5. Atara
Atara
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the door handle. I’ve reached for the deadbolt six times in the last twenty minutes. Every time, my fingers graze the cold metal, and every time, I pull back like it’s electrified.
Are you really doing this, Atara? He’s a weird, arrogant businessman. He’s definitely not stable.
“Shut up, brain,” I whisper, flopping back onto the pillows. “Stability gave me Mark. Stability gave me a five-year internship as a tutor for a man who dumped me with a ‘severance’ ticket. Maybe I’m done with stable.”
The truth is, I’m vibrating. It’s not the leftover adrenaline from the cliff or the coffee from breakfast. It’s him. It’s the way he looked at me when he said he wanted me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
The click of the door handle is quiet, but in the silence of the suite, it sounds like a gunshot.
I sit up, my heart doing a clumsy dance against my ribs.
The door swings open slowly. He is standing there, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway.
He’s changed into a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, the ink on his arms dark and sprawling.
He looks tired, but his eyes are wired, glowing with a heat that makes my breath hitch.
He’s here…
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. He doesn't lock it. He just stands there, watching me.
“The door was unlocked,” he says. His voice is a low, rough rumble that vibrates right through the mattress and into my bones.
“Maybe the lock is sticky,” I lie, standing up. I’m wearing a silk slip dress. It’s blush pink, thin, and entirely too revealing for a ‘professional’ confrontation. “I tried to turn it, but it wouldn't budge.”
Lorcan tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He walks toward me, his movements slow and deliberate, like a tiger who knows the cage is already open.
“Is that right?” He stops a foot away. The air around him smells like sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and something sharper, something metallic.
“You’re a terrible liar, Atara.” He reaches out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck.
His skin is hot, his grip firm. “You wanted me to walk through that door. You’ve been sitting here waiting for it. ”
“You’re arrogant,” I breathe, my head tilting back as he pulls me closer. “And you’re late. If you’re going to be a dark, mysterious stranger, you should really work on your punctuality.”
“I had a debt to collect,” he mutters, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “But I’m here now. Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to devour me like you’ve been dreaming about?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
He doesn't let me finish. He lunges, his mouth crashing against mine.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding, claiming, and I meet him with a ferocity that surprises even me. I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there’s no air left between us.
He tastes like sweet whiskey.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound in the back of his throat, and lifts me off my feet. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back.
“My room,” he growls against my lips. “Now.”
“Why? Does my room not meet your requirements?”
“I don’t fucking care if we are rolling on the grass right now. But my floor is more secure,”
He carries me out of the suite. I’m barely conscious of the hallway, of the two suited men standing guard who look away as we pass.
“Wait,” I pant as we reach the double doors of the penthouse. “Why do you have so many bodyguards? You’re just a businessman.”
Lorcan chuckles, the sound dark and vibrating against my chest as he kicks his door open. “I am just a businessman, Atara. I just deal in very high-risk assets.”
He sets me down in the center of the massive, dimly lit room. He turns to the two men who started to follow us in.
“Get out,” he snarls. “And don't even think about knocking unless the building is on fire.”
The doors slam shut, and suddenly, the world is just the two of us.
He turns back to me, and the look in his eyes makes my knees buckle. He doesn't waste time. He’s across the room in two strides, his hands back on me, pulling the straps of my slip dress down. The silk pools at my feet, leaving me standing there in nothing but a pair of lace panties.
He stops, his gaze raking over my body with a deliberateness that feels like a brand.
“Beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re so much more than you let on, aren’t you?”
He picks me up again, tossing me onto the massive bed. He’s over me in a second, his weight pinning me down. He’s fast, and he’s terrifyingly good with his hands. He produces a soft, silk tie from somewhere, maybe his own neck, I don't even know, and loops it around my wrists.
“Lorcan,” I gasp, my heart hammering. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making sure you don't go anywhere,” he purrs as he hitches the tie to the headboard.
