36. Aoife
Aoife
The penthouse is quiet as I step inside. The echo of my heels fills the expansive space as I make my way toward Eamon’s office. The door is slightly ajar, and I find him standing by the windows, his silhouette illuminated by the city lights below.
He turns around as I step into the doorway, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Aoife,” he says, his voice low.
I set my clutch on the nearby table and meet his gaze, my posture calm even though the fire in his eyes is enough to make anyone else squirm.
“Tell me everything,” he says, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
“It went fine,” I say simply.
“Fine?” he asks, his posture tense, his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes are dark and burn with frustration. “Do you have any idea what you put me through tonight?”
“I told you I could handle it,” I say evenly.
“You went to his room,” he says, his voice low but no less biting. “Do you know how insane that is? I couldn’t watch you. I had no idea what he was doing, what he was planning.”
I sigh, crossing my arms as I meet his gaze. “You said you trusted me,” I remind him. “You said I was strong enough, smart enough to handle this. Was that a lie?”
“I do trust you,” he snaps, running a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to rein in his temper. “It’s him I don’t trust.”
“And you think I don’t know that?” I counter, my voice rising slightly. “You think I walked into this blind? I knew exactly what I was doing.”
Eamon takes a step closer, his jaw tight as he stares down at me. “You took a risk—a big one. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
His words carry tenderness, but I push it aside, refusing to back down. “You’re starting to sound like Ruairi,” I say, my tone cutting.
His eyes narrow, his expression hardening. “It’s not the same,” he growls. “I’m not trying to keep you out of anything. I’m not trying to control you. I care about you and want you to be safe.”
“And I appreciate that,” I say, softening my tone just slightly. “But if this—” I gesture between us “—is going to work, you’re going to have to trust me. Completely. I need to know you believe I can take control of a situation.”
Eamon hesitates, the tension in his jaw giving away his internal struggle. I can see the protectiveness warring with his respect for me.
“You said you trust me,” I repeat as I cross the room, closing the space between us. “Prove it,” I murmur, my voice dropping, taking on a seductive edge.
His blue eyes burn into mine as tension coils in every muscle of his powerful frame. “Aoife?—”
I don’t let him finish. My hands slide up his chest, over the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, until I reach the collar. Pulling him down toward me, I capture his lips in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s demanding and forceful. A statement of control.
Eamon groans against my mouth, his hands gripping my waist, but I’m quicker taking control as I press him back.
His legs bump the edge of the oversized black chair, and I push him down without hesitation.
His chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged breaths, restraint unraveling beneath my touch. There’s no resistance. Only surrender.
I climb onto his lap my black dress riding up slightly as I settle over him. His hands instinctively move to my hips, trying to take control, but I catch them, pinning them in place. Leaning in until my lips are at his ear, I whisper, “Tonight, I’m in charge.”
Eamon’s eyes, full of desire, darken as they lock onto mine. His hands flex under my grip, his need to touch me battling with his willingness to obey. “I’ll play your game, Aoife,” he says, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “But don’t forget, when it’s my turn, you won’t stand a chance.”
A thrill races through me at his words, but I don’t let him see it. Instead, I grind against him, feeling the hard evidence of his arousal pressing into me. He groans low in his throat as his hands tighten beneath mine.
“Let’s see if you can survive tonight first,” I tease as I lean down to kiss him again, this time slower, drawing him further into my control.
My fingers glide down the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, slipping open one button at a time.
Each inch of exposed skin reveals the hard ridges of his chest, warm beneath my touch.
His breath deepens, chest rising with anticipation as my lips skim his throat, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
“You’re not used to this, are you?” I ask.
“Used to what?” he manages.
“Not being in control.”
His mouth sets into a hard line, but his eyes stay locked on mine, burning with unspoken agreement. I smile, leaning in to brush my lips against his collarbone before easing off his lap.
My fingers toy with the hem of my dress, pulling it up slowly, just enough to show the curve of my thighs, before dragging it higher, over my hips, then up and over my head. The dress falls to the floor in a silken pool, leaving me in nothing but my black lace bra and matching knickers.
Eamon’s eyes are glued to me, dark and hungry, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. I revel in the power that surges through me, knowing I have this strong, commanding man completely at my mercy.
Reaching behind me, I unclip my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms in a slow, deliberate tease. The fabric falls away, and I bring my hands to my breasts, cupping them, letting my fingers tease and play as I watch him struggle to hold himself back.
