16. Cora
Cora
I lurch awake, disoriented. In order, I register: strange room, man, threat.
I’m on my feet in an instant. The resulting head rush makes my vision spin, and my feet stumble toward the threat.
When I catch myself on him, I realize it’s Brady, and we’re in the penthouse living room.
I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. I exhale.
He’s still a threat, but not an immediate one.
He shoves my touch away with a dangerous snarl. It seems like an overreaction, but then I register that I’d caught myself by gripping his shoulder, where a patch of blood now blooms through his light gray T-shirt.
“Holy shit, are you okay?” I ask it without thinking, then have to remind myself I don’t care.
“I’m fine.” His vehemence cracks like a whip to rouse my anger.
“Then show me,” I challenge.
For a moment all he does is glare at me. There’s menace in it, and I feel my pulse in my throat as I keep my chin lifted and my own glare steady.
He peels off his shirt and tosses it on the floor, then goes right back to glaring at me.
I suck in a breath. There’s a two-inch gash above his collarbone, perilously close to his neck. From the weeks I spent on rotation in the ER, I know it’s a stab wound. I also know that it needs stitching as soon as possible.
Gritting my teeth, I rush to my room to get my medical supplies. Fucking Hippocratic Oath. It’s my responsibility to act on this whether I like it or not, and no matter how much I dislike the patient.
Emergency gear bag in hand, I return to find Brady at the kitchen sink, dabbing his wound clean with paper towels.
“That needs stitches,” I inform him. “Go sit on the couch.”
I slide in between him and the sink to wash my hands.
He’s a block of marble that doesn’t move.
With his unyielding body pressed against mine, I feel surrounded by him.
If he leaned forward, if he placed both of his hands on the sink’s edge, I’d be trapped.
My heart races like I’m a rabbit caught in a snare, but I show no fear as I dry my hands.
I turn to face him, but he still doesn’t move. With the fronts of our bodies pressed together like this, I can’t help but notice how solid and warm he is. I glare up at him.
“Go sit on the couch,” I repeat, but he doesn’t budge. I get the sense he’s fighting against his better judgment, not wanting to follow my instructions out of sheer spite. Stubborn jerk. I draw in a breath and stand as tall as I can.
“If you don’t let me stitch that, it’s going to heal improperly, and your right hook will be sloppy until you die. If you’re never able to punch someone again, I’d actually prefer that, but if you want to keep yourself in fighting shape, you will go sit on the couch.”
I remind myself of Erin as I say it. The pub’s manager is a take-no-prisoners baddie, and our shift behind the bar went smoothly because of her. No thanks to Brady, Liam, and Finn, who all left early, apparently so Brady could go get stabbed.
His nostrils flare as he glowers down at me, but we don’t have time for another standoff.
I shove past him to grab a kitchen chair and position it in front of the couch.
Selecting the necessary tools from my bag, I see Brady out of the corner of my eye as he prowls his way toward the couch.
I’m tempted to make a point of watching him, to enjoy the sight of his self-hating surrender, but I decide not to push it.
I wouldn’t put it past him to head for the couch, then saunter right on by.
He sits down in front of me like a king on his throne, as if my tending to his wound is a supplication.
When he leans back, I get a front-row view of his muscled torso, his abs so developed I want to run my fingertips along every ridge.
I clear my throat to get a grip on myself, then lean forward to clean the edges of his wound with alcohol.
It must sting like hell, but he doesn’t make any sound as he grimaces.
When I ready my bottle of numbing spray, he holds up his hand to stop me.
“I can handle the pain.”
“Good for you. I don’t care.” I pull his wrist out of the way with one hand and spray his wound with the other.
“Direct disobedience.” He says it in his lowest voice, making my nipples go stiff, my body reacting before I can consciously think the word punishment.
I distract myself by holding my needle up to the light and threading it on the first try.
My hands are steady as I lean forward, but from where I’m sitting, I can’t get close enough to Brady to suture his wound properly.
There’s nothing else for it, so I perch myself on the arm of the couch and get to work.
“What happened?” I pierce him with my needle and tug the synthetic thread through.
“Some bastard stabbed me,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
I pull my second suture closed before glancing up at Brady’s face. Then I pause in my work, refusing to accept his nonanswer. He heaves an exasperated sigh.