It’s tight enough to hurt a bit, and it’s enough to tell me I’m not in control anymore.
“You spent five years being the one who held everything together, Atara.
Tonight, you don't have to do anything but feel.”
He starts kissing down my neck, his lips and teeth marking the sensitive skin just below my ear.
I arch my back, a sob of pleasure escaping me, and just then he moves to my breasts, his mouth hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak until I’m screaming his name.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to take everything.”
“Yes,” I moan, my hips bucking against his. “Please, Lorcan. I want you.”
He doesn't make me wait. He shifts, his weight leaving me for a second, and the cool air hits my skin like a shock. I watch, panting, as he strips off his trousers. His cock springs free, and the sight makes my mouth go dry. It’s thick, a deep, flushed red, standing hard and curving slightly upward.
The head is broad, slick already with his own excitement.
He pulls on protection and walks back towards me
He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. One hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back so I’m forced to look at him, at the dominant set of his jaw, the dark fire in his eyes.
The other hand goes between my legs, his fingers sliding through the wet mess I’ve made.
He parts my folds, his thumb rubbing hard over my clit in one rough, electrifying pass. I cry out, my body convulsing.
Then he enters me.
It’s not one long, smooth thrust. It’s a claim.
He drives himself into me, that thick, hard cock filling me in a single, devastating movement that stretches me, burns me, perfects me.
The sensation is so intense, so complete, I can’t breathe.
My eyes roll back. A soundless scream locks in my throat.
He’s in me, deep, so deep I feel him against the very back of my womb. The fullness is absolute.
He holds there, buried, his body trembling slightly with the effort of control. His hand still grips my hair. His eyes drill into mine. “Feel that?” he grinds out. “That’s what I have been dying to do since I saw you on that cliff.
He begins to move.
I cry out, enjoying how he fills me completely, a solid, hot weight that anchors me to the earth. He starts to move, his pace slow and torturous, his eyes locked on mine. Every thrust is a question, every withdrawal a promise to be back.
“You’re mine tonight,” he says, his hands framing my face.
He switches positions, pulling my legs over his shoulders, driving deeper. I’m lost. I’m a mess of heat and friction and the sound of my own ragged breath.
His withdrawals are slow, agonizing, letting me feel every ridge of him, the drag of his cock against my inner walls, the near-empty ache before he slams back home.
Each return is faster, harder, a piston stroke that jars my body up the bed.
The slap of his hips against my ass is a wet, rhythmic sound. The bedframe creaks.
My hands scramble at his shoulders, his back, nails digging into the hard muscle.
I’m beyond words, beyond thought. My world is the pounding rhythm, the brutal fullness, the searing pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in my belly.
I’m so wet I can hear it, a slick, squelching noise that accompanies every thrust.
He changes angle, lifting my hips higher, and the new position sends him grinding directly against a spot inside me that feels like a live wire. A sharp, bright shock of pleasure explodes through me. My back arches off the bed. “There!” I gasp. “Yes, yes, yes!”
He obeys. He pins my hips, his hands like vise grips on my flesh, and he pounds into that spot with a focused, relentless fury.
His breathing is harsh in my ear. Sweat drips from his temple onto my cheek.
The dominance in his movements, the sheer physical control he exerts, strips away every last shred of my own restraint.
He flips me onto my stomach, his hands gripping my hips as he takes me from behind. It’s primal. It’s dark. It’s the most intense thing I’ve ever experienced, and I meet every move he makes with a desperation that matches his own.
The coil inside me snaps.
It starts as a deep, internal quake, a tremor in my gut. Then it erupts.
My thighs shake violently. My vision blurs.
And then, a gush of hot liquid, a sudden, uncontrollable rush that spills out of me as he thrusts.
It’s not a trickle. It’s a squirt, a pulse of fluid that soaks his cock, his stomach, the sheets beneath us.
The sound is a distinct, wet burst, followed by a continuous spill.
