Chapter 2
two
CIAR
“What the fuck?”
“What the fuck?”
“What the fuck?”
Ciar repeated the same thought quietly to himself while traveling to the airport, during the car ride to his boss’s office, and while standing in the gold and black bathroom of the office high-rise, observing his reflection in the mirror.
He’d managed to get less than an hour of sleep after going back to Jonathan’s room. His body flashed hot, then cold, then hot again. It sounded grossly similar to what his granny called “The Menopause.” Clearly, not just for women.
He’d kissed Gray. “You did more than that, boyo,” he muttered, instantly regretting the memory of how it’d felt rubbing his dick between her thighs.
He clenched his jaw when he felt himself getting hard at the thought.
Walking into an important team meeting with a boner wouldn’t win him any favor from his humorless boss.
He still wasn’t sure how the kiss had even started.
That was a bald-faced lie. The moment he’d walked into the kitchen and seen Gray’s rocking body in those small bits of white cotton, he’d salivated at the thought of tasting her. He’d wanted her for so long that he’d become an expert at hiding his thoughts.
She never showed him special attention or treated him differently from Dan and Jon. But last night her eyes had naked want in them, and he purposely crowded her, forcing her to make the first move if she wanted.
And she had. If Daniel hadn’t interrupted him, he had no doubt that he would have ripped the tiny shorts down her long-ass legs and slid inside her without thought of right, wrong, or consequences of taking her bare.
He’d never taken a woman without a condom in his life. He was only twenty-six. Kids were not in his ten-year life plan. But he would have done it. In his desperate excitement that she finally noticed him, he would have taken her in any way possible.
He was driving himself crazy about whether or not she would regret what happened.
Regret him. She hadn’t texted even though he knew she would have already gone on her morning run.
Plus, her father was in town overseeing her townhouse’s new security system, so she would be meeting MacGregor for sure.
That shit that went down with Bébhinn’s stalker was difficult to comprehend. He hated that the stalker had been near any of the girls, especially Gray. Ciar was sure MacGregor would hang around another day or two to ensure his daughter’s safety.
He washed his hands after taking a piss and was about to leave the bathroom when his phone dinged. He would never admit it, but a small—very small—gasp left his lips as her name came across his screen.
Gray: Good morning.
His heart was thumping out of his chest. It’s not like she said, “Good morning. I masturbated in your bed last night.” He needed to calm down, but as his thumb hovered over the keyboard, he wondered if he should play it cool or talk about what happened.
Ciar: Good morning to you. How was your run?
There. Simple but shows interest.
Gray: Great. I really love the new shoes Bébhinn got me started on. Blair and I are going to breakfast with our dads in thirty. What’s up with you?
Ciar: I have a meeting in ten.
Gray: Oh, well, I’d better let you go. Have a good day.
“Shit!” There’s a vast difference between playing it cool and disinterest. He typed and deleted a few times, sweat beading his brow from stress.
Ciar: I wish I were home to take you to breakfast.
Gray: When you get back, I’ll let you. Bye, Ciar.
Ciar: Bye, Gray.
He felt a smile tug at his lips as he pocketed his phone and headed to the conference room. He tended to be quiet by nature, not standoffish, really, just not as quick to laugh as someone like his father. His dad always teased that he got his stiff upper lip from his Russian ancestors.
He hoped that was the only thing he got from his maternal side.
His mother’s cruel indifference was record-setting.
His father had a one-night stand with the exotic Russian bartender, which resulted in his conception.
She’d managed to care for Ciar for eight years.
Though “caring” for him was a stretch, as Ciar could still vividly remember the gnawing hunger of starvation.
He’d lived with that feeling long enough never to forget.
His mother dumped him off in the middle of Murphy’s Pub on a swinging Saturday night with a note pinned to his shirt that Ciaran was his father, and her name, Anna Morozova.
He’d never been to school and spoke only Russian. Needless to say, his father had been a saint to take him on. Ciar had always felt, if not different, then a bit of an outsider, but he had a good life, and the best father a man could ask for.
The Garda came round a month later to inform his father that Ciar’s mother had been found dead. She’d finally overdosed.
He’d learned as a young boy to stuff the anxiety that threatened to smother him at unexpected moments into a mental box.
He was good at compartmentalizing. He learned to enjoy the moment, to be proud of his grades in school, his milestones and success in business, and with women, of course.
All of which kept his mind sharp and free of that pesky voice that tried every so often to tell him he wasn’t worth the effort.
The day crept by in excruciating increments. His boss was a prick with the personality of drying paint, but the sonofabitch turned water into wine and real estate deals into gold. Ciar had managed an internship the summer before his last year of uni.
Mr. Anders looked like an old-school American mobster and acted in a similar Godfather fashion. Still, amazingly, he took a shine to Ciar and offered him a position on his personal team. He was given a year to prove his worth, or he could “Fuck off,” as Anders so eloquently put it.
Now here he was, at the top of his game. A cutthroat shark that people feared when they saw him coming after their property or business.
And what was that cutthroat beast currently doing? Checking his texts like a teen who’d just grown his first chin hair. He was currently sitting at a luxe booth in one of Anders’ newest swanky pubs in London, waiting for Mr. Dagr Griffiths.
He wanted to dislike the man on principle, simply because he dared touch the late, great Hugh O’Faolain’s baby girl. Reality was that Dagr was sharp, successful, wealthy, and loved his best friends’ cousin, or aunt as the case may be in that convoluted family.
