Chapter 18 Marlowe
EIGHTEEN
marlowe
For someone who keeps saying we need to talk, Leon has turned avoidance into an art form.
I stare at my phone screen the next day, his name lurking like a loaded gun in my recent calls, and when the call goes to voicemail yet again, I come within a breath of throwing my phone at the wall.
That’s when my bedroom door opens.
And the bane of my existence walks in.
The problem is, this particular bane is also my favorite fantasy in flesh. Declan Murphy. Ruiner of sanity. Walking contradiction. Part cartel nightmare, part patron saint of animals, part man who can wring orgasms out of me like it’s his religion.
I’m in a simple summer dress and flats. It’s a soft and breezy look, absolutely not sexed up.
But yet he looks at me like I’m wearing red lace, stockings, and heels, spread on his bed and begging for his cock.
Of course that’s my latest recurring dream.
Bullets flying past us in some alley, him dragging me into cover and then into his cock, fucking me while danger looms over us.
His mouth is at my neck, his hand around my throat as he takes my pussy, my ass, my willpower, getting so lost in me he forgets to care who’s aiming at him.
Sometimes I come in my sleep from that scene. Worse, sometimes I wake up hovering on the brink, refusing to touch myself because I want the pleasure to come from him.
He drags his gaze up from my legs, slow and shameless. “What’s got you so hot and bothered, Molly girl?”
My mouth goes dry and I glare at him. Damn him for seeing right through me. “Nothing. I just should have locked my door.”
His lips quirk. “You left it open hoping I’d come in. An invitation.”
I glare at him, ready to push, to poke the beast, to provoke him into taking me so I can pretend none of it is my fault. That’s the thrill. He’s the one crossing the line, so I don’t have to admit I was already there.
But the heat in his eyes snuffs out like someone opened a freezer when he sees the phone in my hand.
“Calling Leon, are you?” His tone turns arctic.
The hit lands low in my stomach.
He goes to my closet, and like a lunatic, all I can think about is how much I want to be in his room instead. To open his drawers. His nightstand. To see what’s next to his bed.
Not the big secrets. The little ones.
A Kindle crammed with spy thrillers and westerns. A box of his old photos growing up—baby Declan with that dimple, wild teenage Declan with that glint in his eyes. Stupid novelty socks, ridiculous ties, candy wrappers under his bed. Maybe a favorite mug or a worn t-shirt he can’t throw away.
Those are the secrets that matter. The ones that show who he is when he isn’t being charming or lethal or the world’s hottest kisser. The man underneath the gangster. The one who rescues strays and spoils them rotten.
“You told me to call him,” I snap.
“That I did.” He shuts my closet door with a quiet click. “No answer?”
I press my lips together.
“Then text the eejit and invite him,” he says. It’s not even close to being a suggestion.
He motions to the bedroom door. “Come on.”
“Where?” I ask, even though I know resistance is a joke.
“Molly,” he murmurs, closing the distance between us, his fingers brushing my jaw. His mouth comes down on mine, soft and slow. It’s a kiss that makes my knees want to give up. “Did you want me to fuck you?”
“Declan Murphy,” I say, breathless, “ruiner of moments.”
“Just the boring ones, Molly lass.” He steals another quick kiss and steps back.
I am wetter from that than from all versions of the bullets-flying fantasy.
“We’re going shopping for the party,” he adds.
I blow out a shaky breath. “I have dresses.”
He smooths a hand over the T-Rex graphic on the t-shirt under his dark suit jacket. There’s something absurdly sexy about the mix of formal and boyish, and if I had my way, I’d make him dress like that all the time.
“You went through my closet,” I accuse.
“Brilliant,” he says, dry.
“Don’t be condescending.”
“In here or in general? Might be difficult to promise either.” The smile fades a little. “Five minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs. Don’t make me come and get you.”
But I’m downstairs in two.
Not because he ordered it.
But because I don’t need to do anything. No makeup touch-ups, no wardrobe changes. I’m good to go. Or at least, pretending to be.
I hit the bottom step and stop short.
Declan stands there, brow furrowed, studying something in his hand with such intensity he doesn’t seem to be breathing. For a moment he’s not the charming, easygoing Murphy brother. He’s something harder. Colder. Razor-edged.
Then he looks up, and just like that, he’s Declan again. Smile back in place. Dimple flashing. The shift is so seamless I almost miss him folding the piece of paper and sliding it into his pocket.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Shopping list,” he says smoothly. “Come on.”
“I don’t need a list. I told you I have dresses.”
He ignores me entirely and leads me to the waiting car.
We pull up in SoHo in front of Petz, an exclusive pet boutique that probably charges a kidney for designer kibble.
