22. Finn
Finn
Something to Grin About
Istroke her frail neck tenderly and run my fingers through her thick, tangled black hair. Time to test her nerve.
I tug her hair—sharp enough for it to hurt—and tilt her head back to expose her throat. She yields.
Like the good victim I want her to be.
“I need you to put your spite on the backburner and hear me out. It’s quite the story I’ll be telling you.”
Saoirse considers it. “Mm? I don’t have the time or the energy to listen to what you’ve been up to for the last six years, Finn.”
Her gaze is a challenge. The corners of her mouth dare smirk.
I can’t be having that. Cupping her cheeks with one hard hand, I pinch until I feel her teeth grind. She’s forced to pout like a tropical fish.
“You’re not interested in my resurrection, darlin’?”
The fear is back. “You dot dead, Finn.” What she says is filtered through the painful pout I have locked on her. She sounds nasal, but polite.
They all thought I was dead. How convenient. But I’ve never been the type to have things wrapped up in a neat bow.
I’m not here to convince Saoirse to start seeing me in a positive light. That ship’s long sailed.
Whatever I tell her, she’s going to see it through the warped lens of whatever narrative Maguire and Byrne gave her as an explanation.
I’m not here for that.
I’m here to claim what’s always been mine. Her body.
I’ll leave her heart and mind for later.
Her rage and hate only adds spice to the exercise.
It’s the first time I’ve touched her as a mature woman. Not a scrap of her gawky twenty-one year old self is left.
Her slender thighs have rounded and softened. Her arse feels edible, tempting me to munch it. The nubbins form peaks on her small breasts and rub against my chest.
I kiss her hard, sliding my hand over her belly and down to her crotch. I’m not sure how many layers she’s got covering her mound, but it’s not enough to protect her from my caress.
My fingertips trace over her clit and she’s galvanized.
“Oh!” She breaks our kiss and looks down. “You… touched me.”
From here on out, everything I say and do will be slow and deliberate. I don’t want to spook her. She was trained before, all I’m here to do is remind her of that.
“How can I not touch you? I missed you, darlin’. Missed us.” Steady does it. Don’t layer it on too thick.
She’s stopped pulling away. Now I need her to push closer.
I’m in position and I can’t stop until there’s total submission. I force her wider by inserting my leg between her thighs. She tries to clamp, but is prevented.
She doesn’t think it’s important. We’re still standing. All I have is my leg between her thighs so she can’t close them.
No biggie. That’s what she’s thinking.
But it’s not thinking, it’s presuming. And that’s a silly thing to do when I have the upper hand.
Saoirse might hate my guts, but it hasn’t made her any less predictable.
I let go of her hand. She feels the freedom and lifts it, palm open to slap.
She hesitates and her open hand balls into a fist. And still, she doesn’t dare hit me.
It’s fucking satisfied I’m feeling right now.
My mouth lingers over her skin. I murmur in her ear. “I’m still mad about you, sweetheart. Can’t you feel it?”
A better word to use would be insane, but saying that will make her panic.
I grind against her. She needs to know my short term end game.
Her raised hand drops. She strokes my shoulder, lats, and traps. There’s a hint of massage in the way she does it, like I’m a mirage she wants to check is solid first.
She runs her hand over my six-pack and external obliques, easy to feel under the thin cotton tee-shirt. Using both arms, she hugs me.
Her fingers drop to my glutes and she cups them. I love that she’s not too shy to touch me now. She’s all grown up and there’s not much else for me to teach her.
“Mmh.” Saoirse closes her eyes and moans.
And I’m not even fucking her yet.
That’s a win.
Leaning back an inch, I pull off my tee-shirt. It’s about as vulnerable as I’m prepared to get right now, showing her my ink.
She eyes my body greedily, but it’s not so she can read my skin. Her nails rake down my chest and only stop when she reaches my belt and tries to unhook it impatiently.
I’m not going to jinx this by making a comment. If she’s in the mood to fuck me on the chapel floor then who am I to say otherwise?
I let her unzip me. She drops to her knees and grips me. Two hands.
If my revenge involved gazing down on Saoirse while she tries to cram as much of my cock into her mouth before she gags, then I would be satisfied.
I imagine grabbing the back of her head, pinching her jaw nerves so she can’t bite down, and making her choke on it.
Tame her. Don’t punish her. It’s Patrick and Declan who must pay for her betrayal.
She weighs almost nothing when I lift her up. Saoirse wraps her legs around me, which makes it easier for me to lay her on the cold flagstone floor.