He was in town sorting out his London firm before they went to Colorado. The man was making moves, buying out a law firm in Dublin, and purchasing enough property for him and Bébhinn to live. Griffiths was at the top of his game, and Ciar appreciated the man’s single-minded focus and prowess.
The O’Faolains’ possible newest long-lost family member had arrived and was cutting his way through powerful men and elegant women, lifting a hand to Ciar in greeting, who lifted his glass of vodka in return.
Ciar stood as a matter of respect and shook Dagr’s hand. “Griffiths.”
“Murphy,” he smirked, slapping him on the back.
“Glenmorangie 18, neat,” he told the bartender, making himself comfortable on the swivel barstool next to Ciar.
“I expected to see your new girlfriend at your side.”
“Bébhinn wanted to spend time with her friends after everything.” Everything being the arrest of his girlfriend’s stalker.
“As soon as we checked out of our room at the Fitzwilliam, she asked to spend time with her friends. They were all eating dinner tonight with the family and MacGregor and Barr. She’s protected,” he added grimly.
“Hugh O’Faolain didn’t raise a weak daughter, and for that, I’m thankful as I’m sure you are. She’ll come out of this stalker shit stronger than ever.”
Dagr took a long pull on his drink before setting the glass down, twisting the crystal this way and that before responding. “She is strong. Still, I would kill that man for watching her. Us.”
Ciar didn’t respond. There was nothing to say because he would feel the same. “I fly out late tomorrow afternoon. You?”
“First thing in the morning. I’m showing Bébhinn the law firm property I’ve bought. It has two full floors that she can renovate into living quarters if she wishes.”
“You move fast,” Ciar noted.
Dagr shrugged. “When you know, you know. The only hurdle was her family, and they’ve accepted us. I would have taken her as mine regardless, but for her sake, I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”
Ciar’s phone beeped. Oh, Christ. Gray.
Gray: The new security is installed. I hope you don’t plan on walking around our properties naked because Dad has every angle covered.
Ciar: I’ll keep my nakedness confined to my bedroom…and yours.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why had he sent that?
“Do you normally blush when you text?” Dagr said, smirking like he was the funniest man alive.
“You can fuck right off, Griffiths.”
Gray: I wouldn’t kick you out.
Oh damn. Ciar had to shift on his seat to put his semi in a more comfortable position, all the while keeping a running dialogue with Dagr while staring at his phone wearing a perma-grin.
Ciar: I’m out with Dagr for drinks. You’re making my trousers uncomfortably tight.
He was escalating their conversation quickly, but he couldn’t make himself stop. Switching his attention back to the man sitting in front of him, who was wearing a knowing smile, Ciar said, “I appreciate the invite to Colorado. I haven’t taken a real holiday in years, and I’ve never been there.”
“Dad’s folks left us several properties around the world. We sold most of them, but Colorado has always been one of our favorite places to visit,” Dagr explained.
Gray: And you make my panties uncomfortably wet.
Jesus Christ and all His Saints. “I…I…yes. Nice,” was all Ciar could manage as he stared at his phone screen.
Ciar: Gray. You’re killing me.
“How long have you had a thing for Gray?” Dagr asked.
Ciar fumbled his phone like a comedian on stage, barely catching the damn thing before it crashed at his feet. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Ciar: I have to go. You are so going to regret teasing me, little girl. I bet you’d enjoy receiving a nude courtesy of me.
Ciar sighed and set his phone down—with difficulty—before giving his full attention to Dagr. “What would you know of it?”
“Only what Bébhinn has told me.”
His smug look said he knew Ciar wouldn’t be able to let that comment go. He was right. “What did she say?”
“That you and Gray stare at each other whenever the other isn’t aware of the attention. That you aren’t as promiscuous, her words, not mine, as the others think. That you secretly moon—again, her word choice, not mine—over her best friend.”
Beep.
Gray: I bet you’d like one of me more.
“No comment.” So many, many comments.
“Well,” Dagr held up his tumbler of whisky between them and tapped the rim with his finger before swallowing down the rest, “Colorado should be interesting then.”
Ciar: Please.
“We’ll see.”
Ciar could barely fit his large body and even larger hard-on in the backseat of the Uber after his drink with Dagr. I bet you’d like one of me more. Her words cramped his body with need. Surely, she was only teasing him. Was he teasing her, though?
It was eleven by the time he stepped out of his shower.
His eyes met the foggy mirror, taking in his body, slick and damp from the shower.
Just in case she was serious about this sharing shit, he quickly snapped a picture with the black marble countertop, cropping just enough of his junk for modesty.
He’d never sent the equivalent of a “dick pic” in his life. The fact that he was considering sending one now to one of his best friends was a second level of screwed up.
“Fuck it.” He pressed send before he could talk himself out of it. It wasn’t like it was a true dick pic. He saw waving dots immediately. “Oh, Christ.” He quickly dried his body and slipped on boxers, all the while eyeing his phone like his life depended on it.
Waving dots.
Nothing.
Waving dots.
Nothing.
Waving dots… “Fuck me,” he groaned.
Leaning against his headboard, he touched the photo so it filled his screen…and there she was. Fresh from the shower, dripping water with steam wrapping her body.
“Gray,” he moaned. His obsession was naked with a perfectly placed arm crossing her full breasts, and the other cupping her sex.
His mouth was dry. His heart was about to explode. He needed more.