Chapter 29
Dervla
Isit there for a full minute after he leaves, staring at the closed door.
My thighs ache. The cuts on my chest sting under my bra. My knickers are a damp, filthy reminder of exactly how little self-control either of us has when one of them decides he wants me.
It should be distracting.
It is, for about ten seconds.
Then Troy Kavanagh barges back into my head and ruins the afterglow.
“Cunt,” I mutter and stand up, feeling cum gush into my knickers. Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I pull out the first aid kit and then rise, moving to the door. I yank it open, heading to the ladies’ room to deal with these cuts and the knicker situation.
The corridor in the admin building is quiet. We are currently running with fewer staff than I’d like. We are doubling up some professors, keeping them busy.
I slip into the ladies’ and lock the door. The knickers are unsalvageable for the afternoon, so I shove them into the sanitary bin with a muttered apology to whoever empties it and go without. I clean up as best I can and drop my skirt back into place. Problem solved. Sort of.
The cuts on my chest are another matter.
At the sinks, I open the first aid kit and stare at the antiseptic wipes with profound irritation.
I unbutton my shirt and remove it, unclasping my bra, which was a stupid move to replace. I should’ve left it off, tits swinging in the wind. That will likely have to be the way forward for a few days.
The first swipe over the carved letters makes me suck in a sharp breath.
“Fucking hell.”
The sting is vicious. Personal. I clean them anyway, then dab antiseptic cream over them. I stand there half-naked in a university bathroom, treating the evidence of being claimed like it is an administrative inconvenience.
I drag my shirt back on and button it up, shoving my bra into the back of my skirt until I get back to my office.
Closing the first aid kit, I meet my eyes in the mirror.
Vice-Chancellor by violent takeover.
Self-promoted to Chancellor.
Mafia heir.
Institutional arsonist.
Branded by one of her men in the middle of a workday.
“Fun,” I mutter.
I pick up the kit and unlock the door, stepping out into the hallway.
Gallagher is at the end, near his office, talking to Aidan, and they both look up when they see me.
Aidan’s eyes drop to the first aid kit, then lift to my face, then lower again for one brief second to my tits that are clearly not bra’d-up.
His expression changes by a fraction.
Gallagher, mercifully, doesn’t notice anything amiss.
“Everything all right?” Aidan asks.
“Fine.”
Aidan takes the kit from my hand without asking and says nothing.
“I was just updating Aidan on the staffing issue in Modern Languages.”
“That sounds riveting.”
“It is not,” he says. “However, one cannot run an elite institution on violence and charisma alone.”
“I disagree.”
“You would.”
“Point taken. Why are you talking to Aidan about this and not me?”
“Aidan also happens—happened—to be an ace student in Modern Languages. I need him to cover the class until further notice.”
I blink once and look at my savage man, trying not to laugh.
He glowers at me. “I can be academic and a badass,” he grits out.
“You can. I find it kind of sexy.”
“Please,” Gallagher interrupts before this can go further. “Leave it outside.”
“When’s the class?” Aidan asks.
“In twenty minutes.”
“Fine.”
Gallagher nods, then looks at me. “I also need approval for the temporary hires in History and Economics, and three of the returning students’ parents are demanding private reassurance that their children are not attending a war zone.”
“They are not,” I say. “They are attending a prestigious institution with a regrettably eventful transition period.”
“That is not language I can put in an email.”
“Actually, it is. The more honest we are about the change of Administration, the better.”
He stares at me. “Are you sure about that?”
“We can try. It’s not like they’re going to pull their kids and send them to St. Bart’s.”
“Well, they could—”
“Shut up,” I mutter. “They won’t. Didn’t you hear? St. Bart’s doesn’t exactly have a pristine record when it comes to changes in Admin.”
“True,” he mutters. “Well, then. I will try it your way.”
He disappears into his office, and Aidan turns to me.
“What did he do?”
“Who? Cormac? What I promised him he could.”
“Meaning?”
I take the first aid kit back off him and tuck it under my arm. “He carved his name into my chest and then fucked me over my desk.”
Aidan goes completely still.
For one beat, I enjoy it.
Then his eyes sharpen on my shirt again, on the space between my breasts, and something cold and possessive slides over his face. “Did he?”
“Mm.”
“And you let him?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I handed him the knife.”
His jaw tightens. “Of course you did.”
“It was hot.”
“That is not helping.”
“It isn’t meant to.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Don’t start behaving like I need permission to be marked by one of my men. You’ll get your turn.”
His stare drops to my mouth. “I’m not interested in permission. I’m interested in balance.”
“Precisely.”
“Show me.”
“In the corridor? Bold.”