“One of Seven’s men.”
“Who’s Seven?” I return my gaze to my needle and thread, but my attention is torn. Brady’s actually giving me information. Though it’s seemingly despite himself, he’s trusting me.
“Mortimer Vanleusen the Seventh,” he answers.
“Seriously? He sounds pompous as shit.”
“He is.”
I furrow my brow as I concentrate on an angled stitch.
“Wait.” My eyes snap up to his. “Vanleusen as in railroad money? As in the wealthy family that owns half of Chicago?”
“Vanleusen as in the enemy family your brother tried to make an alliance with, yes.”
My mouth drops open. Connor didn’t mention that little detail. And though I’m not happy about it, I understand why. I close my mouth and take a deep breath, then return to my work.
“So you’re telling me that the golden family of Chicago, with all their upper-echelon connections and power they wield over this city, is your enemy?”
“Yes,” Brady says simply.
“And here I’d thought you O’Sullivans were smart.”
“We don’t choose our enemies, Muloney.” He spits my last name like a curse, and heat flares in my chest. “The Vanleusens have always kept to the North Side. They’ve been quiet for generations, but now Seven’s decided that he wants to encroach on our territory.”
Frowning, I finish the rest of the stitches and use forceps to secure the knot.
Then I snip off the excess thread and set all my tools aside, freeing my hands to inspect my work.
Gingerly I run my fingertips below the sutured wound, pleased with how even my stitching is.
I haven’t sewn anyone up in years, and I’d forgotten how thrilling it is in the moment, how satisfying it is afterward.
Brady’s skin is hot beneath my touch, and I swear I can feel his pulse thudding erratically. Without thinking, I lift two fingers toward his neck to check his carotid artery. He snatches my wrist.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He tightens his grip.
“Checking your pulse.” I try to pull my wrist away, but he doesn’t let go. We glare at each other. With me on the couch’s arm, I’m the slightest bit above his eye level, and I very much enjoy looking down at him.
As he scowls up at me, I use our staring contest as a distraction, darting my free hand toward him.
Not for his throat, but for his heart this time.
My palm is on his chest before he can stop me.
And yes, his pulse is very erratic. Beneath my hand, his heart gallops, though I’d never know it by looking at him.
I keep my hand there as he stares at me. While an erratic pulse is rarely good, in this instance, it’s not a cause for medical concern. Brady’s thundering heartbeat matches my own, and I know the cause of my symptom well enough.
It’s the nearness of him.
I try again to pull my wrist from his grasp, and this time, he lets me go.
Our only remaining point of connection is my palm on his chest. Slowly I make myself withdraw, and yet I can’t stop touching him.
I keep my fingertips against his skin, the lightest possible contact, but what my body wants is more, the full press of him against me.
I feel Brady’s gaze like a spotlight on my face as I drift my fingers along his chest, tracing the tattoo above his heart, an outline of a three-leaf clover.
“Not four?” I ask. My voice breaks the tense silence between us, but Brady’s muscles remain tight as ever beneath my touch.
“I’m a second son. I make my own luck.”
“Doesn’t it ever bother you?” I ask. “Being stuck in your role just because you were born there?”
“No. I know my place. Unlike some.”
I drop my fingers from his chest. Turning away, I pull out gauze and tape from my bag as a distraction to keep my anger in check. Brady looks ready to argue over whether he needs a protective layer to prevent infection, but he keeps his jaw clenched, the muscles beneath his short beard flexing.
When I’m done, I run my finger along every piece of tape, pressing gently to make sure it sticks. I complete the process, then double-check everything just in case. It’s like I’m mesmerized, and I do it again, leaning in for a visual inspection. Closer, then closer still.
Brady grabs my thighs. He pulls me off the arm of the couch and onto his lap, knees apart so I’m straddling him, mere inches of empty space between our chests.
My pulse spikes again. When Brady shifts himself beneath me, I feel how huge he is, and I gasp.
Fuck. I pretend not to notice by keeping my attention on his gauze-covered wound.
“He got awful close to your jugular,” I say, as if I can’t feel his hard cock between my legs, as if I’m not desperate to rub myself against him.
“The eejit didn’t know what he was doing.” Brady’s even better at playing casual than I am, irritatingly so.
