Chapter 8
Eight
ALEXANDER MOORE
Her taste lingered on my tongue like expensive whiskey—bitter, intoxicating, and undeniably addictive. I paced my study at three AM, thinking of her, nothing but her. Sleep was impossible. Not while every nerve ending still vibrated with the memory of Aoife O'Malley's skin beneath my fingers.
"Fuck," I muttered, downing another Macallan in one burning swallow.
I’d been avoiding her. Our encounter a few days ago had shattered all boundaries I’d set.
The way she'd arched beneath my touch, breath catching as I circled her clit with calculated precision, keeping her suspended on the edge of pleasure without allowing release.
Her eyes—fierce despite her vulnerability—challenging me even as her body betrayed her.
I'd felt her wetness on my fingers, watched her bite that full lower lip until it bled, heard those rebellious whimpers she couldn't quite suppress. And still she'd refused to beg.
My cock hardened at the memory. I adjusted myself, disgusted by my lack of control. She was Connor O'Malley's daughter. A prisoner. The heir to the man I'd helped annihilate.
Yet, I couldn't stop replaying the moment she'd nearly surrendered. The way she'd writhed against my hand, sweat beading on her forehead, her thighs trembling with need as I deliberately withheld what she craved. I knew what she liked…
"This ends now," I told the empty room, though my body disagreed emphatically.
I checked the surveillance feed from her room.
Even exhausted and dishevelled after days of captivity, she maintained that aristocratic poise, sitting perfectly still on the edge of the bed, auburn hair cascading around her face like liquid fire.
I'd never encountered anyone with such exquisite control over themselves—except perhaps in my own mirror.
A dangerous plan formed in my mind.
Morning light streamed through the windows as I entered her room carrying coffee and breakfast. Her head snapped up, wariness replacing the momentary vulnerability I'd glimpsed.
"Good morning, Aoife." I set the tray down, deliberately invading her space. "I thought you might appreciate something more... satisfying than our usual fare."
Her eyes narrowed at my choice of words. "Have you poisoned it, or is this just part of your particular brand of psychological warfare?"
"If I wanted you dead, there are far more efficient methods." I poured coffee, sliding it toward her. "Black, one sugar. Like everything else about you—bitter with just enough sweetness to be dangerous."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she masked it. "What do you want?"
"I'm offering a change of scenery. The grounds of Ashford Estate are quite stunning this time of year." I took a deliberate sip from my own cup. "Unless you prefer to remain here and continue yesterday's... activities."
Colour stained her cheeks—anger, embarrassment, or perhaps arousal. "You mean your failed attempt to make me beg? I wouldn't classify that as a success for you."
I leaned closer, close enough to catch her scent. "Your mouth said no, but your body..." I dropped my gaze deliberately to the juncture of her thighs, "...told me everything I needed to know."
She didn't flinch. "Is that what gets you off, Alexander? Forcing reactions from unwilling participants?"
"There was nothing unwilling about your response.
" I produced a slim silver bracelet and sighed.
"This is a security tracker. But we need to talk, and you need fresh air. You can walk the grounds—supervised, of course—but don’t try to pull one on me.
Attempt to cross the property line, and you'll be immediately intercepted. Trust me, this is not easy to remove."
She studied the device, then me, with a smirk. "And if I refuse your generous offer?"
"Then we continue as before." I lowered my voice to the register that had made her pupils dilate yesterday. "And I don't think either of us has forgotten how that ended."
"With you failing to break me." She extended her wrist, the gesture simultaneously surrender and challenge. "Let's see these famous gardens you're so proud of."
I secured the tracker, fingers deliberately lingering against her pulse point. Her skin felt impossibly soft, betraying nothing of the steel beneath. "The system is foolproof," I said, running my thumb across her inner wrist where blue veins traced delicate patterns.
"Like your interrogation techniques?" Her smile was knife-sharp. “I think not.”
"Really?" I maintained contact longer than necessary. "I remember things differently."
Fresh clothing and a shower later, she emerged looking dangerously alluring in the simple jeans and sweater I'd provided. The items fit well enough to suggest I'd paid attention to the curves I'd explored with my hands the day before.
"Lead the way," she said, the way she spoke the words absurdly arousing.
