10. Cillian
CILLIAN
I have avoided being alone with my assistant since I kissed her in my car, and very nearly went up to her apartment to do far worse things to her.
Orla has got under my skin, and I can’t trust myself not to blur the lines between pleasure and work.
But this New York trip was unavoidable, now I am alone with her.
In another city—and she is going to be everywhere.
I press the penthouse button and watch the elevator numbers climb. Orla stands an arm's length away, her reflection caught in the polished doors. The subtle scent of her perfume fills the small space, intoxicating me with filthy thoughts about what might be under her dress.
"We have two hours before the Matsui meeting," I say. "Did you get a chance to review those contracts?"
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Finished them on the plane. I've highlighted their weaknesses in the counteroffer."
The doors slide open to our suite. Manhattan spreads beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a concrete jungle bathed in afternoon light. Two bedroom doors flank a spacious common area that is decorated with leather furniture and modern art.
"The Hong Kong group arrives at four," I remind her, tossing my keycard on the glass desk. "They'll press on relentlessly about shipping access."
"I'll prepare for that." Orla heads toward her room, heels clicking against marble floors.
Once she disappears, I loosen my tie and pour two fingers of scotch.
It was strangling me—or it was her that made it impossible to breathe all the way up here.
I swirl the amber liquid, watching the ice melt.
The Matsui meeting is just a cover—my real agenda is to get information about our West Coast competition. Another game in an endless chess match.
When Orla returns, I catch her looking around the suite. Not admiring the luxury or art, but noting exits, cameras. Her eyes sweep the room for ways out, or in. An interesting skill for an executive assistant.
The restaurant is buzzing with energy and the guests ooze power and status. Banking executives cluster in hushed conversation near the bar. Tech billionaires hold court by the windows. Our table has clear views of both the entrance and kitchen doors—always have your eyes on the all exits.
"Matsui extends his apologies." Harrison Reed slides into the chair across from me. His tailored suit can't hide the fighter's build beneath. "I'll be handling the arrangements moving forward."
I recognize the play immediately. Reed Shipping controls territory we've been eyeing along the Pacific coast. They are not going to roll over and let me in. His presence here confirms my suspicions about this dinner.
"Unfortunate," I say, signaling the waiter for wine. "I prefer to discuss partnerships in person."
Orla is at my right hand, iPad ready. Her eyes flick between us, while she pretends to read the menu.
Throughout dinner, we trade barbs disguised as business talk. The dance of words conceals the true negotiation happening beneath the surface. I can’t exactly call him a greedy cunt to his face—not in public.
"Boston harbor has been under increased scrutiny lately," Reed says as the waiter clears our dessert plates. "DEA presence makes commerce... complicated."
I take my time with the wine. "Every port has unique challenges. Business doesn’t have to be complicated."
"True." His smile never reaches his eyes. "Though your family's current challenges seem particularly acute. That dock worker incident. The Colombian imports flagged."
My temperature rises—he knows details that never went public—he’s got information that no one outside my family should have.
"Markets evolve," I reply. "So do our methods."
"Evolution requires adaptation." His gaze shifts to Orla. "Or we face extinction."
I place my napkin beside my plate. "The Kavanagh family has survived for generations. We understand change better than most."
His eyes narrow at the implied threat. "We'll see."
While paying the bill, I notice a man sitting alone at the bar. Dark suit, angled away, but he’s watching our reflection in the mirror. When we get up to leave, he signals the bartender.
The parking garage echoes with our footsteps. Concrete pillars casting shadows, creating perfect blind spots every few yards.
"We need to get out of here for a while," I murmur, my mouth barely moving.
Orla nods once. Her hand slips into her purse, and I know she's not reaching for car keys. She is full of surprises.
We reach the middle level and I can sense we might not be alone.
"Get the car," I tell Orla.
"Mr. Kavanagh." The a man steps out of the shadows. "Just a friendly conversation."
"My office handles appointments," I reply, shifting to block his access to Orla.
His hand slips inside his jacket.
I drive the heel of my palm into his sternum.
My knee cracks against his thigh. I twist his wrist until the gun clatters to the ground.
