Chapter 18 Marlowe #2
“Your ass just closed over the plug,” he whispers, voice rough. “Fucking gorgeous sight. That’s our first toy. We’re going to have so much fun with it.”
“You are,” I snap, still shaking.
“We,” he corrects, turning me to face him.
At some point, he’s freed his cock. It’s hard, thick, and already lined up, and before I can say a single thing, he lifts me and thrusts into my pussy with one deep, heavy stroke.
I gasp. Panic and arousal collide.
Two things. Inside me.
Him. The plug.
My body trembles around both, my nerves screaming, the climax tearing through me so violently I bite his shoulder.
He presses me against the mirror, holding still as I convulse.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You just had a fucking huge orgasm that wasn’t only from this sweet cunt. Ride it.”
His voice is ragged. I feel his control shaking, too.
“So tight,” I gasp.
“So fucking tight,” he agrees. “Jesus, Molly.”
He licks my ear, then kisses me, tongue greedy against mine. Then he starts to move. Hard, fast, dragging moans from me I’d deny in court.
I come again.
But he doesn’t.
When he’s done torturing us both, he pulls out, lowers my feet back to the floor, and grabs his cock in a tight fist until the erection eases enough for him to tuck himself away.
I reach between my legs, hand shaking, to pull out the plug, but he stops me.
“No. Leave it in.” His eyes glitter with devious intent. “Pull up your panties.”
Face burning, ass full, muscles tender and weak, I do as I’m told.
We step out of the curtained-off area. Astra gives us a knowing look that says she’s seen—and heard—everything. There are discreet bags stacked on the counter, waiting just for us.
Declan drops the empty plug box next to them. “This one, too,” he says, paying with his phone.
“You’re insane,” I tell him.
He kisses my nose. “You’re the one walking out of here with a plug up her arse, Molly. Tell me again who’s insane.”
I fume…and drip…all the way back to the car.
Our next stop is another SoHo store. For a second, I think he’s taking me into one of the glossy, ultra-trendy designer dress shops.
He walks right past that one and pushes open the door of a quieter place instead.
I step inside and forget, for a hot second, that I have something lodged in my ass.
The clothes are gorgeous. Clean lines, soft tulle, romantic details. Everything is exactly my taste. I run my fingers along a skirt and look up at him.
“How did you know I’d like this?” I ask.
“The dress I got you for the wedding.” He nods toward a rack. “It’s from here.”
Of course it is.
“The dressing room ready?” Declan asks the model-gorgeous woman running the store.
She nods quickly. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy. Anything you like. It’s yours.”
Back off, I think automatically, my vision bleeding green.
“Whiskey,” Declan says. “For me and my bride.” He winks, lewd but somehow still charming. She disappears into the back, returning with glasses and a bottle from what I can see is clearly a fully stocked bar.
They must deal with a lot of very rich, very particular clients here.
Declan drops onto the sofa in the middle of the shop, the place men probably wait while their partners try on things. He pats the cushion beside him.
“Sit. Drink with me.”
I give him a look. “I can’t.”
“Why?” he asks, eyes dancing.
I glare at him.
But I can sit. The plug just buries itself deeper. My pussy clenches around nothing, a desperate little bitch, and I’m pretty sure if I stay here long enough, I’ll leave a wet patch on this very expensive sofa.
“Not there,” Declan says quietly. “Here.”
He tips his thigh, and I realize he wants me on his lap.
I toss back the whiskey, pour another, and obey.
The store clerk brings over some shoes. “Size six?” she asks.
I nod.
Declan turns my face and kisses me, moving me slightly on his lap.
It’s not until his fingers slip under my skirt, push my panties aside, and toy with my slit that I realize he repositioned me for him.
I am trapped.
My face burns hot while my insides melt.
The clerk slides the shoes onto my feet, chatting lightly with Declan.
But it’s all white noise to me. My only focus is the way his fingers move, the way his knuckles brush the plug, the way his touch flickers between the two sensations until I’m dizzy with need.
