Chapter 16
AOIFE
Ispent the past three days padding around Dominic’s huge house, walking the grounds, admiring the manicured lawns, borrowing books from his extensive library, and even enjoyed a couple of glasses of his Bandol in front of his eighty-five inch TV.
I’m unaccustomed to so much luxury. But the biggest luxury of all is doing nothing.
Sheila’s been in and out every day, fussing over me, making sandwiches and revealing snippets of information about the man I’m engaged to.
Apparently, when Dominic isn’t plotting or executing the demise of his rivals, he likes to binge watch Game of Thrones, and gorge himself on Chinese chilli chicken, which coincidentally, is my favourite takeaway.
Hard to imagine the same man who is feared throughout the city watching a series about fire-breathing dragons. Go figure.
I offered to help with the housework, but Sheila was appalled at the mere suggestion.
Instead, I’ve taken to wedding planning and reading by the pool.
I bought myself the bare minimum with Dominic’s credit card—a couple of pairs of jeans, yoga pants, hoodies, some toiletries—not from Brown Thomas, I might add.
I’ve planned pretty much every detail of the wedding that he asked me to—apart from a honeymoon.
I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Especially when a tissue wrapped crimson bikini arrived yesterday with my name printed across the packaging. Naturally, it was the right size, because my fiancé could apparently tell my bra size the second he saw me, a talent which fascinates and irritates me in equal measure.
And I’m not irritated because he’s looking at my breasts. Men have been doing that since I was fourteen years of age. No. What truly irritates me is where he harnessed the breast measuring skills—and why it sets a surge of jealousy through my stomach.
Though that didn’t stop me from putting it on.
It’s not like there’s anyone here to see it, bar the staff.
There’s a certain comfort to being utterly removed from the real world, holed up in Dominic’s mansion, sunbathing by a pool.
Beats being repeatedly raped by Rory Kavanagh, that’s for fucking sure.
I sigh, staring across the sparkling water.
The weather has held out, surprisingly. The summer is in full swing.
Out in the open, with blue skies soaring overhead and the birds singing in the tall trees, I can pretend I’m not trapped here, stupidly pining for a man who represents everything I said I would escape in life.
I put my book down, wondering for the millionth time when he’ll be home, back sharing our bed, and why the prospect sets my skin humming—and not with fear.
A shrill, sharp sound pierces the air, and it takes me a minute to realise it’s my phone.
Dominic’s name flashes over the screen. My stomach somersaults as I swipe to answer, tentatively raising it to my ear like it might burn my flesh the way his pupils do any time they linger a beat too long on my body.
‘Hello?’ I battle to keep my voice even. A wisp of hair blows across my face in the warm breeze, and I reach for it, curling it around my index finger.
‘Aoife,’ his deep, raspy voice slides over my spine. ‘I trust you’re wearing sunscreen.’
My head whips up as I glance around the gardens, like he’s liable to dart out from behind one of the large fir trees surrounding the property.
He chuckles, deep and low. ‘Cameras, Aoife.’
‘You’re spying on me.’ I glance down at my exposed skin. The idea of him watching me should horrify me, but it sets a slow, deep throbbing between my legs.
‘Red suits you, sweetheart.’ He purrs.
As usual, blood rushes to my cheeks. I have no idea what to say, so I opt for nothing rather than something I’ll regret.
‘You’re cute when you blush,’ he continues, in a low, teasing tone. ‘You know, I think I’m going to make it my mission throughout our marriage to make you blush at every given opportunity.’
I finally find my tongue. ‘That’s not very… nice.’ My heart is hammering in my chest, and he’s not even in the vicinity.
‘It could be, depending on how I make you blush—–if you’re good, of course.’
My cheeks flame further. ‘Did you call purely with the purpose of embarrassing me?’
He laughs then. ‘No, that’s just an added bonus.’ He pauses. ‘I called to tell you Miranda had an accident.’
‘Is she okay?’ I don’t know Dominic’s chef very well, but she’s always sweet to me whenever I pass through the kitchen.
‘She’ll be fine. I’m looking for a temporary replacement, but given half of Dublin is looking for you, we can’t be too careful.’
‘I can cook.’ Finally, something to do. A way to earn my keep, or part of it at least.
‘You don’t have to. We can order in. Or I can call Sheila. I’m sure she’d happily pop back over.’
‘No! Don’t do that. I’d like to,’ I insist. ‘Please.’
‘I suppose at least that way she won’t be hovering over us.’ He pauses. ‘But only if you’re sure.’
‘I want to.’ And as the words leave my lips, the truth of them hits me like a punch to the stomach. I want to cook for him.
How fucked up am I?
‘What time will you be home?’
‘I’m already on my way.’ I can practically hear him smiling down the phone.
Shit. ‘ETA?’ I rock up into a sitting position.
‘Oh God, you’re not going to be one of those nagging wives, are you?’ He flips back to that teasing tone again.
‘No,’ I blow out a breath. Anyone who nags Dominic Kincaid has a death wish. ‘Just wondering how long I have to whip up dinner.’
‘Forty-five minutes.’
My treacherous stomach spins. ‘See you then.’
‘Oh, Aoife,’ he says before I can hang up.
‘Yes?’ I scan the building, searching for any sign of the camera, and simultaneously wondering where else they’re positioned around the house.
I smooth a hand over my bare stomach. I need to get dressed. Quickly.
‘Don’t get dressed on my behalf,’ he drawls casually.
My tummy flips. Again.
Before I can formulate a response, he disconnects the call.
