Chapter 34 Nuala
Nuala
“Logan,” I chide as he comes up behind me, cupping my breasts and squeezing my nipples until they are aching peaks, waiting to be sucked.
“We’re in a changing room,” I hiss, meeting his gaze in the mirror. The navy suit transforms him. He looks lethal, polished, and terrifyingly hot.
“I don’t give a fuck.” His teeth graze the sensitive side of my neck.
His hand drops to cup my pussy, and he squeezes. My breath hitches. I arch my back, pressing my backside against him. The hard ridge of his erection greets me through the expensive fabric.
“Logan.” It comes out as a plea.
He squeezes harder. “Keep making noises like that, and we won’t make it to the bank.”
“What bank?” I gasp as he slides his fingers inside my panties.
He chuckles darkly. “Do you want me to make you forget your own name?”
He flicks my clit, and my legs tremble. “Yes,” I breathe, completely forgetting where we are.
His fingers work my clit in slow, deliberate circles while his other hand pins me against the mirror. I can see everything in the reflection—his dark suit, my flushed skin, the way my body responds to his touch like I was made for him.
“Look at yourself,” he growls against my ear. “Look how beautiful you are when I pleasure you.”
Embarrassed, I lock onto my own gaze, but I’ll do anything to please him. The woman staring back doesn’t look like the broke barmaid who walked in here twenty minutes ago. She looks powerful. Desired. Claimed.
“I see you,” he whispers.
“What do you see?”
“I see what’s mine.”
His fingers slide inside me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The changing room feels impossibly small, the air thick with want. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could hear us. Anyone could enter the cubicle next to us.
I don’t care.
“Quiet,” he murmurs, his thumb finding my clit again. “Unless you want Siobhan to know exactly what I’m doing to you.”
The thought should mortify me. Instead, it sends heat flooding through my veins. I want her to know. I saw the look she gave him when we walked in before she turned her disdainful look on me. She thinks he’s hot. She thinks she has a chance with him.
I will gut her like a fucking fish if she looks at him again.
“Mine,” I gasp and press my hand against the mirror for support as he works me higher, his fingers curling inside me in that way that makes my vision blur.
“Yours,” he growls softly.
“Logan, please—”
“Please, what?”
“I need you.”
He removes his hands from me, and I whimper, but it’s only for a second so he can undo the zipper on his expensive new suit.
He leans over me, taking my hands and placing them above my head on the mirror.
He drags me back a little way, pulling on my hips so my arse sticks out. “Are you wet for me, Nuala?”
I nod, unable to form words as he hooks his fingers in my panties and drags them down my legs. The lace pools around my ankles, and I step out of them, my skin burning under his possessive gaze.
“So fucking wet,” he murmurs, running his fingers through my folds. “All for me.”
I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against me, and I push back against him, desperate for him to fuck me.
“Logan,” I whisper.
He slides inside me slowly, torturously, until he’s buried to the hilt. The angle is deep, intense. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Fuck, Nuala,” he breathes against my neck. “You feel so good.”
He thrusts, long, deep strokes that make my legs shake. I brace myself against the mirror, watching our reflection as he takes me. The sight is obscene and beautiful. His hands grip my hips, my back arched, both of us lost in the desperate need for each other.
“Look at us,” he commands, his voice rough. “Look how perfect we are together.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror, and the connection between us intensifies.
This isn’t just sex—it’s his soul branding mine, his fingerprints searing into my bones, his name etching itself into every cell until I couldn’t exist without him, even if I tried.
Every thrust rewrites who I am. Every grip erases my past. I am being unmade and remade in the reflection of this mirror, and God help me, I want it.
I soak his cock, making him grunt in response, digging his fingers in deeper.
“That’s it, Nuala, wet my cock like a good girl.”
His words send a shiver through me, and I clench around him involuntarily. The praise makes something warm unfurl in my chest even as my body coils tighter with need.
“I’m close,” I whisper, my breath fogging the mirror.
“Not yet.” His rhythm slows, torturing me. “I want to feel you fall apart on my cock, but not until I say.”
The control he has over my body is maddening. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to move, how to bring me to the edge and hold me there until I’m trembling with desperation.
“Please,” I beg, pushing back against him.
