Chapter 41
AOIFE
Iroll onto my side, running a hand over the soft sheets beneath me. It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Milan. With my husband.
I prise my eyes open to find Dominic manspreading across a leather tub chair beside the bed.
I startle, and he chuckles.
My eyes drop to his outfit—or lack of it, I should say.
He’s wearing nothing but his dark framed glasses and a pair of black boxer briefs.
His tattoo is on full display again, and the urge to touch it sets the tips of my fingers tingling.
His huge hand is curled around an espresso cup, and his greedy gaze is eyeing me like I’m the last cake on the baker’s shelf.
‘Good morning, beautiful,’ he beams at me, like staring at me while I sleep is the most natural thing in the world.
My husband is gorgeous, powerful, witty, but he’s also pretty intense.
‘Were you watching me sleep?’ I glance down to check how much of me he’s actually seeing, not that he hasn’t seen it all already.
‘Oh, yes.’ He doesn’t even attempt to deny it.
‘Because that’s not creepy,’ I tease, patting the bed beside me. ‘Come back to bed.’
‘We were right to leave the country.’ He pushes his glasses up higher along the bridge of his nose as he stands. ‘News of our wedding reached Kavanagh.’
I bolt upright. ‘What did he do?’ Cold fear creeps into my bones.
‘Sent eight armed men to our place with the instruction to kidnap you and kill me.’ He chuckles, beaming at me as he lowers himself to the bed beside me.
‘And that’s funny?’ My voice cracks.
‘It is now that those eight men are in body bags buried somewhere beneath the Wicklow Mountains.’ He shrugs casually like he didn’t just tell me eight men were murdered last night. His black eyes gleam as they sweep over my body. ‘This is a good thing, baby.’
‘It is?’ I reach for him as he lies down beside me. I feel safer in his arms. The irony isn’t lost on me. He orchestrated eight deaths, and yet he makes me feel safe.
How fucked up is that?
‘Yes. The plan worked.’ He pulls me tighter against his chest and places a tiny, tender kiss on my forehead. ‘He broke the truce between our families. Now, we have the authority to wipe him from the face of this earth.’
A shiver rips over my spine, even though it’s what I prayed for—Rory’s demise.
I palm his chest, dragging my fingers over his tattoo. I glance down at his boxers. The bulge there sets saliva flooding my tongue.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My husband just admitted to arranging eight murders, and I’m sneaking glances at his crotch.
But those men, given half the chance, would have done exactly as Kavanagh instructed and dragged me back to the mad bastard my father promised me to—without sparing a thought for all the horrific things he would undoubtably do to me.
I don’t like it.
But it was them or us.
They got what they deserved.
Knowing what he’s capable of should set me running for the hills. But instead, knowing what he’s willing to do to protect me from those monsters makes me want to run towards him, throw myself at him and thank him in other ways.
I press my lips together and force myself to look out of the big windows to my right. The view is stunning. Blue skies. Sweeping streets. A city begging to be explored. But it has nothing on the view to my left.
‘So, what now?’ I ask.
‘Now, we enjoy our honeymoon, while Ciaran, Cathal and Owen search the city for Kavanagh.’ He reaches for my breasts. ‘Open your legs sweetheart, I’m starving.’ He fires me a wink and pushes me onto my back.
We spend the first few days in Milan alternating between exploring the city and exploring each other’s bodies.
On our last day in Milan, Dominic drags me to the Prada store. I stand outside the big windows admiring the couture. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘Shopping,’ he beams down at me, draping an arm over my shoulder and steering me in. ‘I made an appointment for us.’
‘I don’t need anything.’ I attempt to wriggle free, but it’s futile.
‘You’re my wife,’ he growls. ‘I will spoil you.’ He beckons over one of the poised looking shop assistants, dressed in a stunning pencil dress that probably costs more than I’m going to earn at my new job in a month.
She drags her eyes over my husband, lingering on his torso for a little longer than I’d like. He speaks to her in Italian—low, fluent, confident—and just like everything else he does, it’s sexy as hell.
Her steely eyes flare with surprise as they land on me, then on my wedding ring.
He switches to English then, for my benefit. ‘I booked a private room. We’ll try both the dresses in the window.’ It dawns on me then that I might be the only Kincaid who can’t speak Italian. I’m going to have to get a crash course.