The scent of my release, muskier and deeper now, fills the air.
Lorcan’s rhythm falters for a second. He feels it. He sees it. His eyes blaze with a dark, triumphant hunger. “That’s it, Kisa,” he growls, his voice thick with awe and possession.
It sends him over the edge. His thrusts become wild, uncontrolled, his own climax mounting.
He buries himself to the root, his body locking against mine.
I feel him swell, then pulse inside me. The hot, sudden flood of his cum fills me, a scalding rush that mixes with my own release.
He groans, a raw, animal sound, his head dropping to my shoulder as he empties himself into my convulsing body.
He stays there, lodged deep, both of us panting, soaked, trembling. The aftermath is a humid, sticky silence. His hand relaxes in my hair, his fingers now stroking the damp strands. He’s still inside me, softening slowly, a heavy, possessive reminder.
“You are far more delicious than I expected,” he whispers into the quiet, his lips brushing my ear.
Afterward, the silence in the room is heavy.
Lorcan has untied my wrists, and we’re tangled together under the heavy duvet. My head is on his chest, my ear pressed against the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. I can feel the tattoos on his arm against my shoulder, a strange, textured map of a life I don't understand.
I lie there, trying to piece together the specific insanity of the last forty-eight hours.
Two days ago, I was a graduate with a boring boyfriend and a plan.
Now, I’m in a penthouse in Ireland, naked in the bed of a man who looks like he could kill me with his bare hands and who just spent three hours making me forget my own name.
“You’re thinking too much,” Lorcan mutters, his hand stroking my hair.
“I’m a Finance major,” I whisper. “Thinking is what I do. I’m trying to calculate the ROI of this entire situation.”
“And?”
“The risk is astronomical,” I say, a small smile playing on my lips. “But the dividends are… significant.”
He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through my cheek. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Go to sleep, Atara. The world will still be there in the morning.”
I close my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I feel… safe. Which is hilarious, considering who I’m lying next to. I’m drifting off, the sound of the Atlantic wind outside a distant hum, when it happens.
CRACK.
The sound of shattering glass is deafening.
I bolt upright, my heart leaping into my throat. Before I can even process the sound, a heavy, solid weight slams into me, throwing me off the bed and onto the floor.
It’s Lorcan.
He’s over me in a second, his body a shield, pinning me against the mahogany base of the bed.
“Stay down!” he snarls.
The room is suddenly filled with the staccato rhythm of gunfire. Pop-pop-pop-pop. Bits of plaster and wood fly through the air. The heavy curtains are shredded, and the moonlight spills into the room through the jagged holes in the window.
I’m paralyzed. My brain, usually so quick with numbers and logic, has completely flatlined. All I can hear is the roar of the ocean and the mechanical rhythm of the shots.
Lorcan is moving. He’s not the man who was just whispering to me. He’s not the man who was making me cum.
He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a sleek, black handgun. My breath hitches, and I almost think I’d die if I don’t let a breath out as he checks the clip with a flick of his wrist, his eyes cold and focused. He doesn't look scared. He looks… ready.
“Kieran! Echo!” he bellows toward the door.
The door bursts open, and his two men are there, weapons drawn. They don't look surprised either. They move with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency, taking positions by the windows.
“A rival gang?” Kieran shouts over the noise.
“Maybe,” Lorcan says, his voice flat. He looks down at me for a split second. The heat in his eyes is gone, replaced by a cold, hard determination that makes my blood turn to ice. “Atara, listen to me. Stay behind the bed. Do not move until I tell you to. Do you understand?”
I can’t find my voice. I just nod, my hands shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my armpits.
Another burst of gunfire shatters a lamp across the room. Lorcan stands up, staying low, and moves toward the door. He’s a shadow among shadows, a ghost with a gun.
Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. This isn't a 'business' rivalry. This is a war.
And I’m stuck right in the middle of it.