10. Lorcan #2
I walk up the stairs, my boots thudding against the stone with a rhythmic, angry pace. My blood is boiling. No one, absolutely no one, disobeys my orders. In my world, a direct violation of a command from the Don is met with a bullet or a blade. My men know it. My enemies know it.
And yet, this twenty-three-year-old girl is currently sitting in my private study, treating my compound like a resort.
I reach the heavy oak doors of my study. I try the handle. Locked.
"Atara," I growl, knocking once, hard enough to rattle the wood. "Open the door."
"I'm busy!" her voice calls out from inside, sounding entirely too cheerful. "I’m auditing your collection of classical literature. Honestly, Lorcan, why do you have three copies of The Prince? It’s a bit on the nose, don't you think?"
I don't waste time arguing. I reach into my pocket, pull out the master key card, and swipe it against the lock. The indicator dings green, and the heavy bolt slides back.
I push the door open and step inside.
She’s sitting in my massive, leather wingback chair.
She’s changed out of the blue nightdress, unfortunately, but the outfit she’s chosen isn't much better for my sanity. She’s wearing a pair of tight, white denim shorts that hug her hips and a soft, oversized yellow sweater that slips off one of her creamy shoulders.
Her bare feet are tucked under her on the leather, and she has a thick, leather-bound book open on her lap.
She looks up, completely unrepentant. "You know, locking doors is a basic right to privacy. You should really respect it."
"You are in my private study," I say, my voice dangerously quiet. I close the door behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding like a trap springing shut. "You violated the East Wing perimeter. You lied to my guards. You entered a restricted corridor."
"Your corridors are boring," she says, turning a page of the book. "And I wanted something to read. I told you, I’m used to active datasets. My brain doesn't just turn off because you decided to play jailer."
"This isn't a game, Atara!" I roar, the anger finally bursting through my control.
I stride across the room, stopping right in front of the chair.
I reach down and slam the book shut on her lap.
"You are in the middle of a war! If Silas's men had breached the perimeter while you were wandering around like a tourist, you’d be fucking dead! Do you understand that? Your life is hanging by a thread, and you’re complaining about classical literature! "
She stands up, dropping the closed book onto the chair. She has to look up at me, her chin tilted, her chest inches from mine.
"Then let me go!" she screams back. "If my life is so hard to manage, throw me out! Let me take my chances! I’d rather be running from your ghosts in New York than sitting in this golden cage watching you look at me like you want to put me in a kennel!"
"You wouldn't last five minutes in New York," I whisper. "Silas would have you in a basement before you cleared JFK."
"I don't care! It's my life! It's my choice!"
She tries to push past me, her shoulder brushing against my chest. The contact is electric, a jolt of pure heat that shoots straight to my groin.
I react before my brain can stop me.
I grab her wrist. My fingers wrap completely around the delicate bone, her skin hot and soft against my palm. She freezes, her breath hitching in her throat.
"Let go of me," she whispers, her eyes locking onto mine.
"No," I say.
I yank her backward, spinning her around until her back slams against the solid wood of the bookshelf behind her.
The leather-bound volumes rattle against her shoulders.
I step into her space, my body pinning her against the wood.
I’m towering over her, my hands flat against the shelf on either side of her head, locking her in.
The air in the room instantly changes.
She’s breathing in short, ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Because she’s so small, her hard, pert breasts are grazing my chest with every breath she takes.
I can feel the peaks of her nipples rubbing against the fabric of my shirt, a torturous friction that makes my cock throb so hard it hurts.
"I told you," I whisper, my voice dropping into a register that is pure animal. "Do not test me, Atara."
"O-Or what?" she breathes, her voice shaky.
She lets out a soft, helpless moan just a tiny, dry sound in the back of her throat and my jaw tightens.
She’s fighting it, but her body is betraying her.
I can see the pulse fluttering frantically in her neck.
I can smell the heat of her, the sweet, musky scent of a woman who is dripping wet between her thighs.
"You think you’re so tough," she whispers, her lips parting. She looks at my mouth, and I can hear the click of her throat as she swallows. "You think you can just... own me."
"I do own you," I growl, leaning down until my lips are brushing against hers and I let her feel the heat of my breath. "Every inch of this skin. Every breath you take in this house is because I allow it. If I wanted to, I could take you right here against this shelf, and you wouldn't say no."
"I-I… I would," she pants, but her back arches instinctively, pressing her pelvis against mine.
My hardness slides right between her thighs, separated only by the thin denim of her shorts.
A soft, ragged gasp escapes her, her head tilting back against the wood of the shelf.
She moans again, a little louder this time, her eyes fluttering shut as I nudge my hips forward, grinding myself against her.
"You're hard," she whispers, her hands reaching up to grip my forearms. She’s trying to push me away, but her fingers are digging into my muscles, pulling me closer instead.
"I fucking am, Atara," I growl, my lips dragging along her jawline, down to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
I suck a small patch of her skin into my mouth, biting down gently, and she lets out a sharp, wet cry that nearly breaks my restraint.
"I’ve been thinking about the way you taste since we left Dublin.
I want to rip these shorts off you and slide inside you until you're screaming. "
She whimpers, her knees going slightly soft.
I can feel the heat radiating off her, the sheer, agonizing tension of two people who want to tear each other’s clothes off but are fighting for every scrap of control.
My hands leave the shelf, my fingers wrapping around her waist, digging into the soft flesh above her shorts.
I lift her slightly, pressing my erection hard against her center, and she lets out another soft moan, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Lorcan..." she breathes, her forehead resting against my chin. "Please."
"Please, what?" I growl, my thumb brushing the bottom of her throat, feeling the frantic hammer of her heart.
She opens her eyes, and her usual spark is completely gone, replaced by a dark, desperate lust that matches my own. But then, she blinks, and I see the struggle in her.
"I... I want you to go to hell," she whispers, her voice shaking.
I stare at her for a long, heavy beat. The tension is so thick it feels like a physical weight on my chest. I want to ignore her words. I want to rip her shorts down and show her exactly what "hell" feels like.
But I don't.
Slowly, deliberately, I let go of her waist. I step back, creating a foot of cold, empty space between us. The loss of her heat is a physical ache in my bones.
Atara slumps slightly against the bookshelf, her chest heaving, her lips wet and parted. She looks thoroughly wrecked, her eyes glassy as she stares at me, trying to find her bearings.
"Leave," I say, my voice flat, cold, and completely devoid of the violence I’m feeling inside.
She doesn't argue. She doesn't say another word. She gathers her book, her fingers trembling so hard she nearly drops it, and slips past me. She opens the door and vanishes into the hallway, the soft click of her bare feet fading away.
I stand there by the bookshelf for a long time.
My hand is still warm from her wrist. The scent of her is still thick in the room, lingering among the old leather and classical literature. My dick is still painfully hard, throbbing against my trousers, a miserable reminder of how close I came to breaking my own rules.
I walk over to the window, looking out at the shimmering heat of the desert.
She’s a variable. A beautiful, stubborn, dangerous variable.
And if I don't find a way to control her soon, she’s going to burn my entire world to the ground.
I pick up my phone and dial Kieran.
"Boss?"
"Double the guards on her wing," I growl. "And tell Sean if she bypasses him again, I’ll personally show him what my bad days look like."
"Got it, boss."
I hang up and press my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
God help me. I’m in deep.