‘Dom, please,’ I pat his arm, trying to reason with him. ‘This is too much.’
‘It’s not for your benefit.’ His eyes glint. ‘It’s for mine.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ she nods and touches his forearm. ‘The dressing room is ready for your wife upstairs with the champagne you requested.’
Sir. I bristle. I’m the only woman who gets to call him sir or touch him.
He chuckles beside me and murmurs into my ear. ‘You’re so fucking cute when you’re jealous.’
I’ll give him jealous. ‘You’re coming up with me.’ I eye him levelly as he registers what I’m saying. I want him to watch me. A low growl rumbles at the back of his throat.
I turn to the assistant then. ‘I’ll take the lingerie from the window too.’
Her eyes narrow as they assess my body, probably searching for the right size. ‘I’ll bring it right up.’
Dominic’s hand splays over my spine as he steers me to the lift. The changing room is on the top floor. An ivory leather couch punctuates the side of the room. There’s a small table with a bottle of chilled champagne and two glasses, and a changing screen which I will not be needing.
Floor to ceiling windows overlook the city below, but the only view I’m interested in is my husband as he settles into the leather and reaches for the bottle of bubbly.
‘Strip,’ he demands.
I glance at the door. ‘The assistant will be up any minute. She’ll see me.’
‘I know.’ He tips his head to the side, lips curving upwards in a rakish smirk as he pops the cork. ‘And if she’s not quick, she’ll see me bending you over this couch, eating your pussy from behind.’
What a fucking visual.
He’s so fucking depraved, and apparently so am I because heat suffuses my skin as he pours the champagne.
He holds out a glass, and I step closer to accept it, taking a sip before placing it on the table.
‘Get naked,’ he growls.
I glance down at the white playsuit I picked out this morning. It’s light and cut low at the back. So low that it doesn’t permit a bra. I pull the strings tied above my shoulders, and it slithers to the floor.
He hisses as his pupils peruse my body. ‘Are you missing the voyeurs?’ He sits forward, running a finger up my inner thigh.
I swallow hard.
‘Would you like them to hold you down again, while I spread your legs apart and demonstrate exactly how quickly I can make you cum with my tongue?’
My pussy pulses as his fingers skim higher.
A hand raps on the door.
‘Come in,’ he says, but his eyes don’t leave mine. His finger remains poised between my thighs.
The door opens, and the expression on the assistant’s face is priceless. It flits from surprise to something very much like arousal in one split second.
‘That will be all, thank you,’ Dominic says, his attention remaining focused on my face.
‘We have a policy, Sir,’ she stammers.
‘We’ll buy the lot. We’ll be down when we’ve finished,’ he assures her, still refusing to look anywhere but at me.
‘Certainly, sir.’ She backs out of the door, leaving us alone.
Dominic takes a sip of his champagne and resumes teasing my inner thigh. ‘Answer the question, Aoife. Would you like the world to watch my tongue sliding over your wet, wondrous cunt again?’
I hiss out a breath as his fingers slip inside my thong.
His grin says it all, as he sinks into my soaking centre. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’
‘Fuck, yes,’ I whisper and his dark eyes light with arousal as he works me with his fingers, pumping and fucking me until my legs are shaking so hard I can hardly stand.
Meanwhile, he’s perfectly poised, sipping his champagne, revelling in all the ways he can wreck my body. Heat builds between my legs.
‘Come for me, sweetheart,’ he commands. ‘Come on my hand like a good girl, and I’ll take you back to the club,’ he promises, dragging his thumb over my clit in small, soul-shattering circles.
I don’t stand a chance.
I never did.
My core clenches as I cry out his name loud enough for everyone to hear downstairs.
Wave after wave of pure primal pleasure pulses through me, more powerful than ever before, thanks to his debauched description of what he has in store for me. When he’s wrung every drop of pleasure from my pussy, he pulls me down onto his lap.
‘Ride my cock, sweetheart, hard and fast,’ he demands, licking his fingers clean.
And I do.
I leave the Prada store with three bags of clothing that I haven’t even tried on, and the knowledge that I’m as dirty and depraved as my husband.