Chapter 5
FIVE
seamus
She’s dazed, looking like she just got fucked. I’m hard as a rock as I suck on her throat, trying to work out what the actual fuck just happened.
Who the hell did we just kill, who was already dead behind that tree. I jumped the fence minutes after she went through the gate and waited in the darkness, so I’m drawing blanks.
I know she didn’t kill the first guy, but I have no idea what went on with the second one.
I did see the look on her face when she found out I lifted the jewels from her, though.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m not about to let a girl with a serious agenda have any kind of upper hand. I want her stripped down and begging with me holding all the cards.
She’s made it damn clear she doesn’t like me or my family, and I don’t like her, either.
I am, however, beyond attracted to her.
But I can shut that shit down in a second if I need to. Attraction and hatred don’t have to be mutually exclusive. And I can ignore the attraction when I have to.
But right now…
I adjust myself, lift my head, and look at her again. Her dark eyes are less glassy. Good. I need her head straight.
I don’t say a word as I take her hand and lead her to the tiny bar we passed.
I know it well. I pretty much know all the dives and dens of iniquity in New York.
Both for pleasure and for business. It’ll be somewhat crowded now but it’s not a place where people go to be seen or get in anyone’s business.
The music is old-school rock, and I lead her to the darkest corner of the bar. Then I hang her bag on the hook near my knees.
Just in case there are any more surprises in there. After ordering two Jack and Cokes, I put a hand on her thigh, gripping the flesh tight.
“So… about that talk we were going to have, sweet thing.”
“Stop calling me that.” The snap of her voice holds a shake, but I don’t know if it’s from me fingering her from zero to orgasm in two seconds or from killing Olaf the idiot.
I slip a finger higher, pushing at the cotton of her dress.
I stroke against that crease where her thigh meets her hip and she sucks in a breath. “And stop that, too.”
“You’re the one who kissed me,” I say. “You’re the one who came on my fingers.”
“Because you put them where they don’t belong.”
I smile slowly. “Maybe they do belong there. As a holding place for bigger, better things.”
She grips the edge of the bar and snatches her drink with her other hand. “Look, I’m not of any interest to you—”
“But you are, sweet thing.”
“That’s not my name.”
“What is it?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“I’m—”
“A Murphy.” She says it with such vitriol that I let it go. My interest hikes up a notch. And I slip my fingers around to where her thighs part.
She doesn’t clamp her legs together as I venture lower, under the lace of her panties, down the front, over her bare, warm flesh, to stroke her engorged clit.
Fuck, her skin is velvety soft, her clit perfection in the way it throbs against my fingers, and her little moan the sound that could launch a thousand wet dreams. I go lower, sliding between her folds, and one of her hands grabs my forearm.
But all she does is push me down lower, so I have better access.
Holy fuck.
I don’t trust a single thing about her.
Not one.
But this… the blatant need and desire, I believe that. It’s the only truth I’ve gotten from her. Want and need, desire and lust. And hate. That one’s blazingly true.
Only, I don’t know why.
I lean in. “Tell me, sweet thing, did I go and ruin your little plan to blow up the Romanov mansion? Because I gotta tell you, you’ll need better bombs than that. Even the Semtex ones were crap.”
“The Semtex? I didn’t—” She stops, snaps her lips closed, and tries to push me away, even though I’m two knuckles deep in her tight, hot wetness. I don’t move.
“Didn’t what? Set that bomb?”
“I don’t fool with shit like that. Stop touching me.”
Fuck, do I want to ignore her. But I don’t. I take my time, curling my fingers to rub her G-spot as I draw them out as her low, hissing moan wraps around me.
“But you set the others. Who taught you to make Irish-style bombs? That certain kind of Irish-style bomb.” The bombs I grew up making, the ones I knew Paddy made, too. That same style.
All bombs are different, but these little homegrown ones are specific to where we ruled those streets back in Ireland.
So yeah, I’m pretty fucking interested, and if she knew Paddy, then my lack of like might shrivel down into hate.
No matter how tasty she is.
But right now, she’s a toy for me to play with. And I will try all the little cords, switches, and buttons to figure out her angle.
In truth, I’m not overly interested in Romanov or Assisi. But I’m interested in why this little Russian princess is running around like she’s a patchwork of girl in trouble, a mad bomber, thief, and gangster with some serious skills.
