Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
I watch Conall through the two-way mirror, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist while the doctor examines his wounds.
Every flex of muscle beneath scarred skin sends heat pooling between my thighs.
Three years of wanting this man, and a bullet wound shouldn't make him more attractive.
Yet here I am, squeezing my legs together like I'm in heat.
"The stitches look good," Dr. Morrison says, rewrapping the bandage around Conall's ribs. "But you need rest. Real rest, not whatever shit you call that thing you do."
Conall's laugh rumbles through the speaker. "Tell that to whoever put a bullet in me."
I press closer to the glass, watching his hands flex as he buttons his shirt. Those same hands that could break a man's neck, that I've fantasized about breaking me in entirely different ways.
Christ, I'm losing my mind.
The conference room buzzes with activity when I enter. Murphy spreads surveillance photos across the mahogany table while three of our best men wait for orders. This is my show now. My decisions. My family to protect.
"The hit was professional," Murphy says without preamble. "Three shooters, clean exit, no witnesses."
"Then we make witnesses." The words taste like power on my tongue. "What about our police contacts?"
"O'Brien says the weapon matches three unsolved murders. Someone's been cleaning house in Dublin." Murphy slides a photo toward me. "All mid-level criminals. All shot execution-style."
The door opens behind me. Conall enters, and my entire body responds to his presence like I'm some desperate teenager. The way he fills a room, commands attention without saying a word—it's intoxicating.
"You should be resting," I say, not turning around. I don't trust my face right now.
"Hard to rest when my boss is making decisions without me."
Boss. The word goes straight to my pussy. When did that happen? When did Conall Devlin start taking orders from me?
"I can handle an investigation."
"I know you can." His voice drops, intimate despite the audience. "Doesn't mean you should handle it alone."
Heat creeps up my neck. Three men watch our exchange, and I wonder if they can smell the want radiating off me.
"Murphy, I want surveillance on every rival family in Dublin. Use whatever pressure necessary to get O'Brien talking. And double security on my brothers."
"What about you?" Murphy asks.
"I'll be fine."
Conall steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "She'll have protection."
"From who?" I challenge.
His gray eyes meet mine, and the promise there makes my nipples tighten against my bra. "From me."
Two hours later, Murphy has his assignments and the conference room sits empty except for files scattered across mahogany. I pour whiskey into crystal tumblers, hyperaware of Conall watching my every movement.
"You handled that well," he says.
"You sound surprised."
"Not surprised. Wet." He accepts the glass, fingers brushing mine deliberately. "Your father would be proud."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Would he? Or would he be horrified that his little girl is authorizing interrogations?"
Conall's gaze drops to my mouth, then lower to where my blouse gaps between buttons. "You're not a little girl anymore."
"No, I'm not." I perch on the edge of the table, letting my skirt ride up enough to show the tops of my stockings. "So why do you still treat me like one?"
His knuckles whiten around the glass. "I don't?—"
"You do." I slide off the table, moving closer until I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. "Careful touches. Professional distance. Like I might shatter if you fuck me the way you want to."
The glass hits the table with a sharp crack. "Saoirse?—"
"Do you remember that night in the study?"
His jaw clenches. Of course he remembers. Christmas break, three years ago. I'd found him working late, drowning in whiskey and financial documents. The kiss that followed was hungry, desperate—until he pushed me away like I'd burned him.
"You kissed me like you wanted to devour me," I continue, emboldened by the hunger in his eyes. "Then spent three years pretending it never happened."
"Because it couldn't happen again."
"Why the fuck not?"
He sets down his glass with deliberate control. "Because you were twenty-three and I was old enough to know better."
"I'm twenty-six now." I step closer, close enough that my breasts brush his chest. "What's your excuse now?"
"Because I work for your father. Because you deserve better than a man who's killed for your family."
"Don't I get to decide what I deserve?" I reach up, fingers tracing the edge of his bandage through his shirt. "Maybe I want a man with blood on his hands. Maybe I want you to get them dirty with me."
