Chapter Twenty-Three
Sophie…
Michael didn't wear a condom.
It's the first thing I think about when I wake up the next morning, along with a vivid sensation of how it felt to have his piercing rub against me inside without the blunting edge of the condom.
That explains why I came so hard, I think wryly.
Then I remember him reaching down with his long fingers and pushing his come back inside me in some sort of wildly feral act, and if he was still in the house, I would climb him like a redwood right now.
I don't initiate sex often because usually he is on me like a starving man the minute he walks through the door.
But he always has a look of pleased surprise when I do.
As if just thinking about the potential complications from unprotected sex brought it on, I'm hit with a sudden bolt of nausea when I look at the omelet Davina created for me this morning.
Fortunately, she's upstairs cleaning and doesn't hear me race for the bathroom, retching miserably.
Wiping my sweaty face, I avoid looking in the mirror.
I'm not hung over, I had maybe two sips of champagne during a toast last night.
Maybe it's a stomach bug.
Then I recall my other revelation from last night, and I text Michael.
I have a proposition for you.
He texts back within moments. Would that be a sexual one?
Well, that depends. This could be a multiple part proposition.
This is bantering. I’m bantering with my usually stern husband.
Did you say a multiple positions proposition? He texts back.
Oh yeah, we're bantering.
Okay, you're getting me off track here. It is a business proposition! Would you have time to talk to me about it today?
Of course, I'll be home early. You and I have a business dinner with a client tonight.
A business dinner? This is good, isn't it? First the gala, then the birthday party and now a business dinner with a client. He really wants people to see us for what we are, husband and wife.
“Tell me about your business proposition," I pause, mascara wand in my hand as Michael walks through the bedroom door that afternoon, looking unjustly handsome after a long day of breaking bones or breaking laws.
“I had the idea last night at the party,” I say, giving my lashes a final sweep of mascara. “Mom’s cake was incredible, right? This is a woman who can make dozens and dozens of desserts and they’re all perfect.”
His smile fades slightly. “Aye, we miss her dessert rewards at family dinner.” I’ve noticed that they haven’t had one since our fall from grace.
“Anyway,” I hurry on. “You told me that we would figure it out, how Mom fits into this new world order. Would you consider a business loan so that she can open a bake shop? I will, of course, create a business plan to show you. There’s even a couple of locations by the university that would be perfect, with enough foot traffic and population density to support it. ”
Michael leans against the wall, curling his hand on the top of the door. The sheer enormousness of this man still amazes me every day.
“I think…” he looks surprised, like I’m a gerbil that just started spouting calculus. “That’s a grand idea. Brilliant, in fact.”
“I took business classes,” I say haughtily. “My minor in college.”
“Well done,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “What does Martha think about it?”
“I didn’t want to discuss it with her until I knew if it was a possibility,” I answer honestly.
Pulling me to my feet, he looks at me, examining my expression, bringing me closer until I’m pressed against him.
“I dinnae know it was possible to find yet another way that ye could turn me on, but there it is. Your business sense.” With some alarm, I can feel him growing hard against my stomach. “Come on then,” he groans. “Let’s get this dinner over with.”
“It's a waste of this private room,” Michael grumbles, his hand firm on my lower back as he guides me over to our table.
"What do you mean? It’s beautiful here,” I say. The alcove is surrounded by two distressed brick walls. The other sides are glassed-in, with windows that overlook Edinburgh and there's a door for servers to discreetly slip in and out.
“Why do you say it's a waste?” I ask.
“Because if we weren't forced to meet this arsehole, I could have ye up against one of these windows. Ye could watch the city as I feck ye from behind, butterfly.” He rests his hands on my waist, his thumbs stroking and circling over my hip bones.
He really shouldn't be talking like this. When Michael is in business mode, he never deviates back into the filthy Michael, I often get at home. And always deeply appreciated.
"Well, now you've got me sad about it too,” I stumble over the words, blushing furiously. “Anything I need to know about this client?”
“His family's mafia runs a drug trade through Sydney. He says he's interested in our unregulated pharmaceutical line and wants to bring shipments down to Australia. He’s the third son and I’m thinking this is the first time Daddy’s given him any responsibility.