I rush upstairs and grab a quick shower, squeezing my eyes shut, but no matter how hard I try, my brain continues to serve me up images of Dominic in here naked. Dominic rubbing soap all over his rock solid torso… and his…
His words from the first night echo through my head, ‘I promised not to touch you, Aoife. I didn’t promise not to touch myself.’
Oh fuck.
Not fucking helpful.
I dry myself and throw on one of the black Prada dresses he bought me in Kildare. As fucked up as it is, I can’t even try to deny it—I want to impress him.
Stupid, stupid fool that I am. I’m playing with fire.
Hell, it’s not even regular fire, it’s the flames of hell itself.
A man like him would eat me alive. And if I want to hang on to any modicum of self-respect, I cannot let anything physical develop between us.
This is about survival, not sex. But that doesn’t stop me applying a tinted moisturiser, a few strokes of mascara and a lick of lip gloss before I head downstairs to search the fridge.
The evening sun slides in through the huge glass windows and double doors as I pull out two salmon fillets and set to work prepping potatoes and vegetables.
I rinse the fish under cold water, pat it dry, set it skin-side down, drizzling olive oil over the top, then set about making the sauce.
I watched the chef at the restaurant I used to work in make it so many times I could probably do it blindfolded.
I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing, I don’t even hear him come in.
‘Quite the domestic housewife,’ he hums approvingly, sneaking up behind me. ‘I’m impressed.’
More like the desperate housewife—desperate for his approval. It’s that Stockholm Syndrome again. It has to be. Although he isn’t keeping me here as his prisoner. I’m here of my own free will.
I drink him in. My memory didn’t do him justice. The man is utterly godlike. Except he’s not a god, he’s more like the damned devil, but still, I can’t take my eyes from him and from the way his lips are stretching open, he fucking knows it.
‘It’s nothing.’ I shrug, even as his approval sets my core clenching. I switch off the cooker and turn to give him my full attention.
His dark eyes rove over my body. ‘Did you put that dress on for me?’ He rakes his hand through his hair.
‘It seemed a shame to leave it hanging in the wardrobe,’ I lie.
‘I should probably change too.’ He glances down at his white shirt and suit pants, then undoes his top button, just like the other night.
But then, there was fifteen feet between us.
Now there’s less than four, and he’s still prowling closer.
My mouth waters as I get a glimpse of that dark and devastating tattoo on his chest. He watches me with his usual intensity. Our eyes meet and the air shifts.
‘Did it hurt?’ I ask. I suppose it’s safer than ‘can I lick it?’
He rolls his lips like he’s biting back a smile. ‘I don’t feel pain. Not physically, anyway. Not like normal people do.’
I still. ‘What? How is that even possible?’
‘Discipline. Control. Practice. It’s all in the mind.’ He undoes another button.
Is he trying to kill me? Make me blush? Or make me crack and beg him to, what did he call it, ‘address the frankly feral attraction pulsing between us’?
His eyes drop to my mouth. The entire kitchen vibrates with raw, primal, sexual energy. ‘I promised not to force myself on you, sweetheart, but if you keep looking at me like that, I will take it as an invitation to kiss you.’
‘You can’t.’ I breathe, wetting my lips just in case he makes good on his threat.
‘But you want me to, don’t you, Aoife?’ His deep voice slides over my spine and crawls beneath my skin.
He’s right, of course. Part of me wants to kiss him. A very large part. But the other part still holds him, and his Syndicate, responsible for so much of my pain, that I want to slap him.
He steals closer. His eyes drift to my breasts. ‘Your tits are begging for my mouth, Aoife. And I bet your pussy is soaked for me too.’
‘You can’t say things like that,’ I stammer.
But he’s right. My lingerie is ruined.
‘I can, and I will.’
‘You don’t fight fair,’ I whisper, my gaze dropping to his full lips.
‘I never claimed to.’ My nipples are rock hard, preening for his touch. ‘Ask me to touch you. Beg me, and I’ll make you come so hard you’ll see stars.’ He continues to gravitate closer until there’s barely an inch between our bodies.
I wish he wouldn’t make me ask.
I wish he’d just take, then I could hate him afterward, instead of hating myself.
He inches closer, and I’m enveloped by his masculine scent. ‘You’re still giving me that look, Aoife.’
His face dips until it’s millimetres from mine. I can’t breathe. I know I should push him away, but I’m not physically able. I need his touch like a heart needs a beat. This attraction is more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced. I can’t fight it.
And in this moment, I don’t want to.
My treacherous chin juts out in a silent invitation.
He doesn’t hesitate. His lips crash on to mine, practiced and possessive.
His kiss is claiming. Intoxicating. Utterly addictive.
I’ve never known anything like it. My blood turns to lava in my veins as his tongue sweeps against mine.
Fuck, he knows exactly what to do with it.
Huge, calloused hands reach for my waist. I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing, but my body knows what it needs and is utterly unashamed in its pursuit.
My hips slam against his, desperately seeking friction.
A low rumble of approval sounds from his mouth, and I swallow it, moaning like a wild fucking animal.
His fingers slide up over my dress from my stomach to my breasts. My nipples are twin peaks, preening for his attention beneath the soft, tailored fabric. I cry out into his mouth as his thumbs flick over them.
I should stop him.
Stop this.
The man represents everything I worked so hard to escape from.
Yet I can’t tear myself away from his touch.
He rips his lips from mine long enough to say, ‘Hold on,’ before scooping me up like a rag doll, placing me on his kitchen counter, and pulling my thighs wide for him.
‘Dominic.’ My protest dies in my throat, along with a part of my soul.