Chapter 10
DOMINIC
‘Thank you again,’ she says quietly when she’s finished eating. ‘For everything.’ She glances at her empty plate, then to the wine in front of her. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe she’s starting to believe that I won’t hurt her, but there’s a definite lowering of armour over the past couple of hours.
‘Don’t thank me, sweetheart. Marrying me will protect you, but make no mistake,’ my eyes stray to her full lips. ‘My intentions aren’t all honourable.’
She shudders. ‘At least you didn’t threaten to fuck every hole I own.’ She shudders, and I vow to fuck every hole Rory Kavanagh owns with a splintered baseball bat.
‘I will kill him.’ I promise, as a murderous rage rises like a tsunami inside me.
‘I don’t condone murder.’ She shifts in her seat. ‘But in this instance, I think removing him from the planet is a public service.’ She exhales heavily, tilting her head. Her eyes linger on mine. ‘No one has done anything to keep me safe since…’ She throws a hand up in the air… ‘I don’t know when.’
‘You’re safe now. He’ll never find you here.
And if he’s stupid enough to look, I’ll blow his brains out before he crosses the front door.
’ I’m not even joking. ‘It’d be a shame to make a mess on the paving, but I have an incinerator in the garage and a power washer in the shed that would take care of that. Now, how about dessert?’
Her cheeks visibly pale. Fuck. I’m supposed to be trying to put her at ease, which means keeping the beast inside under control.
I flash her my widest smile and reach for her plate.
‘I’ll clean up.’ She stands immediately, her hand drifts out to stop mine, and those same sparks crackle and surge over my skin.
Our eyes meet, and she pulls back, but not before I glimpse a startled mix of hunger and horror in her eyes.
This strange, intense chemistry between us makes her uncomfortable.
Interesting.
‘You won’t.’ My tone leaves no room for debate. ‘Relax for a few minutes. Have another glass of wine. Then we need to get down to business.’
‘Business?’
‘The wedding,’ I remind her before heading to the kitchen
Ten minutes later, I return to find her staring solemnly out over the pool. I place a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food in front of her.
‘Gangsters eat Ben & Jerry’s?’ She scoffs.
I shrug. ‘You like it?’
‘I prefer the Chunky Monkey. My friend Abby and I used to get it at the cinema.’
I store that little piece of info away for another time—her favourite ice cream flavour, and her friend’s name.
‘So, when will we wed?’ She runs a finger along the stem of her wine glass. Naturally—because no matter how hard I try, I am a self-professed filthy bastard—I conjure an image of her finger running over my cock. I force it away and answer her question.
‘25th July.’
I watch as she gnaws on her lower lip. ‘That’s only a couple of months away.’
‘It’ll give us enough time to plan it properly, and to introduce you to my family before we announce our engagement.’ Some of them, anyway.
Kavanagh will likely strike hard and fast. His ego will make sure of it. Especially with the wedding venue I have in mind. I drag my knuckles over the stubble dotting my jaw. ‘I’ve provisionally booked The Shelbourne as a venue.’
Surprise lights her eyes and she laughs, really laughs this time. The sound is utterly fucking beautiful as it floats to my ears. ‘That’s one way to provoke him.’
I like that she doesn’t use his name. What I like more is the rare few times she’s used mine. It sounds positively perfect falling from her tongue.
‘You won’t run out on me, will you?’ I’m only half joking.
‘As long as you keep your word.’ I don’t need to ask which one.
‘Sweetheart, I’ll never force you into anything.’ I wet my lips. ‘But if at any point during our marriage you decide you want to address the frankly feral attraction pulsing between us, just say the word.’
It’s the first night and I’m already pushing for more when I swore I wouldn’t.
But that’s just what I do—in business, in life, at the sex club.
I push limits.
Mine and everyone else’s.
But I’m not supposed to be pushing hers. I can’t tie her up, tease her, suck and fuck her until she screams my name. She’s too valuable to terrify with my kinks.
Her pupils dip to my lips for a split second, then back to my eyes. Colour flushes her cheekbones. ‘That’s never going to happen.’ She shuts me down immediately, but there’s no missing the blush creeping up her neck again.
Is she picturing it right now?
Picturing all the ways I could pleasure her?
I hope so. I said I wouldn't touch her. I didn't say I wouldn’t flirt with her. There has to be some up sides to having a stunning, off-limits woman living under my roof.
‘Tell me about your family,’ she demands, swiftly changing the subject.
‘You met Ciaran, Cathal and Owen.’ I tap the table with my finger. ‘Kai and Tristan are twins. Tristan is in Liverpool for a few months. Kai is in the States with Frankie.’ I don’t mention Keira, my sister. Her loss isn’t something I can bear to talk about.
‘And what about your mother and father?’
‘My father is currently sitting in Ravenhill Maximum security prison, serving time for murder.’
She gasps. ‘Who did he kill?’
‘One of the men who murdered my mother.’ There’s no point trying to hide it. It’s a matter of public record. She could google it in seconds.
Now it’s my turn to swiftly change the subject. ‘I want you to plan the wedding. The dress. The flowers. No expense spared. I want it to be sensational. I want the entire country to be talking about it. But leave the band and the invitations to me.’
‘Why go to so much trouble?’ She frowns.
‘Everything has to look authentic. Remember Frankie’s rule?’
‘Will he be at the wedding?’
‘No. That’s primarily why I picked the last week in July.
He’ll be in Mexico on business.’ My jaw locks.
‘By the time he meets you, even if he suspects something is off, it’ll be too late.
’ I appreciate the old man and all he’s done for us, but I wish to fuck he’d stick to running the American Syndicate.