Morning dew still clung to the grass as we walked the estate grounds. I maintained professional distance while remaining acutely aware of her—the subtle rhythm of her breathing, the occasional brush of her arm against mine, the way sunlight caught fire in her auburn hair.
"For a man who tortured me yesterday, you're being curiously hospitable today," she observed, scanning our surroundings with practiced efficiency.
"I prefer to think of it as adaptable strategy." I guided her toward the rose garden. "And I wouldn't classify yesterday as torture."
"No?" Her eyebrow arched elegantly. "What would you call it?"
"Exploration." The word hung between us, charged with meaning.
She laughed—a genuine sound that transformed her face. "Again I must say, is that what gets you through the night, Alexander? Calling your sadism by prettier names? I thought we’d explored enough already. Long ago." She pursed her lips.
I decided to ignore her reference to our previous meeting years back. "You didn't seem to find it entirely unpleasant." I stopped, turning to face her fully. "In fact, I recall quite different signals from your body."
"And yet—" she stepped closer, close enough that I could feel her breath against my neck, "—I never gave you what you wanted. Never begged so shamelessly as you’d have wished."
My cock, of course, had a mind of its own. "This… interrogation isn't over, Aoife."
"No?" She trailed one finger down the front of my shirt, stopping just above my belt. "And what techniques do you plan to employ next?"
I caught her wrist, squeezing. "That depends entirely on your cooperation."
"We both know I'm not the cooperative type." She didn't try to pull away, instead pressing closer. "But then, I don't think that's what interests you about me."
"What interests me is information," I lied, my body betraying me as her hip brushed against my hardening cock.
"Liar." Her smile was knowing. "What interests you is that I see you, Alexander Moore.
Not the Flanagan golden boy. Not the perfect lieutenant.
The real you—the one who gets hard when I fight back.
The one who's imagined bending me over every surface in this big old mansion.
" She winked. “The one who’s been fantasising about our shared … past.”
My grip tightened involuntarily. "You have no idea what I want."
"Don't I?" She leaned closer, her lips a breath away from my ear. "I felt how hard you were yesterday, when you had your fingers inside me. When you thought you were breaking me, I was calculating exactly how many inches you'd be stretching me with."
Jesus Christ. I stepped back abruptly, needing distance from her. "This is counterproductive."
"On the contrary." She followed, maintaining the charged space between us. "I think we're finally getting somewhere interesting."
We reached the stone bridge spanning the small lake. Aoife paused, looking out over the water with an expression I couldn't decipher. Did she like it here? Or was she thinking about how fast she’d get back to her life?
"Beautiful property," she observed. "I understand why my father wanted it."
"The Flanagans took it," I corrected automatically. "It’s what they do."
Her eyes narrowed. "Including your loyalty? The housekeeper's son, elevated just high enough to be useful but never equal. How does it feel, Alexander, to build an empire for another man's name?"
“You think it’s that way, but believe it or not, Ronan Flanagan saw my value from the start, and he’s always treated me like a brother, despite his father. In the end, he chose me by his side, and what I have now, I earned. Loyalty is what matters.”
Her question had hit with surgical precision though.
Who in my position wouldn’t question the irony of my situation?
My respect for Ronan trumped all my misgivings, of course, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d never be seen as intrinsic part of the family by others.
I maintained my neutral expression, but something must have shown in my eyes because her expression shifted to predatory interest.
"Touched a nerve, have I?" She stepped closer, invading my space with deliberate intent. "Poor Alexander, so loyal to the family. Ronan might know how capable you truly are, but what about the others?"
My control slipped. I caught her arm, backing her against the bridge's stone railing. "You know nothing about my relationship with the Flanagans."
Rather than fear, I saw excitement flash in her eyes. Her scent was still fucking intoxicating. "There he is. The real Alexander Moore, not the perfect soldier. The man with his own dreams, his own hunger."
"Be careful, Aoife," I warned. "You're playing with fire."
"I've been playing with fire my entire life." She arched subtly against me. "The difference is, I'm not pretending it doesn't burn me."
My free hand moved to her throat, not squeezing but resting there—a reminder of her vulnerability. My thumb traced her racing pulse, her skin so pliable beneath my calloused fingers.