He finally stops. Licks his fingers in front of her while looking at me, and my entire body flushes.
He hands me his drink. The woman refills mine.
“We’ll try on the dresses,” Declan says casually.
My legs tremble as we head to the big dressing room. The curtain is thick here, the space roomy, a curved chaise in the center. Dresses hang in a curated line.
Declan pulls the curtain closed and kisses me like he’s starving.
I claw at his jacket, his shirt, his belt. My fingers find his cock, hard through his pants. But before I can stroke it, he grabs me, spins me, and pushes me over the side of the chaise.
“Grip the top, Molly.”
I do, knuckles white.
He pulls my panties down, bites my ass cheek, and tugs the plug free.
“Not here,” I choke out, my entire body buzzing and humming with anticipation.
“You say it like this doesn’t turn you on,” he murmurs.
He strokes his cock, the thick length glistening at the tip. I can’t tear my eyes away. “She can hear,” he says. “Whoever comes in the store can hear. If that doesn’t do it for you, I’ll stop.”
“No.” I shut my eyes. I hate him so much for being right. “No, it… it turns me on. I wish it didn’t, but…it does.”
“Ah, Molly. The devil lives in wishes.” His cock nudges my ass. He leans over me, breath hot against my neck. “Because I wish I didn’t want you with everything I am. You annoy me. You got me arrested.” His voice drops. “And yet I’d kill anyone who tried to take this sweet ass from me.”
He pushes in slowly.
It’s different from the plug. Hotter. Harder. Alive. He stretches me inch by inch, and the burn is beautiful and awful and perfect. I clutch the couch harder, my fingers digging into the fabric. He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit. He rubs it as he moves deeper.
“Harder,” I whisper. “Faster. Come in me. Please.”
“Christ, Molly,” he breathes. “You’re a dangerous lass.”
He starts to thrust. Careful at first. Then rougher as I push back against him, his fingers working a rhythm over my clit. Every stroke hits deep, the pressure building, coiling, tightening.
I come hard, my teeth digging into my lower lip to muffle the sound.
He follows, cock swelling and pulsing, hot spurts filling me. He bites my shoulder to hold his own sound in.
When he withdraws, I feel empty and much too aware of every sensation.
Then he slides the plug back into me and quickly shifts my panties and dress back into place. Declan kisses me again, slow and deep. “Now I own all of you,” he says softly.
Dangerous words.
“For now,” I answer.
“For now,” he echoes, amused.
He straightens. A slip of paper falls from his pocket.
I catch it before he can.
“‘Bang Bang. I’ll shoot you down, Marlowe.’” I read it aloud, heartbeat rocking into a sprint. “Is that for me?”
His expression shutters. “I don’t know. I saw it today.”
My throat tightens. “I thought… didn’t you kill my stalker?” The word still feels unreal on my tongue.
He exhales, then sinks onto the chaise. “Yes. I think so. But Molly, there’s a reason for the party. This might tie into the price on your head.”
“I don’t want to come with a tag,” I whisper.
He doesn’t laugh. And that scares me the most.
“I’m buying all this for you,” he says after a moment. “The dresses. The shoes. There’ll be lingerie delivered, too. Sit.” His gaze sharpens. “I need to go over our story with you. I’ve changed it. So listen like your life depends on it…”
The party is not the kind I’d ever throw. I recognize a handful of faces…donors to the ballet, people who smiled at me from a polite distance, never seeing past the pliés and pirouettes.
Now they’re mingling with criminals. Declan’s people. Zelda Ortega’s people. Callahan’s people. People who run money, drugs, guns, corporations, charities—all with the same ruthless efficiency.
Declan was right. All I really have to do is smile and look pretty while he does the actual work.
I tell myself I’m using him. That I’m letting him play husband because it keeps me alive. That I’m not the first woman he’s charmed—and that I won’t be the last.
But I can’t quite make myself believe it.
As my bodyguard, my fake husband, and my keeper, he hasn’t done more than flirt lightly with other women. He’s all charm, in general, but focused like a laser on me.
