Chapter 26 #2
Dermot curses, recognizing the look in her eye, but he opens the door. Millie pats my shoulder as she scrambles after him, looking for all the world like she’s just popping to the shops. “Don’t die, love. I just ironed your shirts.”
As the door slams, silence rushes back in, heavy and thick. I gun the engine, merging aggressively back into traffic before anyone can get the drop on us.
“You realize this changes nothing,” Ciara says, shoving her gun back down her yoga pants. Her profile is cut from granite, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands before she clasps them in her lap.
“It changes the stakes,” I correct her. “Murphy isn’t just looking for a rat. He’s looking for a payday. Which means he’ll be desperate.”
“Desperate men make mistakes.”
“And sober men exploit them.” I reach over, covering her hand with mine. The warmth of her skin is the only thing keeping the ice in my veins from freezing me solid. “We stick to the plan, only this time, we are armed with more intel.”
“Sean. This is too dangerous. You will be out in the open.”
“Look, most people who picked up that contract aren’t stupid. They know who I am, and they know that killing me will start a war that will annihilate their entire bloodline. No one is going to walk up to me and shoot me between the eyes in the middle of a pub.”
“You hope. There is always that one reckless dick. Oisin is that dick, Sean.”
“No, if he were, he would’ve come to the apartment yesterday instead of sending Rankin. That was a calculated move. One that tells him several things.”
“Like what? Your dad’s security is shit?”
I pull over into a parking lot on the outskirts of the city and stop the car, keeping the engine running.
“It tells him, I was sober enough to kill without getting shot myself. It tells him, I would kill for you. It tells him you would kill to protect yourself. It tells him how I’m handling the aftereffects, and right now, he thinks I’m getting pissed somewhere.
Or at least, he has to believe that because that’s the narrative. ”
“So, we control the narrative, and you take him out. But that doesn’t stop the contract.”
I lean across the console and cup her face. “No, but it takes out a fucker responsible for the arsehole who put his hands on you.”
She reaches up to place her hand over mine. We stare into each other’s eyes, and everything becomes clear. I have killed for her. I would die for her. I chose her over the drink once, and I’ll do it again. Every single fucking time.
Dropping my hand around her throat, I pull her closer, slamming my lips against hers.
It’s a collision, not a caress. For a second, the contract, Oisin, the thirst clawing at my throat, fades into the white-hot friction of her mouth on mine.
Fumbling for the lever, I lower her seat back, and she giggles.
“Now?”
“Now,” I say and climb over the console, covering her body with mine.
She lowers her yoga pants, as eager for me as I am for her. My cock is straining to get to her. I shove my joggers down, enough to free my cock. Ciara doesn’t wait. She arches up, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me down until our breaths mingle in a frantic, heated cloud.
I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt in one smooth, desperate thrust. She cries out, a sharp sound that gets swallowed by my mouth, crashing onto hers in a raw, undeniable need to mark her before the world tries to take me out.
The SUV rocks on its suspension, the engine idling beneath us like a beast waiting to be unleashed, vibrating through the seats and straight into my bones.
She matches my rhythm, her nails digging into my back under my tee, meeting every thrust with a ferocity that rivals mine.
We are two jagged edges grinding together, trying to spark a fire big enough to burn down the rest of Dublin.
She screams my name, her cunt gripping me like it wants to snap my dick in half.
I come hard, pouring the fear, the rage, the sobriety into her, gripping her hips until I’m sure I’ll leave bruises.
I drag air into my lungs, the scent of sex and danger filling the small space. For a moment, the contract, Oisin, and the booze don’t exist. Just her. Just us.
A rap on the window next to my head makes Ciara’s eyes go wide.
My hand flies to the Glock I know Connor keeps wedged in the door pocket, my body instinctively shifting to shield Ciara as she scrambles to cover herself.
She’s fast, yanking her yoga pants up and smoothing her tee before I’ve even fully registered the distorted face pressed against the tinted glass.
“Fuck,” I breathe, releasing my white-knuckled grip on the weapon. Shooting a Garda is a headache even Connor can’t easily pay off.
Stashing my cock, I lower the window, still looming over Ciara.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
The young Garda looks bored, probably expecting teenagers, not a tattooed man with a split lip and murder in his eyes, ravaging his wife because he can’t keep his hands off her.
“Honeymoon period,” I say with a smile. “You know how it is.”
He wrinkles his nose. He eyes the split in my lip, then the expense of the SUV. He knows better than to ask too many questions in this city. “Move it along before I bring you both in public indecency charges.”
“Will do.” I roll the window up before he can argue and climb back to the driver’s seat. The tires screech as I peel out of the lot, leaving the Garda in a cloud of exhaust.
Ciara sits up, smoothing her hair, her chest heaving. She looks wrecked and magnificent. “Well, that was a bitch slap back to reality.”
She’s not wrong. The lust is receding, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of the imminent kill.