I want her story.
Because whatever it is has to do with my family.
Paddy’s fucking dead. I killed him.
But if she knew him, I want to know how and why.
Paddy’s been gone since Lucie and Cal got together, which was a while ago. It’s been about a year now on top of that since Torin and Harry married.
It’s a long time to wait for revenge.
But then again the whole Paddy thing might just be a coincidence, and my family did something else she’s harboring a grudge over. What? I don’t know, but I’ll find out. I always do.
“I didn’t do anything with bombs.” She sniffs and has another sip of her drink.
She’s lying.
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, this hasn’t been fun,” she mutters as she moves on her seat like she’s trying to get comfortable—or maybe get off. I really don’t know. I’m no longer touching her, and she glares at me like I’m the one at fault for that.
But she told me not to.
The only reason I touched her in the first place was to get her talking, but if she wants to draw lines, then she can deal with the frustration.
“But?” I prompt, feeling in her bag without her knowing. Keys and a phone. I lift the phone on the off chance she’s one of those who slides a credit card or driver’s license in the case.
“But I have to meet someone,” she says. “I’ve got plans.”
I raise a brow. “A third victim of the night? You are an industrious one.”
“The only victim I’m interested in is you.”
I laugh. “Oh, sweet thing, I know that. It’s the Irish charm; the ladies can’t resist it.”
“I meant victim as in dead.”
“Dead sexy?” I ask. “I’m aware I am.”
“I’m meeting my boyfriend,” she seethes, eyes slits of rage.
I lean in close, brushing her lips with mine. “A little late and a little defiled, wouldn’t you agree?”
She snatches her bag off the hook. And I let her because I’m sitting in the chair closest to the door, and if she thinks I won’t stop her from leaving, then she can damn well think again. She hasn’t given me a fucking thing. Yet. But she will.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
She stomps off to the back where the restrooms are. I throw some cash on the bar and follow, leaning against the wall opposite as she enters one of the rooms.
I pull out the phone I palmed while I was going through her bag. It’s locked and there isn’t a fucking credit card or driver’s license slipped down the back of the case. There’s no wallpaper, either. Fuck.
The moment the door starts to open, I push inside and flip the lock. I hold the phone in front of her face.
It doesn’t open.
“I use a password only, asshole,” she snaps, trying to grab it.
I pull it out of her reach. “Seems suspicious.”
“Like I care.” She tries to get it again and I hold it a little higher so she has to jump, and she pushes up against me as she does so.
I’ve had enough. I curl an arm around her and push her into the locked door, the muffled music and customer noise leaking through.
Her phone buzzes, and I glance at it. Private number. So, of course, I answer it.
“Where are you—?” a female voice says before the hot, black-haired vixen knocks the phone from my hand and it smashes down on the floor.
We stare at each other. “Your boyfriend sounds interesting.”
“My life’s got nothing to do with you.”
“You robbed Romanov. As his security, it’s my business.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re as much security for him as I am. Did Assisi or Iosif decide to hire Irish mafia, or do you have a deal with one of them?”
I run my mouth along her throat, tasting her with my tongue, her skin alive, a buzz of energy beneath my lips, and I suck on a spot before I bite down on her.
She cries out. Breathy, full of need. Her hands come down on my ass, pulling me in against her.
“Are you always a cat in heat, or is it me who brings it out of you?” I ask her.
She lets out a low growl and tries to push me away. “Maybe I’ve got some masochistic need where I like to torture myself by—”
“Let me see… by getting filthy with Irish scum. Been there, heard that, though not in the good ol’ US of A.”
“Go back home, then.”
“I am. Half American, sweet thing.” I take her chin and tilt her head up to the light. Her eyes aren’t brown; they’re the color of the darkest purple black, fucking mesmerizing, and her full lips are still red, even without her lipstick.
She has high cheekbones, pale skin, and her long black hair brushes low, near the middle of her back, the cut highlighting a face like the kind of art that doesn’t need a frame.
“Who’s Olaf?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him before.”
There’s truth in that, full of frustration. She’s after something. And I’m thinking it just might have to do with that crest. “And yet you stabbed him.”
“I’d stab you, too.”
I hand her my switchblade. “Be my guest.”