I kneel between her legs, shifting my jeans and zipper down to expose the part of me she wants.
It’s kind of cute the way she lifts and wiggles her arse to peel off her clingy pants. She pulls off her panties at the same time.
I have to lift her tee-shirt to access her breasts. They’re just as perky and unblemished as they were the last time we did this. She leaves the sneakers and white ankle socks on, which is also very cute.
She shakes with excitement. “What if someone comes in?”
Ah, Saoirse, the only person coming in is me.
“If it’s a woman, she can watch. If it’s a man, I’ll kill him.”
Her eyes widen with excitement. She’s forgotten what true possession feels like.
Her black bush beckons, but one thrilling lap of her slit warns me that she’s so close to coming that I’d better get a move on.
I kiss her and sit up with her legs draped over my thighs. She cranes her neck so she can watch me sliding into her. This way, she can push forward or pull back until I’m comfortable for her.
Her dark hair fans out on the flagstones. She spreads her arms wide, shuts her eyes, and purrs. “Fuck me.”
Got to say I don’t miss the twenty-one year old Saoirse much. There’s something fucking tedious about having to treat a woman like a porcelain doll in bed.
This time, I won’t come first. I want to feel her flower and bloom until the petals fall. A woman like this brings out the Irish poetry in me, I swear it.
And the feeling it gives me to be inside her again drives me to the edge of madness.
She whips her head from side to side, her focus is on what she’s feeling. Shifting her hips, she makes it comfortable.
I notice a frown. Time for me to take over the driving.
Holding her legs so her feet stay hooked around me, I pick her up and put her on top of me.
There’s no way Declan would ever let his wife ride him like a frisky pony, but there’s no better position when a woman wants to come.
Saoirse’s a natural. She leans forward so I’m not pounding up inside her and presses her clit against me.
“Oh, wow.” She stares down at me, circling her hips and testing her fingernails on my pecs. “I wish you’d shown me how to do this the first time…”
When I get a flash of the Saoirse I once knew, it feels like a flame burning in my chest.
Her peachy arse grinds on me, her nipples nearly brush my mouth as she rides me hard. It won’t be long now.
Her eyes close and all the cords stand out in her neck. Her rhythm increases, mounts, and peaks. A silent scream as she holds her breath. Only when she’s heaving and panting do I let myself release into her.
She lies with her head resting on my chest for a long while. Somewhere out there, a clock strikes the hour.
So many ways I can hold her in my thrall.
Tell her she’s gotten more beautiful, that she’s stunning. Comment on her tiny waist, but say I love the way she filled out in all the right places.
I need to play this so she wants to see me again. Real soon.
Her breathing slows and I think she’s gone to sleep.
But I’m wrong. So wrong.
She sits up and begins wailing on me. She slaps my face so hard it stings. Her punches rain down on my chest and arms.
“What the fuck?” I’m so busy trying to protect my face from her fingernails that I forget my pre-planned strategy. “It’s a wildcat you are, girl!”
“You want More Pain, you Irish fucker? Do you?”
I’m half-laughing, because what else am I going to do? “What the feck, Saoirse. It’s the devil himself who’s gotten into you.”
She leans over and bites my cheek fucking hard. Shit. I swear I heard the skin pop. There might’ve even been a snap and a crackle somewhere in there too.
“The devil didn’t get into me, Finn O’Shea. He just fucked me.”
She jumps up and steps into her panties. I’m still laughing and grinning, shocked at how bad I read the situation. I rub my cheekbone and check for blood.
When I look up, she’s pressed her big-ass sneakers through the stretchy pants and is pulling her hair over the collar of her blue jacket.
“This. Doesn’t. Change. Anything.” She hisses, more unhinged than I ever thought she could be.
She struts to the door and turns to give me her best one liner. “You owed me an orgasm, Finn. But this doesn’t make us equal, not by a long way.”
I listen to her footsteps squeak away. Her gait sounds different, which only makes me laugh harder. I fucked her so hard she can’t walk straight.
I lie on the cold flagstones and stare at the vaulted ceiling. Whatever control I still hold over her body, I no longer control her heart.
Is that going to be a problem?
I’m on a busy schedule. Climbing to the top of the Irish mafia underworld is time consuming.
But I’ll always set aside some of my precious time for Saoirse Byrne. I’ll see her in hell before I ever call her Saoirse Maguire.
Like a pony, she must be trained. Like a wildcat, she must be tamed.
I’ve won the first battle. Now all I have to do is win the war.