Of course Declan’s in his element.
He orders food—freeze-dried, raw, artisanal, whatever—for the cats and dogs. Special seed for Pepper. A new perch. And then he heads for the harnesses and collars and starts selecting those with way too much thought.
The basket starts to look like something a very well-funded Dom might keep in a toy chest.
My stomach flips.
“What exactly do you expect me to do with all that?” I ask, eyeing a black leather harness.
“They’re for the pets,” Declan says. “Clawzy needs a new collar. I’m going to try a harness again. Maybe Lola—”
“I wouldn’t,” I say quickly. “Unless you’ve always wanted to experience life without skin.”
He turns those aqua green eyes on me and my bones go soft. “An attempt at taming might be worth it,” he says lightly. “Depending.”
I don’t think he’s talking solely about the cat anymore.
I don’t ask. I’m not sure I want the answer.
He pays. The purchases get loaded into the car. I start to climb in, but he shakes his head.
“I’m taking you shopping, remember?”
We walk a few doors down to a beautiful modern stone building. It looks so elegant from the outside.
Inside, it looks like a fever dream of silicone and latex.
I’m hit in the face by rows of dildos, harnesses, latex outfits, whips, restraints. It’s like walking into the back of my subconscious and realizing all my dirtiest thoughts have a retail section.
The woman behind the counter is nearly as tall as Declan and drop-dead gorgeous with a body that doesn’t quit.
“Astra,” he says, smiling, “this is my lovely Molly. We’re going to get her some toys.”
My face catches fire. “Shop here often, do you?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Toys are fun, Molly girl.”
He kisses me like he isn’t standing in front of a wall of vibrating cocks, then wanders off, leaving me surrounded by anatomically aggressive silicone that I’m pretty sure would require a medical team for insertion and a whole lot of prayers.
“Right this way, my lovely,” Declan says, already ushering me toward a dressing room.
He pulls the curtain shut behind us.
“Where are the clothes?” My palms start to sweat.
“Turn and face the mirror,” he says. “Panties down. Skirt up. Hands on the glass. Now.”
My heart trips, but I do it. Mainly because I’m a coward and a deviant and whatever this says about me, I want to see what he’ll do.
I can see the curtain in the mirror. It’s not thick. Light seeps around the edges. Through the gauze, I can see Astra moving around outside. Another shadow joins her. My heart picks up speed. It’s someone else entering the store.
Dammit, if I can see shapes, then they can see—
“Declan, what about the people?”
“Relax,” he says. His breath is hot against my ear. “No one’s coming in here. They can see it’s occupied.”
“My pussy is throbbing because it’s not private,” I hiss.
“Well, they do want to stop people from inserting things back here that they haven’t paid for yet,” he says, mouth curving. “If you want a latex maid outfit, Astra will help you into it. Those require pre-purchase and baby powder. No sampling. No ‘try before you lube,’ so to speak.”
“Then why am I here like—”
He slaps my ass lightly. The sting arrows straight to my clit. “So I can insert things into you, of course.”
“Insert what?” I demand.
His finger slides into my pussy, slow and sure. “This for starters.”
“Stop,” I moan, even as I push back against his hand.
He grabs something. I hear the click of a cap. Cool lube slicks over my ass.
“You want me to stop for real?” he murmurs.
“No,” I breathe. “You ass.”
“Thought so,” he says, and his finger thrusts deeper. He finds that spot inside, the one that makes my mind white out, and rubs. Pressure and pleasure curl together and I think I’d let him do this to me on the subway platform during rush hour.
“See? The truth’s not so bad, is it, Molly?”
“Fuck you,” I pant.
“I will,” he says. “But you wanted me to fuck your ass, and I need you prepped first.”
“You’re not touching my ass, so how can you be prepping me?”
I swallow a gasp as he pushes a finger into my ass, slipping past the tight ring of muscle. The jolt of sensation is obscene, like sharp bliss screaming along my spine.
“Sometimes I’ll use your own juices,” Declan says conversationally. “Fuck knows you get wet enough. But for the first time, we’re doing it properly.”
My brain fogs.
He pulls his fingers out.
Not for long.
Something nudges at my ass. Something firm. Narrow at the tip, wider at the center.
“Oh God,” I gasp. “No. I don’t think—”
He pauses, leans in, kisses the back of my neck. “I’m bigger than this, Marlowe. But this is your first toy. So relax.”
I try. Really.
But I fail.
He starts pressing again, slow, relentless. I stretch around the plug, the burn intense, teetering on too much, and then suddenly it pops inside, settling with a narrower stem that my body clenches around instinctively.