“Your office, Dervla,” he says, losing patience.
I hold his stare for a second longer, then turn on my heel and head for my office without answering.
He follows.
The corridor suddenly feels too narrow. Too bright. Every step makes me aware of the lack of knickers under my skirt, the sting between my tits, the way my body is still humming from Cormac. Aidan stays close enough that I can feel the pressure of him behind me without him touching me.
By the time I reach my door, I am already wound tight.
I shove the door open and step inside. He comes in after me and shuts it with a hard click that lands low in my stomach. He turns the lock.
I put the first aid kit on the desk, turn, undo the top buttons of my shirt, and spread it open.
His eyes drop.
The carved letters sit between my breasts, all the way down my chest.
He reaches out and hovers his fingers over them. “Perfect,” he murmurs. He moves in closer and grips my hips. He lifts me onto the desk and slides one hand up my thigh. His face goes darker when his fingers brush my bare pussy.
“Oh, really?” he growls. “For how long have you been doing this?”
“A few minutes. Cormac made a mess of them.”
His breathing goes deeper, heavier. “Fucking hell, Dervla.”
“Are you going to fuck me or just stand there with your hand up my skirt?”
He doesn’t answer. I don’t want words. I want action. He undoes his pants and pulls his cock out. It’s hard, ready for me. I grip it in my fists and guide it where I want it. His hands clasp my hips, and he drags me to the edge of the desk, straight onto his cock.
“Fuck,” I cry out.
He fills me in one brutal thrust, and I feel the exact moment his control snaps into place over mine.
Aidan plants his hands on my waist and starts moving, hard enough to shove the desk across the floor. Files rattle. My breath breaks. I brace one hand behind me and grab his shirt with the other, holding on while he fucks me like he has something to prove.
Maybe he does.
His eyes stay on the cut letters between my breasts for a second too long. Possession. Calculation. Heat. It all lives there together, and it sends a vicious pulse straight through me. My head tips back. The desk edge bites into my arse. I want more.
He hooks one arm behind my knees and drags me further forward, opening me wider for him. The new angle is filthy. I feel every inch. Every thrust lands deeper, harder, and I lose the ability to keep quiet. I let out a moan filled with desire that he swallows with a bruising kiss.
His hand slides up my throat, not squeezing, just holding me in place while he drives into me with that vicious, measured rhythm that always feels like he is trying to prove a point and win an argument at the same time.
The desk knocks against the floor in harsh little jolts.
My shirt hangs open. The cuts on my chest sting every time my body shifts.
His hand leaves my throat and moves between us, rough and precise, and the sensation punches the air out of me.
My nails dig into his shirt. “Fuck.”
“That’s right,” he mutters against my mouth. He makes me come apart under his hand and keeps going.
I gasp and clutch at him harder. “Aidan.”
His mouth drags over my jaw. “Say my name again.”
“Aidan,” I rasp.
He fucks me harder. The desk jolts back another inch. Papers slide off the edge. I don’t give a shit because his fingers keep moving, and I’m already climbing fast again.
I come with a strangled cry, my pussy tightening around him so hard he curses into my mouth and bites my lower lip.
He doesn’t stop.
He rides me through the tremors until my body feels boneless and wrecked under him.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs and pounds into me. Then he grunts and unloads, pumping into the mess that Cormac left behind.
“Fuck, Aidan,” I pant.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my lips, gripping my thighs tight, spreading them even more. “Take my load like a good little girl.”
“Always,” I purr. “I love you.”
He freezes for a second, and then his eyes tell me everything I’ve been waiting for, but he wouldn’t say.
“Say it,” I demand. “I want the words.”
His hand goes back to my throat and tightens. “You want the words, pixie? You want to hear me say how much I need you?”
“I want more than that,” I choke out.
“I love you,” he says. “It’s unhinged, dark, possessive, but it’s love.”
Pleasure hits me so hard it almost hurts.
Aidan O’Connell, who treats vulnerability like a blood sport, just gave me the one thing he never gives anybody without making them bleed for it.
My eyes sting.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
His thumb shifts against my neck. “That bad?”
I let out a broken laugh. “Shut up.”
His mouth brushes mine, softer this time. It is somehow more dangerous than everything that came before.
Then reality comes back with a vengeance in the form of my open shirt, my bare arse on polished wood, his cum inside me, and a timetable that doesn’t care about emotional revelations.
I let out a breath. “You had better get to class.”
He smirks and pulls out, zipping himself up before gripping my chin. He kisses me roughly. I know it’s his way of getting rid of the perceived weakness he has shown. I let him. It’s him, and I wouldn’t want to change that for anything.