He’s thirty-eight, but he dinnae act it. ”
Michael irritably straightens his cuffs. He looks so good, his dark hair swept back, broad shoulders filling out that suit jacket so nicely…
“He's also an arrogant prick."
"Yeah he sounds like a lot of fun," I say. “Maybe you can make a quick deal and then send him off to one of your Uncle Lachlan's sex clubs. That should keep him busy."
Michael smiles at me with a certain sexy and sinister glee. “He's your Uncle Lachlan now too. I’m thinking we might visit one of his clubs sometime soon.”
I didn’t see that one coming…
Rory Carmichael is pretty much everything that Michael described; blonde and tan, bloodshot eyes with a compulsive sniffing habit that makes him look like he either has severe allergies or indulges in too much of his own product. I'm guessing the latter.
There is one pleasant surprise, he brought his sister Carrie with him.
She's also blonde and in her early 30s, and I'm pretty sure inherited most of the brains in the family.
The McTavish clan may have no problem putting women into leadership positions, but unfortunately, not all the crime world has been as eager to catch up.
In any other sensible mafia, Carrie would be running the show, not her drug-addled brother.
“A pleasure,” she says warmly, giving my hand a firm shake.
The conversation at first is pleasant, a little stilted. Though things start warming up by the main course of braised lamb with parmesan orzo.
“Our lamb is better in Australia," Rory grumbles, shoving another piece into his mouth. I catch Carrie’s fingers tightening on her fork, but other than that, she remains composed and pleasant.
Unfortunately, by the time the Campanelli pasta with orange zest is served, Rory is drunk enough to be bold.
“These prices are ridiculous,” he says. “Think about it, I'm giving you access into all of Australia. Fifty percent is more than generous.”
“Not when you're expecting me to handle the shipping margins,” Michael says evenly.
Then, Rory makes his last mistake of the night. He points his fork and says, “What? I know some of your partners have been jumping ship. Things getting a bit sloppy, hey? This is an opportunity you should be grateful to pick up!”
All I see is a flash of silver, and then hear the shrill scream as Rory looks down at his hand, the fork clattering from his fingers.
Because Michael shoved his knife through Rory’s hand, pinning it to the table.
Holy shit, Jordan whispers. That’s hardcore.
"Shut your mouth, Rory," Carrie says sharply. She’s careful not to make any sudden moves, watching her brother twitch like a landed trout.
Turning to us, she says smoothly, "My apologies for my brother. He is, as you can see, very eager to start business with you, but apparently, left his good manners - and good sense - back in Bondi Beach.”
Rory's eyes are bulging, but he grits his teeth, not making a sound as he stares at his hand.
Michael slices off another piece of lamb and chews it, nodding graciously at her apology as I sit frozen between them.
The blood is spreading out on the white tablecloth under Rory's pinned hand and it's all I can look at.
There's another discussion between Michael and Carrie about percentages and then after five minutes, Michael leans over and pulls the knife out of his new “business partner's” hand.
"As discussed with Carrie here, she'll be overseeing operations on this alliance,” Michael says pleasantly.
Rory, who is wrapping his hand and a linen napkin, just nods.
“Should this management agreement change, we’ll suspend operations immediately.”
Carrie holds out her hand, her smile sharp and triumphant. “You have our word, the Carmichael Mafia is looking forward to doing business with you.”
They don’t stay for dessert.
The moment the door closes behind them, Michael locks it before heading for me. I know that expression, and it usually indicates that my undies are about to be ripped off.
I meet him halfway, cupping his face in my hands, feeling his 5 o'clock shadow scrape my palms.
Shouldn't I be horrified? I'm not.
My husband just stabbed someone’s hand so hard that the blade drove into the table and it took a bit of effort pulling it back out again. A mafia son who was so intimidated by my husband that he sat there with his knife in his hand until Michael pulled it back out again.
His mouth drives against mine, his tongue forcing my lips open, and there's the taste of the red wine he had with dinner. Groaning, I slide one hand down to squeeze his ass, groping him greedily the way he does to me.