‘Frankie and I lock horns. A lot. The only thing you need to know about him is that if he ever shows up here, he’s the one person it’s imperative we convince our relationship is real.
Even if it means you riding my face while he watches. ’
She splutters, almost choking on her own saliva.
‘Relax, I didn’t mean literally.’ Though it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen me on the job. Frankie likes to frequent Sean Beckett’s club when he’s in town, but I keep that titbit of information to myself. I don’t want to scar her for life.
Aoife thumps her chest, then reaches for her wine glass.
Becoming a Kincaid is enough to drive anyone to drink.
What we do, what we are—it isn’t for the faint-hearted.
If she’d grown up on any other estate than Greenhills, she’d probably be cowering beneath the table right now.
She’s been exposed to so much by her father.
The man is a fucking disgrace. If I have kids, I’d give my life for them, not expect them to give up their life for me.
Finally, when the sun begins to sink behind the mountains outside the window, and the sky is scorched with deep pinks and purples, she yawns and places a hand over her mouth. ‘Will Sheila really know if I sleep in another room?’
I refill my wine glass and offer her a top up. She shakes her head. Shadows linger beneath her eyes. She looks exhausted. No fucking wonder.
‘Yes.’ It’s the truth. ‘The woman is a military grade bed maker, neat freak and cleaning fanatic. If even a single sheet was tucked in with a millimetres difference, she’d notice.
Plus, I don’t trust her not to rock up extra early tomorrow to “see if we need anything” i.e.
coo and fuss over us. You’d swear she was the one in love. ’
Aoife’s eyebrows fly upwards.
‘Pretending to be in love. You know what I mean.’ Our eyes lock, and that energy pulses between us again. ‘Go to bed, Aoife. I promise I won’t touch you.’
I can’t promise not to touch myself though.
I give her a full hour’s head start before going up. Sharing a room will be easier on both of us if she’s asleep. I don’t relish the night on the couch, but given it’s an enormous custom-made Italian bespoke number, it shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.
Knowing she’s in my bed, wearing probably little or nothing, sets a fresh course of blood rushing below. I omitted to add any sleepwear to Sheila’s shopping deliberately.
See?
I did mention I’m not a good man.
I mount the stairs, then gently twist the bedroom door handle, careful not to make a sound as I hover in the entrance, listening for any sign she’s awake.
Soft, deep, even breaths assure me she’s not.
I tiptoe inside. Moonlight spills in through the open blinds, illuminating the bed in a pale silver light.
My hungry eyes roam over the Egyptian cotton, fixating on the woman curled in the centre of it.
With her golden hair fanning out across the pillow, she looks positively angelic.
I feel like the damned devil hovering over her, contemplating taking her to the dark side—my dark side.
I gravitate closer, drawn like a fucking moth to the single most enticing flame I’ve ever seen.
Tess of the d’Urbervilles lies closed on the bed beside her.
Fuck me… is that my shirt she’s wearing? Curled into the foetal position, her knees are raised, one arm tucked around them, the other slid underneath the pillow.
Why does seeing her in my oversized shirt set me fucking feral?
I drag myself away, slip into the ensuite and switch on the shower.
My cock is rock solid in my suit pants, screaming for attention.
I remove my glasses, shrug out of my clothes, and wait for the jets to run hot.
Steam swirls through the air and I step beneath the hot water and wrap my hand around my delinquent dick and pump with the image of Aoife sprawled across my bed at the forefront of my mind.
I imagine her watching me with those big blue eyes.
Watching me spread her legs, burying my tongue in her tight little cunt and devouring her like an all you can eat buffet.
I bet she tastes fucking sublime. The thought sets me spiralling over the edge.
I pump harder, faster, furiously until the hot flames drag me from the hellish fires of the real world to an ethereal heaven that I’d fail to find any other way.
Precum spurts from my tip as white hot pleasure rips through me and hot ribbons of cum shoot out into the shower.
‘Fuck,’ I spit, glancing at the door.
It’s still closed.
Thank fuck.
Though, part me of, the really depraved part, wishes she’d walked in. I want to show her the effect she has on me.
Why does the only woman I’ve ever wanted outside of Sean’s sex club have to be Rory Kavanagh’s runaway bride? The one woman I can’t fuck and walk away from.
I brush my teeth, clean the steam from my glasses, then place a hand on the handle, twisting it slowly.
In the bedroom, the sight that greets me knocks the breath from my chest. She’s rolled onto her back, with one arm strewn above her head.
Either she didn’t do up the top three buttons of my shirt, or they’ve popped open when she twisted, but the end result is the same—I have a spectacular view of her cleavage.
And even from this distance, the outline of her nipples is as clear as day.
Why the fuck did I think omitting to buy her sleepwear was a good idea?
I cross the room and drink her in. Moonlight beats in through the window, illuminating inch after inch of smooth, silky skin. Her features are smooth, finally free of the worry that plagued them all day.
She has to be exhausted. Not just from the last few days, but from a lifetime of uncertainty, fending for herself, fighting her way out of the shithole she grew up in.
Her full chest rises and falls in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
I could watch her sleep all night. Suddenly, she swings a leg out from beneath the covers and throws it over the top of the duvet.
My focus falls to her toned, shapely quads.
A small tattoo is inked across the top of her thigh in italic scrawl.
I stoop closer to read it. Only the brave survive.
My motto for life.
The air rushes from my chest as satisfaction curls around my core.
I fucking knew it.
Aoife running into my bar wasn’t an accident.
Fate never fails to deliver.
And it’s coming for Rory Kavanagh.