13. Atara
Atara
My blood is still singing with the violent, high-octane hum of the canyon pass. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the deafening crack of the shotgun, feel the hard press of the Suburban's floorboards against my ribs, and feel the terrifying, intoxicating weight of Lorcan’s body shielding mine.
Not yet.
The words are a hot brand sliding down my spine.
He doesn’t own me. He doesn't. But my body is currently a traitorous, weeping mess that is actively disputing that claim.
Between my thighs, my panties are completely ruined—soaked through with a heavy, thick slickness that clings to my skin with every step I take.
My nipples are so hard they are practically scraping against the inside of my sundress, tingling with an agonizing need for his hands, his mouth, the rough slide of his teeth.
When we were on that floorboard, I wanted him to rip my dress to shreds.
I wanted him to sink his teeth into my shoulder and drive himself into me right there in the dirt and spent shell casings.
I’m furious at myself. I’m a Finance major. I deal in logical equations, risk assessments, and cold, hard data. And the data currently says that I am dangerously, humiliatingly obsessed with a man who carries a shotgun in his center console.
I don't go to the East Wing to wash the canyon dust from my skin. Instead, I march straight to the West Wing. The new guard at the double doors looks like he wants to stop me, but the sheer, vibrating anger radiating off me makes him hesitate just long enough for me to push past him.
I throw Lorcan's office door open so hard it slams against the wall.
Lorcan is standing by the window, his back to me. He’s already stripped off his dust-covered shirt, standing bare-chested in the bright desert light. His skin is a map of dark ink and heavy muscle, his shoulders rising and falling with his deep, heavy breaths.
He doesn't flinch at the sound of the door. He slowly turns around, his eyes fixing on me with that dark, grumpy, intense look he always has on his face.
"I told you to go to your wing, Atara," he growls, his voice sounding like gravel.
"I don't care what you told me," I snap, marching across the room until only his massive mahogany desk stands between us.
I slam my hands onto the wood, leaning forward.
My breasts swell against the neckline of my sundress, and I see his eyes immediately drop to the hard, visible peaks of my nipples through the fabric.
His jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek.
"There’s a mole in your fortress," I say, my voice sharp and clear. "And I know exactly who it is."
Lorcan freezes. The air in the room instantly loses ten degrees. His eyes snap back to mine, the coldness returning. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," I say, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
This is my play. My leverage. My ticket back to Brooklyn.
"I know who gave Silas your itinerary for Ireland.
I know who gave him the route for the North Pass today.
The commotion Sean and I made this morning created a two-minute window.
Your security desk was empty, and she took the routing slip. "
Lorcan’s chest heaves. He takes a slow, predatory step toward the desk. "Who, Atara? Give me the name."
"No," I say, tilting my chin up. "I’m not giving you anything. Not until we discuss the terms of my release. You want this name? You want to stop the leak that’s actively trying to get you and your daughter killed?
Fine. You fly me back to New York tonight.
You buy me a new phone. You give me my life back, and you never, ever contact me again. That is the price of the transaction."
Lorcan stares at me. A low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
He walks slowly around the desk, closing the distance between us until he is towering over me.
The smell of him—dust, gunpowder, and that intoxicating sandalwood—fills my nose, making my mouth water.
"You think you’re a player now, Atara?" he whispers, leaning down. "You think you can walk into my office and threaten me with my own security? You're brilliant, yes. I knew that the second I read your file. But you don't understand the rules of this table."
"I understand numbers," I snap, though my breath is hitching because he is so close.
My core throbbed, a heavy, wet pulse. "And the numbers say you need this information more than you need me sitting in your East Wing doing puzzles.
I am a depreciating asset to you, Lorcan. Let me go, and I'll give you the leak."
"I don't negotiate with my captives," he growls. He reaches out, his rough, calloused fingers wrapping around my waist, pulling me a fraction of an inch closer. The heat of his bare chest is like a furnace. "But I’m in a good mood so I’ll make you a bet."
"A bet?" I repeat, my voice trembling.
"Ten minutes," Lorcan says, his smoke-and-ice eyes darkening with a vicious, hungry intent.