She flicks it open and I spin her, grabbing the back of her neck before forcing her over the sink. I push her so her face is close to the mirror, her fine ass grinding against my junk.
“Well,” she spits, “at least you’re packing.”
I’m about to say we both know that since I already shot someone for her, but then I laugh as her meaning sets in. I rub myself against her. “You want some, is that it?”
She whimpers, her teeth clenching and her fist tightening on my knife as it clinks against the sink. “You wish.”
I flip up her skirt, hook my thumbs beneath the black lace of her panties, and step back.
“No, don’t—”
“I haven’t done anything,” I say, pulling her panties out so they ride along her slit and rub her. “Yet.”
She rocks against the thin fabric, and my cock is danger zone hard, so hard the piercings I have hurt in that painfully fucking good way.
It slows things down, but not for long since the scent of her, the way she feels and sounds, the taste I’ve already had make her an aphrodisiac from head to foot.
“Please…” she says, her voice a low moan. Then she grips the edge of the sink with her other hand and her catnip fire anger flares into a blaze as she meets my eyes in the mirror. “If you’re going to fuck me, do it.”
“Since you asked so nicely…” I rip her panties to the side and then I unzip, pulling out my hard cock. I don’t even need to run my fingers over the ladder on each side of my cock, top and underside. I’m that hard, and she’s that wet.
Instead, I push her lower back down so her feet have to spread to keep her from smashing into the glass, and I thrust into her, a growl of satisfaction on my lips.
Fuck, she’s tight.
Her pussy clenches, pulling me in, and I go balls deep. Then I pull out and slam back in and her eyes roll up. “Oh fuck. What the hell? You’re pierced? That’s… oh… my… God…”
I slam into her, rocking her upward, taking my fill. I’m not interested in a rhythm or any kind of seduction.
This is a stripping bare, a domination. It’s dirt-level fucking and I want to be as deep as I can, as hard as I can, as rough as I can.
Every thrust into her pulls on my piercings, her sweet, soft flesh fluttering around them. And when I pull out, the drag works the other way, like I’m being worked over from every fucking direction.
She’s gasping and moaning and she pushes back into me, meeting me thrust for thrust. She’s just as rough and hard like she needs it as deep and intense as I do.
I watch her face in the mirror, then grab her hair and pull back her head to keep her looking at me. I don’t know her name or who she is, and she doesn’t know mine, apart from the fact that I’m a Murphy.
It’s full-on, no-holds-barred fucking and I’m going to come.
The orgasm ripples down my spine and up through my balls.
Her cunt gets tighter as she pushes up into me and down on the sink’s edge, and then she starts to writhe, spasming hard, right as I fuck into her so hard that when I come, I almost black out.
My cock pulsates in her, filling her wet pussy, and when I’m done, I pull out, flip her around, and push her down to her knees, shoving my cock into her mouth so she can clean me off.
It’s not a nice act to perform on someone I don’t know, but I don’t particularly care. This has been building since I tackled her to the ground outside the wedding celebration. Instead of fighting me, my dirty girl opens wide and sucks me down to the back of her throat, her tongue working me hard.
A flash of silver catches my eye and I shove her away, the knife arcing through the air, narrowly missing my chest. I grab her by the hair and tuck myself away with my free hand before tugging her up.
There’s no knife in her hand. I glance down to find it and realize my mistake at the last second as she slashes at my thigh. I stagger backward and she’s on her feet. In a hot second, she flees out the fucking door.
I sigh and take off after her.
She’s already out the front door, and by the time I toss the bartender a hundred, she’s just disappearing around a corner on Essex Street.
I follow at a jog.
She only scratched my leg when she could have sliced into me, but I don’t take that as postcoital anything. She wanted out the door; she didn’t want to fight. So she went for the element of surprise.
After giving me a nice taste of what her blow jobs might be like.
She wanted my cock.
Sure, I didn’t give her much choice, but she took me more than willingly.
I stop. There’s a lot of construction here, no other bars. And to my right is a building that’s going to be demolished.
The door’s open.
I edge up, female voice floating outside. I step in the doorway and they stop.
Someone moves, but I can’t make much out since it’s dark in here and my eyes haven’t adjusted.
I take one more step forward, right as something slams into my head. My legs buckle and everything goes black.