3. Atara
Atara
I told him no.
Well, I didn’t tell him no. I told the terrifyingly polite man in the suit who knocked on my door with a handwritten note from a Mr Lorcan that I was “unavailable” for breakfast due to a previous commitment.
The commitment is me, a tub of overpriced room-service tray, and an aggressive internal monologue about why Mark is a parasite. It isn’t a lie, technically. I am very busy being miserable.
But now, I’m just restless.
I’ve showered twice. I’ve paced the length of this suite so many times I could probably map the floorboards in my sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see those grey eyes looking at me. Not with kindness, Lord no, I don’t even know what was in those eyes, but somehow, they are ingrained in my head.
“He’s just a guy,” I mutter to the empty room, flopping onto the bed. “A guy with an intimidating personality and a very expensive tailor. And a daughter who nearly fell off a cliff. Focus on that, Atara. Don’t think about sexy eyes or lips.”
I pull the duvet over my head. The wind is howling outside, rattling the window frames. It’s a lonely sound, the kind that makes you want to curl up against something warm.
Something tall, with eyes that rake down my body.
I think I’m going crazy.
I don’t know how much time passes before the sound reaches me. It’s a soft, heavy click—the sound of my suite door opening. I sit up, or I try to. My brain is foggy, caught in that heavy state of half-sleep where the world feels made of cotton.
“Who’s there?” I whisper.
I try to reach for the bedside lamp, but my arm doesn't move. I tug at it, and a sharp, metallic clink echoes through the room. I freeze. I pull my other hand. Clink.
The cold metal of handcuffs bites into my wrists, pinning my arms to the mahogany headboard. I’m lying flat on my back, and as the shadows in the corner shift, I realize I’m naked. The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on my skin, my nipples peaking, sensitive, and aching.
I’m not scared. That’s the weird part.
Then, he’s there.
He’s taller than I remember, broader. His shirt is gone, and the tattoos on his skin seem to move in the dim light—dragons, Celtic knots, and names I can’t read. He doesn't say a word. He just stands at the foot of the bed, watching me.
God, he’s fucking sexy. I want him so bad.
I arch my back instinctively. I feel heavy, a dull, pulsing ache building between my thighs. I’m wet—sopping wet—and I can feel the slickness of my own arousal dripping down my skin.
“Please,” I whimper.
He moves towards me with grace, crawling over me. His weight is a godsend, pinning me to the mattress. His hands, rough and calloused, grab my thighs and yank them apart. “I’m going to taste you now, Kisa.”
He growls and drops his head between my legs.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock—hot, rhythmic, and devastatingly precise. I cry out, my head tossing against the pillow, the silk ties at my wrists straining. He uses his tongue on my clit like he’s trying to memorize the texture of it, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.
I’m falling. I’m shattered. I’m arching my back, my hips bucking against his face, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The pleasure is too much, it’s a bright, white-hot line of electricity shooting from my core to my brain.
“Yes!” I moan loudly.
He looks up then, his eyes glowing in the dark, and just as I reach the peak, just as my body explodes into a rhythmic, pulsing release, he smiles.
I bolt upright in bed, my heart trying to kick its way out of my chest.
Oh my god,” I choke out, dragging a hand through my sweat-dampened hair.
The room is silent except for the wind that is still howling.
It’s 3:00 AM, and I am currently the most embarrassed person on the planet.
My body is still vibrating, the ghost of that dream-pleasure lingering in my nerves.
I can still feel the dampness between my legs, and I have no idea how to explain what just happened to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “A sex dream? About him? Atara, you just met him, you hate his guts, this makes no sense.”
I get out of bed, my legs feeling a bit like jelly, and stumble to the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes wide.
I look like I’ve been thoroughly kissed. Or worse.
“It’s just stress,” I tell my reflection. “It’s the breakup. It’s a rebound response. Your brain is just picking the most dominant male in the vicinity to fix the ego-wound Mark left. It’s purely biological.”
I make a cup of tea, sit by the window, and stare at the black expanse of the ocean.
I tell myself I won't go to breakfast. I tell myself I’ll check out early, take a bus to Galway, and disappear into a world of wool sweaters and Guinness.
But then I think about the way he looked when he scooped up his daughter. I remember the dream.
He’s a monster. I can see it in his eyes. But he’s a monster who loves his daughter. And apparently, he’s a monster who my body decided was the perfect protagonist for a midnight bondage fantasy.
I finish my tea and spend the next four hours rehearsing all the ways I’m going to be 'subdued and professional' when I meet him because yes, I’m going for breakfast.
The private dining room is at the end of a long, carpeted hallway that feels like it belongs in a palace, not a hotel. There are two men standing outside the double doors. The same men from the cliff. They look at me, their faces like stone, and open the doors without a word.
I take a breath, smooth down my dress, a soft, cream-colored knit, cute thing, and walk in.
The room is bathed in morning light, the windows looking out over the cliffs. A long mahogany table sits in the center, laden with more food than ten people could eat.
And he is there.
He’s sitting at the head of the table, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in dark, sexy tattoos.
Snap of it, ATARA! There’s nothing sexy about his tattoos. Nothing!
He’s reading a newspaper, looking for all the world like a normal businessman.
Until he looks up.
The dream hits me hard. The memory of his tongue, the weight of him, the way he looked between my legs. My face goes hot instantly. I want to turn around and run back to New York or to the ends of the earth.
