Chapter 6 Liam
Liam
“Ididn’t go to the police.”
The words leave her lips in a breathless rush, but I am not ready to believe them. Not yet.
I tighten my grip on her waist and give her hair a sharp warning tug—enough to tilt her head back and bare the long, pale column of her throat. Fragile thing, her throat. A single squeeze could crush it. A single kiss could bruise it.
My cock will ruin it.
“Who did you see?”
My mind cycles through variables like a grand master over a chessboard. If she went to the cops, which precinct? I have O’Malley in the 12th and Hannon in the 19th. If she went to the Feds, it’s a deeper mess.
I run through the lawyers on retainer—Goldman for the clean work, Vance for the dirty. I calculate how long it would take to sanitize the apartment, erase the trace of my blood from her floorboards, and make Elexia Carter disappear if she’s become a liability.
No. Not disappear like that. I intend to keep her very close.
Her pulse flutters wildly beneath my thumb. She’s terrified. Good. Fear makes people honest.
“I…I saw my grandmother,” she stammers.
I pause. The calculations halt. Grandmother?
I ease my hold on her hair, shifting my hand to her throat—loose, not choking, but a reminder of my control.
“Explain.” My mouth brushes her ear.
“I was scared,” she whispers. “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid the police wouldn’t protect me. From you.”
I inhale her scent, vanilla, rain, fear, and track the rhythm of her heart. It is fast, erratic, but steady in its truth. I’ve spent a lifetime separating truth from deceit in pub backrooms and corporate boardrooms.
She didn’t run to the law. She didn’t run to my enemies. She ran to an old woman.
Intrigue replaces rage. “Why your grandmother?”
“She’s really smart,” Elexia breathes. “And I trust her more than anyone. And… I have no one else.”
“And what did she say?” I caress her neck, savoring her shiver.
“She…she told me to apologize.” She swallows hard.
The air goes still.
“Go on, Luv. I won’t bite. At least not yet.”
She takes a deep breath. “She told me to…to apologize to you.”
The silence stretches for a beat. And then, heated amusement ripples through me. Her grandmother told her to apologize. To the man she kidnapped and drugged.
I slowly turn her, switching our positions until I press her back against the wall. My hand remains on her throat, tender, my thumb brushing her jaw.
“Did you speak to anyone else?”
Her fingers curl onto the wall like she wants to melt through it to escape. She bites her lower lip, glancing down. “How angry will you be if I say yes?”
Tension snaps back into my shoulders and neck like a whip. My mind races through my calculations again. “Tell me now, Lexie.”
She inhales deep and gathers herself. “Okay. I spoke to the receptionist.”
I blink. “What was that now?”
She shrugs, offering a little smile. “She had to buzz me in.”
All the tension drains, leaving me with the sheer absurdity. I grin, shaking my head. “Bloody Christ, you’re adorable.”
She squeezes her shoulders, looking relieved. “I thought the mood needed lightening.”
I give her a dastardly grin. “Ye did, did ye?”
Before she can react, I sweep her off her feet, tossing her over my shoulder like a sack of grain.
“What are you doing?!” she squeals, pounding her fists on my back.
“You still drugged and handcuffed me, Lexie Darlin’.” I stride towards the living room. “It’s time for some punishment.”
I dump her onto the couch, but she fumbles, rolling off the other side and making for the front door.
A dark, rich sound leaves my throat. I let her take two steps, then catch her by the waist. Frantic, she pushes against me. What a sight with her nipples pressing hard against her pink peasant dress.
“Trying to run, mo Róisín?”
Seizing her wrist, I pull her flush against me, then twist her red-gold hair around my wrist until her head falls back, and she offers me her eyes.
“Are ye going to be a good girl for me now? After all, Luv, ye zip-tied and handcuffed me. Only fair for the turnaround.”
She pants, her brows scrunching together. “You mean ‘turnabout’s fair play’?”
I shrug. “Potato, potahto.”
The moment her eyes drop to my lips, I march her over to the kitchen table and bend her over the edge, pressing her chest against the wood. Plates rattle as her hips hit the surface.
“Stay.” My hand firms at her back.
She arches. “Liam, wait—”
“Quiet. Be good. Or your punishment will be worse.”
To my surprise, she obeys. She watches my movements as I select one of many mafia romances from the nearby bookshelf. The gray in her pretty orbs turns silver.
Arriving at the table again, I reach down and lift the back of her dress, bunching the fabric up at her waist. My, my, my. The sight sends a chuckle rumbling in my chest.
Pink cotton underwear. Plain. Practical. And covered in tiny pit bulls with wings.
“Adorable.” I move closer so she feels my arousal.
She squirms, her face pressed against the table. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” I rub my thumb along the elastic. “Don’t admire what’s mine? Or don’t pretend you don’t want this?”
She shuts her mouth. So, I weigh the mafia book, showing off the dark, brooding cover she loves so much.
“You like these bad mafia boys in the books, Lexie?” My accent thickens. “Let’s see if you can handle one in your very own kitchen.”
She stiffens the moment I bring the book down against her backside—a sharp thwack that makes her gasp and squeak. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting.
“Hmm,” I muse and open the book, placing it in front of her face.
“Hey! Don’t crack the spine,” she protests.
Christ, must every word from her mouth, every deed she does, and every move she makes be so damn precious?
“Read. Out loud. Let me hear what you’ve been fantasizing about.”
Her voice trembles, “‘He pressed the cold barrel of the gun against my temple, his eyes dark with—’”
I bring the book down again, another stinging slap. She yelps.
“Wrong. No self-respecting boss would press a gun to a woman’s temple. Too much risk of accidental discharge. You’d press it to the base of the skull or the ribs. Control, Lexie. It’s always about control.”
“I…I didn’t write it—”
“Keep reading.”
She fumbles for another passage. “‘The Don’s men surrounded the warehouse, their silencers gleaming in the moonlight—’”
Another smack. She cries out, her hips jerking against the table. Her fingers claw at the surface.
“Silencers don’t gleam,” I correct, lowering my tone. “They’re matte black. And we call them suppressors, not silencers. Your romance authors need to do better research.”
“Oh…“ she whimpers. “Liam, please—”
“Please, what?”
A pause. A tear falls. Sweat glistening her cheeks. “Um…I-I don’t know.”
Eager to see what lies beyond those pretty, pink panties, I give her five more smacks, then set the book aside. I smirk, finding the cotton damp, her wetness confirming what I suspected.
Turning her onto her back, I admire her state. Her pretty breasts pushed tight against the fabric of her dress, her nipples so hard, I swear I see the rosy pink. Now, I spread her legs and step between them, grinning. My dick rubs her inner thigh. She moans, shock and yearning coloring her face.
“Are you going to…? Oh, God!”
Aye. I am indeed.