“Do you like what you see?” I ask, my voice dripping with confidence.
His groan is deep, guttural as his hands grip the arms of the chair like it’s the only thing keeping him from lunging at me.
“More than you know,” he says, his voice hoarse.
I take a step closer, my hands moving to the buckle of his belt. He sits perfectly still, watching as I undo it, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. But as I reach for the button of his pants, his hand darts out, grazing my wrist.
I pull back immediately, shaking my head with a sly smile. “No touching.”
He lets out a low growl, his head falling back against the chair.
I chuckle, relishing the control, the way his restraint only adds to his tension. “Pull your pants down,” I command, my tone firm but laced with seduction.
For a moment, he hesitates, his pride warring with his desire. But then his hands move to his waistband, and he does as I ask, pushing his pants and boxers down, freeing his arousal.
“Good boy,” I purr, stepping closer until I’m standing between his legs.
I drop to my knees in front of him, the cool floor pressing against my skin as I look up at him through my lashes. His eyes are wild, blazing with a mixture of frustration and raw need, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare break my rule.
I wrap my hand around his hard length, stroking him slowly, teasingly, as I let my tongue dart out, grazing the tip. His head falls back, and I take him fully into my mouth.
The sound he makes sends a thrill through me, a rush of power that fuels me as I set a slow, deliberate pace. My hands hold his hips, keeping him firmly in place as I take him deeper, my tongue swirling, teasing, drawing out every shudder, every gasp.
“Fuck, Aoife,” he groans, his voice raw and broken, his hands gripping the chair so tightly his knuckles are white.
I revel in the effect I have on him. The way this man, so powerful, so in control, has completely unraveled under my touch. I let him feel it all, the heat, the pressure, the deliberate strokes designed to drive him to the edge.
When his breathing grows ragged and his body tenses beneath me, I pull back slightly, my lips brushing against him as I murmur, “Not yet.”
He groans again, his head falling forward, his dark eyes meeting mine with a pleading intensity.
“Please,” he breathes, his voice thick with desperation.
“Please what?” I ask, my tone light, almost mocking, as I lean in closer, my lips hovering just out of reach. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
His jaw clenches, his pride warring with his need, but I can see the moment he gives in.
“Please,” he says again, his voice rough, filled with raw hunger.
His jaw tightens as he forces the next words out, his pride all but shattered.
“I want your pretty lips wrapped around my cock. I want to watch you take me in your mouth. I need to come down your throat and hear you moan while you do it.”
The graphic confession sends a jolt of heat through me, power coursing through my veins as I watch him unravel. A slow, wicked smile tugs at my lips as I lean in, brushing my fingers lightly along his jaw before trailing them down the hard lines of his chest.
“Was that so hard?” I murmur, my voice laced with teasing confidence.
His eyes blaze as they lock onto mine, his lips parting with a sharp intake of breath. “You’re a fucking goddess, Aoife Quigley,” he growls, the words raw and reverent, spoken like a man who’s completely undone.
I chuckle softly, savoring the way his body trembles under my touch, the tension in his muscles a testament to the hold I have over him. His need is palpable, a storm I control with nothing more than a look, a touch, a whispered word.
I let the moment linger before taking him fully once more.
The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, coaxing him further into submission until I feel him begin to shake, his control slipping entirely.
When his release overtakes him, his body shudders with the force of it, and my name spills from his lips.
Not as a command but as a plea, a prayer answered only by my touch.
As I rise to my feet, his gaze follows me, full of something raw and unspoken. I lean down, brushing my lips against his ear.
“Now you see what happens when you trust me,” I whisper, my voice soft but full of power.
“You win,” he says finally, his voice hoarse but carrying a hint of amusement.
But before I can revel in my victory for too long, his hands shoot out, gripping my waist as he stands in one fluid motion. A surprised gasp escapes as he effortlessly hoists me over his shoulder, his hand resting firmly on the back of my thighs.
“Now it’s my turn,” he growls, his voice dark and full of promise. “Let’s see if you can handle what happens when I’m in charge.”
My breath catches, heat surging through me as he strides toward the bedroom, every step purposeful. I let him take me, a thrill coursing through my veins at his possessiveness, his strength.
There’s no protest, no fight—I don’t want to stop him. Instead, I smile to myself as I realize something undeniable. As much as I love the control, there’s a raw kind of pleasure in surrendering it to him, like stepping into the fire and daring it to burn.