“I'd feck you on the table,” he says huskily. “But we’d get blood on your pretty dress. Window, it is.”
I shriek as he flips me around, pushing me face first against the window, my hands braced by my head.
He kicks my legs apart, flipping up my dress, and pulling my undies off so hard that it leaves a red mark on my hip. He shoves them into my mouth, I can taste my own arousal and it’s shocking. It’s filthy.
I love it.
“You're going to have to be quiet here,” he whispers diabolically in my ear.
“Be my good girl.” His hands are on my breasts, tugging the neckline of my dress and my bra cups down, toying with my nipples, tugging on them.
I can feel his cock hard and throbbing against my lower back.
I slip my hand between us, gently squeezing it.
“Harder.” Michael rasps the order in my ear and I do, unzipping him blindly. He helps me by opening his pants and pulling it out for me and I get an idea. Turning around. I slide to my knees grinning up at him wickedly as I pull my undies out of my mouth.
“Put your hands on the window, sweetheart. Don't move them,” I say in an echo of what he always tells me. His red shaft is throbbing, and I wrap my fingers around it, feeling the pulse beat, he’s already rock hard.
Opening my lips, I suck in the head, running my tongue along the thick vein throbbing on the underside of his cock as one of my hands pulls his balls, rolling them gently.
“Feck…” he grunts. I look up to see his head tilted back, his expression tortured as I push more of him into my mouth.
When he hits the back of my throat, my eyes water, but I angle my neck, trying to take more of him.
He looks down, surprised as he feels his cock slip down my throat, and I swallow hard against him, trying to breathe through my nose.
“Holy fecking shite,” he moans. “You're killing me.” Running his fingers along the thin skin of my throat, he growls as he touches the bulge his cock makes.
“I can feel myself. Such a good girl.” I swallow again, mouth wet and sloppy and pull back just enough to slip him out to the tip of his cock and then do it again.
This time his hips move, helping me as his hand goes into my hair, holding my head steady as he uses my mouth.
“Tell me if I'm hurting you,” he says between gritted teeth.
He isn't.
It's overwhelming. It's too much, but his cock is always this way, too much and I'm learning to love the feel of him, and the sense of being overwhelmed. In this moment though, I have control, even if he’s gripping my hair.
I'm the one making him moan. The hard ball of his piercing slides up and down my throat and it reminds me of how unbelievably good it felt yesterday inside me.
“I'm going to come,” he warns, his hand loosening in my hair. “Pull off me if you…”
I don't.
Arching my neck even more, I swallow him down as hard as I can. His eyes widen as he thrusts into my mouth. ”Feck! Ye beautiful fecking lass. Such a good girl.”
He's far enough down that the only thing I can feel is the warmth of his come. I pull back slightly and swallow until he’s spent and shuddering, just the way he makes me. My hands slide down the back of his thighs, and he abruptly steps away from me, pulling his cock from my mouth.
“Come butterfly, let me help ye up.” He pulls me to my feet and runs his tongue along my swollen lips, kissing me before he tucks his dick back in his pants and zips up. “You're too good at that,” he warns and I smile sweetly.
“Beginner’s luck I guess, though I will tell you that I read a lot of lady porn.”
Michael breaks into a genuine, startled laugh and it makes me so happy to see it. “Lady porn?”
“Yes, Maisie and I switch dark romance books back-and-forth all the time. Just because I hadn’t done it, doesn't mean I wasn’t interested.”
Smoothing back my hair back, he shakes his head. “Ye can practice anytime ye like on me, my bride."
The drive is quiet as Torin and Ian drive us home. Michael sighs and takes my hand, resting it on his thigh. I can feel his sculpted muscles ripple under my fingers and it's unreasonably arousing.
“It's a pity that Martha's bake shop isn't already up and running,” he says reflectively. “I could devour one of her chocolate eclairs right now.”
I look over at the shadowed profile of my husband, who finished off his lamb shank after pinning a man to the table with his knife. I think about sucking him, the groans he made, the fact that watching him do that turned me on so much that the door barely shut before I had his dick in my mouth.
Maybe I’m as bad as he is.
Maybe I don’t care.