Orla pulls up next to me, the engine growls as I reluctantly get in the passenger side of the car.
“this meeting, the whole trip seems to be some sort of setup.” She says hightailing it out of the parking and seamlessly joining the traffic.
“You think?” I snap, my agitation getting the better of me. “Just drive, I will get someone to clear the building and our rooms before we go back.”
“Drive where? It’s peak hour traffic in Manhattan. It’ll take an hour to get around the block. We could walk faster.” She’s right, we’re sitting ducks in the car, but at least we’re sitting in a gridlock that is too public to create chaos.
Midnight finds us back in the suite, we drove around until we found a coffee shop to wait for my security to give the all clear.
The New York skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows, a sea of lights against the darkness.
Orla stands at the glass, silhouetted against the view, her reflection ghosted onto the city outside.
I pour two glasses of whiskey and join her, offering one silently. She accepts with a small smile that changes her entire face. For a moment, I glimpse a different Orla—not the assistant, but a woman with desires and secrets.
"It's beautiful," she says, turning back to the view. "Makes a person feel small and powerful all at once."
"The Kavanagh family started with nothing," I say, standing closer than necessary. "My grandfather lost his parents during the famine, came here alone at fourteen. Started it all with one fishing boat."
"And now you control half of Boston's imports." She turns toward me, her hip against the glass. "Legal and not-so-legal."
The acknowledgment of the truth hangs there. She's never directly referenced the family's other businesses before.
"We provide services that people need," I reply. "Some things the government doesn't approve of, but people don’t stop needing or wanting them."
"And what about you, Cillian?" She stares at me over the rim of her glass. "What do you want that you don't have?"
I consider deflecting with something about work.
Instead, I answer honestly. "In my world, everything's a transaction. Everyone wants something."
"And you don't want the same things?" Her voice drops lower, a challenge in her tone.
"Oh, I want something." I step closer, drawn in by whatever magnetic force has pulled at me since she first walked into my office. "But it's not what a Kavanagh man should want. What do you want Orla?"
Her breath catches as I move into her space. We stand impossibly close, not touching but feeling the heat between us.
"What do I want?" she whispers.
"The same thing I do." I take her glass, setting it aside with mine. "This."
My hand slides to the back of her neck, pulling her toward me as my mouth claims hers. There's no hesitation, no surprise—as if we've both been waiting for this moment since the that first kiss.
Her lips part, inviting me deeper. What starts as a kiss ignites into hunger—weeks of tension and physical desire exploding. Her fingers pull at my shirt, yanking me closer as my hands slide down her back, pressing her body against mine.
I push her back against the window, Manhattan spread below us as I trail kisses down her throat. She tilts her head back, a soft moan escaping when I find a sensitive spot beneath her ear.
"We shouldn't do this," I mutter against her skin, even as my hands grip the curve of her waist.
"Stop thinking," she says, pulling my mouth back to hers.
Her kiss is demanding, erasing any remaining doubts. I reach around to the zipper of her dress, drawing it down slowly to give her time to reconsider. Instead, she shrugs the fabric from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
She stands there in black lace bra and matching underwear, her body pale and perfect against the backdrop of the night sky. I've imagined this moment countless times, but reality has nothing on my fantasy.
"Your turn," she says, unbuttoning my shirt.
When one snags, she pulls impatiently, popping it off. The small act of desperation—her need as heated as mine—breaks something inside me. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom.
I lay her on the king-sized bed, following her down, not wanting to break this connection even for a moment. She runs her hands down my chest, nails dragging lightly over skin as I work to remove my belt.
"I've thought about this," I confess, hovering above her. "Having you like this."
"Have you?"
I unhook her bra, her perfect breasts fill my palms. When I lower my head to take one nipple into my mouth, she gasps, back arching off the bed. I lavish attention on each breast before trailing kisses down her stomach, I pull her underwear off slowly, dragging it down her legs.
She watches me through half-closed eyes as I kneel between her thighs, she can see how hungry I am to taste her pussy. I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then another, working my way closer to where she wants me most.