“You came,” he says. His voice is lower than I remembered. It does things to my heart rate that should be medically impossible.
“I was hungry,” I say, my voice sounding a bit too high. I pull out a chair as far away from him as possible. “And I figured I should at least let you apologize properly for yesterday.”
He sets the paper down, his eyes tracking my every movement. “Is that what we’re doing? I’m apologizing?”
“Well, you were a jerk on the cliff,” I remind him, reaching for a piece of toast I have no intention of eating. “You didn't say thank you. You didn't ask if I was okay. You just looked at me like I was a smudge on your windshield.”
“I was… preoccupied,” he says, leaning back. “My daughter was nearly a ‘body,’ as you so eloquently put it.”
I hum. “Exactly. Which was your fault.”
“I’m aware.” He doesn't look angry. He looks… amused. It’s infuriating. “Which is why I invited you to breakfast. Eat, Atara. You look like you haven’t slept.”
I freeze, my hand halfway to the butter. “I slept fine. Why would you think I didn’t sleep?”
“The shadows under your eyes,” he says, his gaze lingering on my face. “And you’re nervous. You’ve ripped that piece of toast into six pieces, and you haven't taken a bite.”
I look down. He’s right. I’m a mess.
“I’m not nervous,” I snap, finally taking a bite of the toast. It tastes like cardboard. “I’m just… adjusting to the climate. It’s very… grey here.”
“It is,” he agrees. He sips his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “So, tell me, Atara Ross. What does a Magna Cum Laude graduate with a degree in Finance do when her carefully planned life is interrupted by a breakup?”
What the heck? How does he know that? Wait, he has been calling me by my name since I got here?
What in the hell is going on?
I choke slightly on my toast. “You had me investigated or what?!”
He just tilts his head as if to study me better. “I like to know who I’m having breakfast with.”
Shit, did I mention how hot he is?
“That is so creepy,” I say, leaning forward. “Do you do that to everyone? Or just the girls who save your kid?”
“Just the ones who have the balls to poke me in the chest and tell me I’m a failure.
” He sets his cup down with a soft clack.
“You’re an anomaly, Atara. You’re smart enough to run a hedge fund, but you’re impulsive enough to jump over a stone wall in heels to save a stranger. That’s a dangerous combination.”
“I’m not dangerous,” I say, trying to regain my sass. “I’m just a girl who doesn't like seeing kids fall off cliffs.”
“And a girl who just got dumped.”
“W-what??” I narrow my eyes at him. Who the hell is this man?
“Mark,” Lorcan takes a sip of his tea, and I struggle hard not to hit him over the head.
“How do you know his name?” I snap.
“Like I said. I read the file. He sounds like a bore.”
I can’t help it. A small, surprised laugh escapes me. “He is a bore. A spreadsheet-obsessed bore. But he was my bore for five years.”
“Waste of time,” Lorcan mutters. He stands up then, walking slowly around the table.
My breath hitches. He stops a few feet away, leaning against the edge of the mahogany. He’s so close now I can smell him—sandalwood, rain, and something metallic.
“You’re still looking at me like you want to hit me,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
“Maybe I do,” I whisper. The tension in the room is so thick I could stir it with a spoon. “You’re arrogant, you know too much, and you’re probably not a good person at all, I can tell.”
“I never claimed to be,” he says. He reaches out, his fingers hovering just inches from my jaw.
He doesn't touch me, but the heat from his skin makes my pulse leap. “But you’re not as ‘good’ as you think you are either, Atara. I saw the way you looked at me on the cliff. And I see the way you’re looking at me now. ”
“I-I’m looking at you with professional disdain,” I lie.
“Is that what it is?” He smirks. It’s a dark, wicked thing. “Because it looks a lot like the way a woman looks at a man she’s been thinking about all night.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. Does he know? Can he see the dream on my face?
“Are you crazy? I haven't been thinking about you,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’ve been thinking about the Atlantic. And how I’m going to get a refund for the second half of this trip.”
“I can pay for your trip,” he says.
“I don't want your money.” I roll my eyes. Are all rich guys this annoying?
“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m going to offer you something else.”
He takes a final step, closing the distance. He’s towering over me now, a wall of ink and muscle and dangerous intent. He reaches out, his thumb finally grazing my jawline, tilting my face up to his.
His touch is electric, and I gasp. It’s exactly like the dream, only more intense because he’s actually here.
“You shouldn't be here, Atara,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “A girl like you should be as far away from a man like me as possible.”
“Then why did you invite me to breakfast?” I breathe, my heart stopping in my chest.
He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear. I can feel the vibration of his voice in my skull.
“Because I’m a selfish man,” he whispers. “And ever since you stood on that cliff and looked at me like I was nothing, I’ve been able to think about exactly one thing.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“I want you,” he says.
The world stops.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. The tea in my stomach feels like lead, and the dream in my head feels like a prophecy.
“W-what?” I whisper.
What the hell is going on? He wants me l?? Fuck yes! Yes, yes, no… no! No, Atara!
I should say no. I should stand up, throw my napkin at him, and walk out. But all I can think about is his tongue. All I can think about is the metal clinking against the headboard.
And for the first time in my very logical, very structured life, I think: Why not? Mark is gone. Why can’t I just… have some fun? Because the truth is, annoying and arrogant as he is… I want him too.
Maybe it’s time to let my hair down a little.