“Please, what?”
“Please let me come.”
“Not yet.”
The pressure builds impossibly high. My vision narrows to just us in the mirror and the way he owns every inch of me. I shake uncontrollably, and he pulls out, tearing a strangled moan from my throat. “Logan,” I plead.
He turns me around, lifting me and pressing my back against the cold mirror. “I said, not yet.”
He drives into me, my soaking pussy making a delicious sound as he pounds into me. “When I say come, I want you to scream so loudly the entire block will hear you,” he murmurs, increasing his speed.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will, or I will pull out of you and make you please yourself while I watch. Is that what you want, Nuala?”
The thought of him leaving me unsatisfied and forcing me to seek my own release is humiliating and painful. “No,” I whimper as he thrusts maddeningly slowly. “No, I don’t want that.” Every nerve ending is on fire, every thought reduced to the desperate need for release.
“Then be a good girl and do as you’re told,” he growls, his voice dropping to that register that makes my stomach clench with want.
His pace increases, each thrust hitting that spot inside me that makes my head spin. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, fighting to hold back the sounds threatening to tear from my throat.
“Eyes on me,” he commands when my eyes flutter closed.
I force them open, meeting his intense blue gaze. The connection between us is electric, dangerous. I can see my own desperation reflected in his eyes, along with something darker—complete and utter possession.
“You’re mine, Nuala,” he breathes against my lips. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp, the words torn from somewhere deep in my chest.
“And I’m yours,” he replies, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chases his own release.
The coil of tension in my core winds tighter and tighter until I’m shaking with the effort of holding back. My vision narrows to just his face, just this moment, just the feeling of him claiming me in the most public private space possible.
“Now,” he growls. “Let them all hear who you belong to.”
The permission unleashes everything I’ve been holding back.
My orgasm rips through me with violent intensity, and I scream his name just like he commanded.
The sound echoes off the boutique walls, raw, desperate, and completely shameless.
My pussy clamps down on him like a vice, milking his cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
He follows immediately, burying himself deep as he comes with a broken groan against my throat. His release fills me, marking me from the inside out as completely his.
Breathing heavily, he pulls out and lowers me to the floor, holding me as my knees buckle. He smirks. “Do you think they got the message?”
“Pretty sure they did,” I say with a nervous laugh.
He lets me go and bends down to retrieve my panties.
He kneels and holds them out as I step into them.
His hands skim up my legs as he pulls them up, slowly, deliberately sexy.
When they are in place, he places his face against my pussy and breathes in deeply.
“Properly soaked. Properly mine.” I run my hands into his hair, and he looks up at me, vulnerable for a second before he rises, and the gangster falls back into place.
Part of me wishes I’d met him when he was a priest, to see that side of him, but then I wouldn’t be standing here if I had.
He reaches for a white silk blouse and holds it out.
“You’re going to dress me?” I murmur.
“Mine to fuck in changing rooms, mine to buy clothes for, mine to dress how I see fit. Learn to accept it, Nuala.”
I let him dress me because fighting him on this feels pointless, and honestly, the silk feels like heaven against my skin. He buttons the blouse with careful fingers, his knuckles brushing against my breasts through the fabric. Every touch sends aftershocks through my body.
“Arms up,” he murmurs, holding out a charcoal blazer.
I obey, letting him slide it over my shoulders. The fit is perfect, transforming me into someone who looks like she belongs in boardrooms and corner offices. Someone who could sit across from a private banker and demand answers.
“The skirt,” he says, holding out a pencil skirt in matching charcoal.
I step into it, and he zips it up slowly, his knuckles brushing against my spine. The skirt hugs my curves without being inappropriate, professional but undeniably feminine.
“Shoes.”
I slip into the black heels, and suddenly I’m three inches taller. More imposing. The woman staring back at me in the mirror is a stranger—polished, confident, dangerous.
“Perfect,” Logan murmurs, his hands settling on my waist. “You look like you could buy and sell half of Dublin.”
I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing myself. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”
“You’re not playing anything. This is who you are now.” His voice carries that edge of possession that makes my stomach flutter. “My woman. My equal. An O’Neill.”
I blink at him, not wanting to remind him that I’m not an O’Neill. Not at all.