Chapter 9
NINE
declan
Of course it’s the wrong thing to say. She shoves me, pushing me off. And I tuck myself away, leaving my pants undone as she gets up and stalks across the hotel room.
For a moment I lie there, propping myself up with one hand, admiring the sleek lines of Marlowe’s form, her muscles, the lines of her dancer’s body, the suppleness of her.
She’s angry. Molly’s always angry at me, which is fine by me because I’m a little angry at her, too.
The lass could have asked me, she could have called me to chew me out or done any number of things.
I told her I’d explain, and sure, ghosting her wasn’t the finest idea known to man, but I was just having a bit of fun with her.
No great love story, just a pretty girl and a boner in my pants every time she brushed past, and she did that a lot.
The club was a place where I had to hang out to meet Emily.
I had to go for a long time and be seen having fun, to show I wasn’t a threat, just a party guy.
The mob boss’s daughter had a penchant for bad boys, and it was a way to get into her father’s inner sanctum.
The job tailor-made for me. The club scene’s my jam… or was, especially a few years ago.
It was the kind of job I still thrive on. Fly by the seat of my pants, go with the flow to reach my goal. Simple. Get in, get trusted, and then we’d take them down if they didn’t stop playing for one bratva and stay on the side of the Irish in the neutral zone.
Either that or…bye-bye club and business, and hello hell.
It’s neither here nor there, but they played it smartly.
Of course, Emily never spoke to me again after that. All we did was share a couple of kisses, and by then I had no interest in pretty Marlowe.
Scratch that, my dick had plenty of interest. I personally didn’t. Who wanted a spoiled brat who thought having fun meant “relationship”? And when things didn’t go her way, got me thrown in jail?
Fuck that.
Of course, now I get why she was so hung up on a kiss and fingering in the back of a club. Makes a lot more sense to know she was a virgin.
It’s not enough for me to forgive her and want to crack open the past. But it makes sense.
I get up, stalk over to her, and spin her so she has to face me. The hurt in her eyes is real.
“You’re the one who fooled me into thinking there was something between us and then…there wasn’t.” She pauses. “You’re right. Sex is good when it’s tinged with hate. Just don’t expect it again. Fake marriage or not.”
She’s right there. I shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t want to. My dick’s an idiot and disagrees. One whiff of her rose and peony scent clinging to my skin and I’m halfway hard again.
“You know, Molly, I’m not sorry for fucking you.
I’ve wanted to since we met. I figured you weren’t overly experienced and…
” I suck in a breath. I refuse to question the real reasons why I didn’t fuck her in the bathroom, in the darkest corner of the dance floor, in my car, because I don’t know if I’m ready to examine them.
“I wish I’d taken more time with you, is all. ”
Her eyes blaze. “I liked it almost as much as I dislike you.”
I kiss her. “How about I show you something slower and you can then take your fury out on me?”
I want to get to the bed, I do, but she shoves me hard, and I stumble backward and land on the sofa.
She stands over me, still gloriously naked, so perfect I’m completely hard and aching like I didn’t just come.
The little camera I took is in Tor’s hands. I’m not good at tech, I’m good at sex, strategic thinking, animals, and getting in and out of hot water. What others call being reckless, I call innovative.
And right now, I’m sure fucking Molly is pretty fucking innovative.
She looks like she doesn’t know if she wants to kill me or bone me.
Maybe it’s that combination of both. The hate part’s been there since we met again, but this time it’s amped right up to kill-zone level.
Which is fucking beyond hot.
Since I’ve got nothing to do but protect her, pretend to be her husband, stop her from running off with some gobshite, and help draw out whoever’s sending her crap, this is good. A little hate sex never hurt a soul.
I pull her onto my lap, spreading her thighs on either side of my hips.
Her tits are in the perfect sucking and biting zone.
Of course, I should have stripped first, but I have to admit there’s a kinky hot element to her being vulnerable and naked and me mostly dressed.
I rest my palms for a moment on her ass.
“You’re still a virgin somewhere.”
She hisses at me.
“So that’s where Lola learned his manners. It explains a lot.”
“You’re such a—”
“Gobshite’s a good one.” I grin.
Her eyes narrow. “Gobshite. This isn’t funny.”
I reach up and start pulling the pins from her hair, letting it loose. “That’s better. I like the ballerina slash librarian slash secretary look, but I like your flames raining down around your face more.”
“Life of a dancer.” There’s a bitter note in her voice. “Hair up and pulled back.”