His breath hisses between his teeth. "You have no fucking idea what you're asking."
"I'm asking you to stop treating me like I'm made of glass." My hand slides down to palm the bulge straining against his trousers. "I'm asking you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."
"Christ, Saoirse." His hips jerk into my touch. "You think I don't want to? You think this has been easy? Watching you grow into this incredible woman while keeping my cock in my pants?"
"Then don't."
Something snaps in his expression. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with surprising gentleness before his mouth crashes against mine.
This isn't the careful kiss from three years ago. This is hunger unleashed, three years of want exploding between us. His tongue claims my mouth while his hands roam my body like he's memorizing every curve.
I fumble with his shirt buttons, desperate to feel skin against skin. When I finally get the fabric open, my nails rake down his chest, leaving red marks on scarred muscle.
"Fuck," he groans against my mouth. "I've wanted this for so long."
"Then take it." I bite his bottom lip hard enough to sting. "Take what you want."
His hands grip my ass, lifting me onto the conference table. Papers scatter to the floor as he pushes my skirt up to my waist, exposing the black lace barely covering my pussy.
"Spread your legs," he commands, voice rough with need.
I obey, and his eyes darken at the sight of me displayed for him. "Fucking beautiful. I've imagined you like this a thousand times."
His fingers trace the edge of my panties, barely touching where I need him most. "So wet already. Is this all for me?"
"Yes," I gasp as he presses against my clit through the lace. "Always for you."
He hooks his fingers in the fabric and rips it away completely. The sound makes me clench with want.
"I'm going to taste you first," he says, dropping to his knees between my spread thighs. "I'm going to make you come on my tongue before I fuck you senseless."
His mouth finds my pussy without warning, tongue sliding through my slick folds with devastating skill. I cry out, hands fisting in his hair as he devours me like a starving man.
"That's it," he murmurs against my clit. "Let me hear you. I've waited three years to hear you scream my name."
He slides two fingers inside me while his tongue works my clit, and I shatter around him. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, my thighs trembling against his shoulders.
Before I can catch my breath, he's standing, freeing his cock from his trousers. The sight of him—thick and hard and weeping for me—makes my mouth water.
"Are you ready for me?" he asks, the head of his cock teasing my entrance.
"I've been ready for three years."
He pushes inside with one hard thrust, stretching me perfectly. We both freeze, overwhelmed by the sensation of finally being joined.
"Move," I whisper, nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, Conall. I need you to fuck me."
"I'm going to ruin you," he warns, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in. "You'll never want another man after this."
"Good," I gasp, meeting his thrust. "Ruin me. Make me yours."
He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting the spot that makes me see stars. The table creaks under our combined weight, but neither of us cares.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, voice strained. "To drive me insane with wanting you?"
"Yes," I admit, clenching around him deliberately. "I wanted to break your control."
"Consider it fucking shattered."
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit. The combination of his cock filling me and his skilled touch on my most sensitive spot sends me spiraling again.
"Come for me," he commands. "Come on my cock so I can feel how much you want this."
I explode around him, screaming his name as pleasure tears through me. He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he fills me with his release.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, neither wanting to break the connection.
"Well," I finally manage. "That changes everything."
His laugh rumbles against my throat. "Everything."
"Any regrets?"
He pulls back to look at me, gray eyes serious. "Only that we waited this fucking long."
My phone buzzes on the floor where it fell. Murphy's name flashes on the screen.
"Work calls," I say reluctantly.
"Let it."
But I'm already reaching for the phone, scanning the message. "O'Brien got a name. The shooter's been hired by the Kellys."
Conall's expression hardens instantly. "The Kellys have been quiet for years."
"Not anymore." I slide off the table on unsteady legs, already missing the feel of him inside me. "Looks like someone wants a war."
"Then we'll give them one."
As we dress in charged silence, I can't help but smile. Everything has changed, just like he said. The investigation continues, enemies circle like wolves, and danger lurks around every corner.
But I have Conall Devlin in my bed now. And after what just happened on this conference table, I plan to keep him there.
War or no war.