Chapter 22
Killian
I watch her slip her dress back on and step into the elevator without a glance backward.
Scrubbing my hands over my face in frustration, I let out a low moan.
“For fuck’s sake. Great job, mate. You’re the one bloody ruined now, you goddamn eejit.
” She’s running through my veins now like a drug, her soft body, her kisses, her moans.
Her absence feels like a vacuum in my black soul.
I kick over a champagne bucket as I cross the deck.
Letting warm water run over my head, back, and down my arse, I can’t help but replay what happened between us tonight. Having my tongue buried in Sam’s warm cunt, the taste of her arousal, her sexy moans, her fingers digging into my skull as she screamed my name. Bloody addicting.
I rest my palm on the tile wall, hissing as I give my aching balls a squeeze.
If I don’t take care of this, I’m going to find out whether death by exploding dick is possible.
I grab the bottle of soap, lather up my body to wash off the night and then wrap a soapy hand around my granite cock.
Shutting my eyes, I start out with long, hard strokes, flashbacks of Sam’s mouth feeding my arousal.
I find a punishing rhythm, my fantasy surpassing what we did tonight, and it doesn’t take long before I’m exploding in my hand as I imagine being buried balls deep inside her.
I wash the come off as my breathing returns to normal.
I’m nowhere near satisfied. In fact, I’m feckin’ aching for another hit of the bleedin’ woman.
I’m so fucked.
After a restless few hours of sleep, I’m up at eight and heading into the kitchen to see if I can scrounge some breakfast when I get a text.
Sully: Warehouse ASAP. Got you a present
The shooter. They got him. Fuck yes.
Me: OMW
I step into the warehouse, and the guard locks the door behind me.
The coppery scent of blood hangs heavy in the air.
I walk around the wall of stacked boxes, and my gaze sweeps the room.
Three Italian soldiers stand near the victim, wearing grim expressions.
I cross the cold cement floor to Sully, who’s standing beside the strung-up man, wiping blood off his knuckles.
He gives me a nod. “Hey, brother.”
I eye the skinny man with a black 611 tattoo across his throat. His arms are stretched painfully above him, Blood drips from his broken nose onto fresh cigarette burns on his bare chest. He’s breathing hard, the whites of his eyes showing. “How’re we getting’ on?”
Sully cracks his neck, blows out a frustrated breath.
“Meet Ernesto Torres, the dumb cunt paid in advance to hit the weddin’.
He says it wasn’t meant to be a kill shot, just a warnin’.
Swears Da wasn’t the target, but gobshite won’t give up who it bleedin’ was.
He’s more afraid of the cocksucker who paid him than us. ”
My brow lifts in surprise, and I eye our prisoner. “Guess we’ll have to remedy that, yeah.”
We spend the next hour torturing our captive for information. The fucker’s tougher than he looks. He’s now unconscious.
I’m soaked with sweat and drained, feeling the effects of the mental and physical stress. I wipe the blood off my hands with a towel Sully hands me. “Stubborn fuckin’ eejit. Better bring Dr. Sam in to check him out. Make sure he’s gonna wake up.”
Sully nods, frustration digging deep lines between his brows as he shoots her a text.