In my head, the words on that note pop like bullets.
Bang Bang. I’ll shoot you down, Marlowe.
The stalker’s handwriting. The dead stalker. The man Declan killed in the park.
I don’t know how that note got here. And that makes it a hundred times worse.
“…don’t you think?” a male voice says.
I blink back to the present.
Declan is talking to a cluster of old, rich, thoroughly corrupt men who are probably on my mother’s mental list of potential husbands for me. They exude power and entitlement. They also make my skin crawl.
“He was just telling us about your honeymoon,” one of them says, smiling a little too much. “Quite the romantic gesture.”
“In London,” I say smoothly. It’s a city I know just well enough to lie about.
And this whole elaborate story was designed to be an alibi that puts us out of the country at the time of the truckyard shootout, so details would be important.
“I couldn’t believe it. He surprised me with the trip before he even proposed. ”
I laugh lightly, hugging myself, letting the fantasy wrap around me like fog.
“I thought it was just a vacation,” I continue. “But we got there, he proposed, and… I’m boring you. I’ll let you talk business. I want to help my sister-in-law.”
It fits perfectly with the timeline Declan drilled into me. No one will press for specific dates, he said. If they do, they’re a problem because they’ll be trying to dissect the alibi. And we’re prepared for them.
The worst part is how easy it is for me to slip into the fantasy. To pretend this is all real. That we did take that trip. That he did surprise me with a ring.
So I do the smart thing.
I kiss Declan lightly. His hand rests warm on my back.
Then I scoot away.
I find Lucie in the living room where Tally is crawling under a table while Raff cheers her on.
“Need help?” I ask.
Lucie smiles tiredly. “Always.”
We wrangle kids while the party hums around us.
Mom made a brief appearance. She was, as always, controlled, brittle, and perfect.
I’m relieved when she leaves. Cal and Declan already fed her our fake London trip story.
It’s all she needs to know. Nobody told her about the real reason behind the story.
She has no idea that there are people trying to kill me so they can collect on a bounty.
She said she’d back it all up. That she loaned us the jet for the dates Declan gave her. That she’d make sure the flight shows in some log somewhere. And she’ll inform him if anyone asks about it.
It sounded practiced. Like she’s done this before.
I have no doubt she has.
I assume Declan told her it’s all part of the protection plan. And she evidently didn’t question him. I’m sure she’s cooperating because she probably wants this whole thing wrapped up quickly so she can get me back under her full control again.
I slip away for a moment when I get the chance, snag a glass of whiskey, and take it into the hallway.
Standing there, I watch.
Declan moves easily from group to group, smiling, charming, shaking hands with men I know are monsters, and men who just wear nicer suits.
I’m safe with Declan.
I repeat it like a spell. I don’t know if it’s true. I just know the alternative is worse.
A man appears at my side, as quiet as a shadow. When I turn to look, I recognize him as the cousin who has shown up at the house. I’ve heard his name. Roark. “Your man pulled it off,” he murmurs. “Time will tell if the story holds. Some people want those photos of you to be real.”
My throat tightens. “Do you think… they’ll believe they aren’t? I mean, I’d never—” The words die in my mouth. I would never do something that stupid. At least, not the part of it that involved cops and cartel.
Roark smiles, a dark little curve that makes me want to back away. “They were deep fakes. You got lucky falling in with the Murphy clan. Don’t fuck it up.”
I want to ask him if that means I’m safe. If the hit’s off. If I can go. If I can be free.
My tongue won’t move. My feet are nailed to the floor.
“I don’t think I’m the type people look at and see ‘criminal mastermind,’” I say instead. “And I’m glad you Murphys have my back.”
I pull in a breath and turn to say more.
But Roark is gone.
Leon appears in his place.
Behind him, watching from across the room, is Declan.
His expression is murder and possession and cold, sharpened ire.
And as Leon inches toward me, Declan moves forward, too, like a weapon drawn just for this occasion.
My pulse spikes.
Because suddenly the room is too small for both of them.
And I have no idea which man is about to pull the trigger.