this video surveillance. Maeve and Lenora spent the morning up to their eyeballs in work, and except for that speed bump where her brother Brody marched in to fight with her, he and Declan haven’t left the hotel since yesterday. I haven’t seen Connor either.
I know Doyle is in the penthouse. I just need a way to get to him.
Time is running out on Declan’s deadline. Finn’s expecting results, and so far, I only have a location.
I shake my head and lick my lips and…earthy honey.
My dick twitches. Fuck. I need to get out of this room. Otherwise, I risk jacking off until my skin chafes off.
I text Maeve.
Meet for a quick lunch and then I’ll tag along until quitting time?
Her response is immediate.
I’d like to meet for a quick something, but I guess lunch will have to do.
More blood shoots to my groin. Hurrying before I change my mind, I power down my computer, grab my suit jacket, and hustle out the door.
Serving as Maeve’s shadow—watching her run this glamorous, exotic hotel—encourages me to invest all my money in her. Every fucking penny.
She exhibits unprecedented fire and business sense. I don’t know anyone who’s in a career that they could say they’re passionate about or deem their calling. Until I started tailing her, I always thought that bullshit only happened in movies.
This goes on for days, with me tagging after Maeve like a lovesick neighbor kid she babysits.
I monitor the cameras when I can, track Declan and his boys—who are pretty much holed up in the penthouse the entire time—and in between all that, we work, eat, and fuck. And we only stop to eat because all the screwing works up an appetite.
Thank you, Chef Douchebag, for all the haute cuisine.
I’m heading back from the chair room—a space devoted solely to hundreds of chairs used for special events—when I spot her and Lenora deep in it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the conversation definitely isn’t about business.
I clear my throat audibly as I approach. “Ladies.”
“Kellin.” Lenora cocks her head. “I was just telling Maeve that, thanks to an extra pair of hands, we’re somehow ahead of schedule for the wedding.”
“Is that so?” I focus on Maeve. “It’s pretty sunny today. Would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
I do my best not to cringe.
It’s pretty sunny today? Who the fuck is this guy? What am I even suggesting?
Maeve brightens, drifts closer to me, and absently adjusts my tie, her fingers brushing over my chest. When she realizes what she’s doing, she jerks away, linking her hands together. “Funny you should say that.” She nods at Lenora. “You have me on speed dial if you need me.”
Lenora winks. “See you tomorrow, boss.”
Maeve’s eyes catch mine and drink me in.
“Wanna see something?”
Why does that sound so suggestive? My dick twitches, and I shift my stance to hide the reaction. “Definitely.” Even if it’s not sexual, I’m practically drooling to see anything and everything she wants to show me.
She beams. “Great. Go change into workout clothes and meet me here in twenty.”