I remain as still as possible, but my pussy throbs with want. I swallow as I watch him lift his thumb to the hollow of his throat.
“If you have to stab someone in the neck, you stab them here, and you stab them deep.” He waits for me to nod, then drags his thumb in a slicing motion across his trachea and jugular. “Stab. And slash.”
With his thumb on his throat, he levels his gaze at me, the gray-green of his eyes burning with challenge.
Last time I reached for his neck, it didn’t go well, yet I find myself tempted to try again.
Maybe it’s the challenge in his eyes, or his hard cock beneath me, but I want him to know I understand what he’s telling me, and why.
He’s making sure I know how to protect myself. Stab. And slash.
This time I move slowly, lifting my hand between us, drifting my fingers toward his throat as he watches.
He doesn’t stop me, and I lay my finger in the hollow of his throat.
It’s a soft touch, almost like a kiss, until I start pressing down.
Stab. I bury my fingertip in his neck, so deep I can feel the ridges of his trachea.
His eyes burn hotter. He still has his thumb on the side of his neck, and we both know that if he wanted to grab my wrist again, he would. If he wanted to grab both my wrists, if he wanted to throw me backward onto the coffee table, if he wanted to keep me pinned down, he could.
But all he does is maintain his heated stare as I press down on his throat.
If it’s a game of chicken, he wins, because I ease up on the pressure before he calls mercy.
I slide my finger from the hollow of his throat to the side of his neck.
And slash. It’s me telling him that yes, I know how to protect myself.
My finger grazes his thumb, and he covers my hand with his, stopping my touch from wrapping around his neck.
Even though I’m on his lap, we’re roughly eye to eye, so I sit up a little taller.
The adjustment shifts my hips, rubbing my clit against his hard cock in just the right way.
I moan. I can’t help it. Even through his jeans and my leggings, the feel of him is too good.
With the hand that’s covering mine, he slides my touch down his chest, down the ridges of his abs, down to the deep V above his jeans.
Then he lifts both our hands away, guiding me to touch not him, but myself.
Instinctively I lift my hips as he cups my hand over my pussy.
The pressure feels good, but through my leggings and panties, it isn’t enough.
It’s as if Brady knew what I was thinking, because he pulls his hand away, and then he’s reaching under my sweatshirt to slide his hand down my pants.
He keeps his movements slow and deliberate, as if each one is a test. Whether it’s a test for me or a test for him, I’m not sure, but I know I want more.
I gasp at the feel of his touch on my bare skin.
His fingers tease along the top of my panties, then slip beneath the lacy fabric.
When he feels how wet I am, he groans in satisfaction.
“So fucking ready for me,” he whispers.
He pinches my clit, and I yelp in surprise.
There’s both pain and pleasure in it, and the combination swirls through me like pure dopamine in my veins.
He pinches me again, a little harder this time.
My thighs spasm, squeezing tight as I straddle him.
With a dark chuckle, Brady pats my clit lightly, as if in approval.
Then without warning, he shoves two fingers inside me, and my eyes go wide.
There’s intensity in his expression, so focused on my reactions.
As he starts pumping his fingers in and out of my pussy, I have to cling to his good shoulder for support.
He’s so firm beneath me, and I am putty in his hands.
When he rubs his thumb against my clit, I’m done for. I let out a low moan as he works my pussy, all of my muscles tensing as the pressure of my orgasm builds.
“Are you ready to beg for my cock?” Brady uses his sexiest growl.
My breath hitches. If this is what his fingers can do, then absolutely yes I want his cock inside of me. But I promised myself I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging. I bite my lip but say nothing.
In response, he rubs my clit even harder, pumps his fingers inside me even faster.
A shiver runs through me as all of my pleasure gathers in my core, ready to explode outward.
My pussy walls start to clench, but then Brady withdraws his fingers.
He pulls his hand out of my leggings as I whimper with the realization of what he’s doing.
He’s going to leave me hanging.
His face is cruelly impassive as he holds up his two fingers between us, my wetness shining on them like a rebuke. He wipes them on my pants, then grips my thighs, stands up, and dumps me unceremoniously onto the couch.
I stare up at him, my jaw open with angry shock.
“Have a good night,” he says gruffly.
Before I can think of a coherent reply, he’s gone.