I frown. “You’re beautiful to watch, you know. I can see why some fans might take it a little far.”
Her copper eyes slide away, turning darker as they do, and her fingers twist in my hair. The leg of my pants is getting wet from her, but I don’t mind. Her nipples are hard as she rocks back and forth on my thigh, and I don’t even think she realizes it.
Christ, I could fuck her forever. And I meant it when I said I’d wished I’d taken my time. She deserves to be opened like a flower, made utterly ready for me. She was ready, more than ready, but that mental and physical thing should have happened together.
Fuck, I sound like I’m from the wrong century.
Still, I wish I’d spent more time before thrusting hard into her. I was rough where in that moment, and I shouldn’t have been.
“Sometimes my feet bleed, and my toes are sort of ugly now from years of abuse in the pointe shoes,” she says. “I have to watch what I eat. I like healthy, but sometimes I want to binge on sweets. I want to be a glutton and drink until I pass out.”
“No, you don’t. The next day’s hell,” I say.
Her gaze comes back to me. “Don’t patronize me.”
“No, I’m not. If you don’t want to do it, then don’t.”
“They named me one of the lead dancers tonight.”
“So?” I shrug, dipping my head and licking a path from one nipple to the other, and she pulls my hair. I look up at her.
“So,” she says, eyes snapping, “my mother bought the position for me.”
“Your mother also wants to buy you a husband, so I don’t think she should be your role model there, Molly.”
She pulls my hair harder, and I tug back and bite her nipple. She squeals, even though it wasn’t hard.
“I don’t want any of it.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“Money.”
Fuck. Rich girls. This time I tangle my hand in her hair and tug, too, and she almost fucking purrs. “Then get a job, Marlowe. If dance isn’t your dream, there must be something that is.”
“I used to help Daddy with the business, his side ones. I helped him come up with some new ideas.”
For a moment I think she might mean something reckless. but she doesn’t.
I want to ask about her smart ideas, I really do, but I want to lose myself in her again. Or rather, I want her to lose her mind over what I’m going to do to her.
“For someone who hates me, you sure talk a lot.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says. “We don’t like each other. You’re pretty and you’re good at this, and you can probably charm the socks off anyone, but not me.”
I slide a finger over her clit in a circle, and she growls low, her hips moving into the touch. “Charm’s overrated. I like results.”
“Right now, I’m stuck with you in this weird fake marriage. You’re my jailer pretending to be my husband pretending to be my bodyguard. And we both know I’m walking at the end of this. When you find Daddy.”
If. “And get your stalker.”
“I’m out the door.”
“I’ll be meeting you there with your suitcase and a one-way ticket to who the fuck cares. Your point?”
“Sex.”
“You keep talking, so…” This time I push a finger into her, just a little, just to tease and make her rock and push down.
“The sex means nothing.”
“Agreed,” I say. What a deal. It’s like a dream. No strings, a little spicy hate and a lot of desire. Plus, that shit sells the marriage. To…whoever it needs to be sold to.
That eejit Leon, for one.
I pull her head down and claim her mouth for a searing kiss. She comes in, ready, tits rubbing against me as our tongues tangle and I move both hands, pulling my finger from its teasing of her cunt, to grab her, hold her to me as I slide on the sofa, onto my back.
It’s nice and big, so I can lie down, bringing her on top of me. Because I want to taste her again, now that she’s been claimed by me in that primal way. I want that in my mouth, on my tongue, too.
“What are…?”
Her words waver, trail away, as I bring her pussy to my mouth. I pull her down by her thighs, tipping her off kilter enough she tumbles down on me, pussy smashing against me.
It’s a vision, that glimpse before I’m willingly engulfed. All that pretty pink wet flesh.
But it tastes even better.
She tastes better.
Sweet beneath my salty-bitterness. Sweet and something I’ve been craving since I first put tongue to her.
Marlowe doesn’t disappoint. She’s everything I remember, more.
And I stroke my tongue over her, curling my hands on her thighs, holding her down as she shudders.
She tries to escape, tries to make sure she doesn’t crush me—like she ever could—tries, I suspect, to keep control of a situation, failing epically.
I lick up her slit as I suck on her flesh, nosing against her clit. Her flesh is soft and wet and tender and I shove my tongue up into her, flicking as I go, her mewls like music.
But I can make it out through the roaring of my blood and the slamming of my heart, from the paradise I’m exploring.