"We stay in this room for ten minutes. I touch you.
I kiss you. I do whatever I want to that beautiful, stubborn body.
If you can last those ten minutes without begging me to fuck you, without begging me to make you cum.
.. I will let you go. I will personally put you on my jet tonight, fly you to New York, and never look back. "
I stare at him, my brain trying to run the probability of survival. Ten minutes. It’s just ten minutes. I survived five years of Mark’s touch. I can handle ten minutes of Lorcan. I’m strong. I’m stubborn. I have a 3.9 GPA. I can control my own body.
"And if I lose?" I whisper.
"If you beg," he growls, his hand sliding up my side, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin under my arm, "you stay. You stay in this house, in my bed, under my rules. And you tell me the name of the mole."
My heart is thrashing against my ribs. It’s a terrible bet. It’s statistically insane. But the sheer, physical yearning eating me alive wants this so badly. My nipples are screaming for his mouth. My clit is throbbing, aching for the touch of his hand.
Plus, I’m dead sure I won’t be begging for anything, I can do this.
"Deal," I breathe.
Lorcan smirks—a dark, wicked expression that tells me I’ve just stepped into a trap. He reaches over and hits the button on his desk clock, the digital numbers red against the dark wood.
10:00. The countdown begins.
He doesn't waste a second. He grabs my waist and hoists me onto the edge of his desk. My dress slides up my thighs, exposing my damp lace panties to his view. He looks at the dark, wet patch in the center of the silk, and a heavy growl escapes his throat.
"Slick for me already," he mutters, his voice thick with a dominant, possessive heat. "You’ve been thinking about this all day."
He leans in and captures my mouth.
It’s a brutal, devastating kiss. His tongue thrusts deep, claiming my mouth with a raw, heavy force that takes my breath away.
He tastes like coffee, and I meet him with a desperate, sobbing gasp, my hands flying to his bare shoulders.
I grip his muscle, my nails digging into his skin as he grinds his mouth against mine.
His hand slides up my thigh, his rough fingers tracing the edge of my panties. He doesn't go under them. Not yet. He just uses the flat of his palm to press against my clit, rubbing through the damp silk in a slow, heavy circle.
"Ah!" I gasp against his lips, my hips bucking up against his hand.
"Shh," he murmurs, his lips dragging down my jaw, down the long, sensitive line of my neck. He bites the tender skin at the junction of my shoulder, and a sharp, wet cry escapes me. "Don't make noise, Atara. Save your breath. You have nine minutes left."
He pulls the straps of my dress down, exposing my breasts to the cool air of the office. They are swollen, my nipples dark and agonizingly stiff. Lorcan looks at them, his eyes wild, and then he drops his head.
He sucks one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak before he bites down gently.
"Oh god!" I scream, my back arching off the desk. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer, begging for the pressure. The pleasure is so intense it feels like a white-hot wire running straight from my breast to the heavy, throbbing ache between my legs.
He moves to the other breast, sucking and biting, while his hand continues to grind against my clit through the wet silk. I’m vibrating. I’m a mess, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
He stops.
He pulls his hand away. He pulls his mouth off my breast, leaving my skin wet and cold in the air-conditioned room.
I open my eyes, my vision blurry with tears. "Lorcan..."
"Seven minutes," he whispers.
He reaches down, hooks his fingers into the waistband of my damp panties, and rips them down my legs. He throws them onto the floor. I am completely bare on his desk, my thighs splayed, my core exposed to his gaze. I’m dripping wet, the clear, sweet slickness of my arousal glistening on my skin.
Lorcan kneels between my thighs.
He drops his face directly into my heat.
His tongue is a hot, heavy muscle that laps at my slickness. He finds my clit and sucks it into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the hyper-sensitive little bead
"Oh!" I cry out, my hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles are white. My hips are bucking frantically, trying to force his face deeper, trying to find the release that is hovering just out of reach. "Lorcan, oh god..."
"What do you want, Atara?" he murmurs against my wet skin, his hot breath sending a wave of goosebumps down my thighs. He slides two thick fingers inside me, stretching me, while his thumb lightly pinches my clit. "Tell me what you want."