Chapter 18 Simone #2
“You know what I’ve noticed about you?” I say, tilting my head.
“Enlighten me.”
“You pretend you don’t care about what people think. But you do. You wanted my family to like you tonight.”
His jaw hardens ever so slightly. “I wanted them to not treat me like I crawled out of a sewer. There’s a difference.”
“Mmhmm,” I hum skeptically. “I think it was more than that.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve noticed a thing or two about you too.”
“Me? What would you have noticed about me?”
The quick glance he gives me is pure heat. “Plenty.”
“Like what?”
He turns his body toward mine ’til we’re only a couple inches apart on the backseat. “More than just from tonight if that’s what you’re wondering. Though there’s plenty from tonight too. But I was more speaking about… other things.”
“Are you going to tell me what, Callahan, or are you messing with me?”
“You’re a tease,” he says succinctly. “You like to drive men crazy. It’s a form of power for you.”
“A tease?!” I choke out, eyes widening. Then I laugh in indignation. “I am not a tease!”
“You are so a tease. Here’s the thing, princess. You recognize there’s power in sex. For the man maybe during the moment, but it’s not about that for you—it’s all in the lead up to it. The possibility of it. As a woman, you know that’s your weapon, and you ain’t afraid to use it.”
“Are you forgetting I was a virgin?” I ask incredulously. “You’re the only man I’ve even had sex with, Callahan!”
“Thanks for proving my point, princess. A gorgeous woman like you—a fucking former beauty queen for Christ’s sake—with your smile and those tits and that ass?
You’ve had plenty of opportunity. Plenty of men tripping over themselves just for the privilege to breathe your air,” he explains.
“Which is exactly why you never gave it up.
You used it as a weapon. It gave you power to hold it over their heads.
“It’s smart, really. Maybe one of the only tools a woman in certain circles can have. But one thing about you is that you know it’s a weapon you can keep using, even now. You know exactly how to get a man worked up then feign innocence like that’s not what you were doing from the get go.”
As he explains his theory, pieces click together and allow me to solve the puzzle.
It’s so ridiculous I laugh. My lips fall open as the light sound tumbles out of me, and I peer at him as if he’s told the funniest joke I’ve heard all evening.
“Wait a second. You think I’ve been coming onto you? I’ve been doing things to ‘work you up?’ Is this about brushing your hand at dinner?”
“Kissing my cheek and whispering in my ear,” he says, cocking a brow. “Before bed each night, applying moisturizer to your body and letting your hands rub all over your chest and legs and thighs—”
“Are you kidding me?! How else am I supposed to moisturize?”
“You know what you’re doing. You take your time with it. Every night before bed, you’re feeling up on yourself in those little nighties you wear. Nipples damn near poking out of the fabric.”
“Ronan!” I laugh, face flushing even hotter. I shove at his shoulder. “I had no idea. And what about my nipples? They’re not that pointy!”
“Princess, they’re fucking hard as pebbles,” he growls, leaning toward me. His voice drops to a huskier, rougher level. “You think I don’t notice, but I sure as hell fucking do.”
“Pervert.”
“Maybe. But can you blame me? You put a slab of meat in front of a lion, what the fuck do you think he’s gonna do? He’s gonna devour his meal the only way he knows how. That’s called nature, princess.”
I blink and realize he’s not the only one who’s inched closer. I’ve leaned in too, drawn toward him like there’s an invisible magnetic field between us and I can’t resist.
The problem becomes that the less space exists between us, the more I take in his smoky, masculine cologne.
An inexplicable urge develops inside me, yearning to bury my face in his neck and inhale.
Enjoying the way your husband smells shouldn’t be a crime. Yet it feels like one as I meet the gaze of Ronan Callahan and remind myself he’s the man I was forced to marry. He’s the man I once vowed to hate.
Gradually since, he’s become the man I can’t seem to resist. The man I even crave.
My heart is pounding, beating faster and faster as I speak and discover my tone is naturally breathy and sultry.
Maybe Ronan’s right—maybe I do wield sex as a weapon.
“You know what else I’ve noticed?” I counter almost like a cat purring. I ease closer, so close my mouth lingers half an inch from his. “You can’t keep your hands to yourself, Callahan. Always finding excuses to touch me.”
His eyes darken. His hand glides up the side of my thigh. “Why would I keep my hands to myself when I’ve got a fucking knockout for a wife like you to touch?”
“Then what are you waiting for?” I challenge.
A grin flashes in and then out on Ronan’s face. He turns his head toward the front of the towncar, where the driver’s focused on the road.
“Pull over. Stop the car right now. Get the hell out and go take a cigarette break.”
The driver starts to question him then catches his gaze in the rearview mirror and thinks better of it. He fumbles with the wheel, promptly changing lanes and pulling over to the curb on a quiet Manhattan side street.
The instant the driver steps out of the car and the door’s thudding shut, Ronan’s all over me.
I’m anticipating him as he drags me into his lap, and then his mouth seals over mine. He kisses me hard, his tongue demanding entry. My lips part as I kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers fisting in his hair.
We’re far from gentle as heat engulfs us and I straddle him.
It’s more tension snapping between us. More of the natural desire we can’t seem to shake.
Ronan’s hands slide up my thighs and shove my dress higher. He’s impatient and aggressive, tugging my panties to the side and hooking two fingers into my throbbing pussy. He goes knuckle deep, instantly stimulating me in the right spot.
Pleasure shoots up my spine, making me arch against him. I almost pull my mouth away from his, but he grabs the back of my neck with his other hand and crushes our lips together.
I’m forced to endure his bruising kiss as he rubs my pussy and sends hot, fiery sparks of pleasure streaking through my body.
His mouth is warm and tongue insistent. His taste of whiskey and his fingers thick and rough.
I moan and grip at his shirt as we kiss, hips rocking back and forth in want. We unbuckle his belt in the meantime, freeing his dick as we kiss and grope each other and grow more impatient.
A daze has captured me, equal parts tipsiness and natural attraction. I’m sinking onto his big, veiny dick seconds later. I’m taking him deep as my pussy walls flutter, and we trade hard, borderline angry kisses.
We don’t take our time. There’s no slow buildup or teasing.
Just me riding him hard and fast in the back of the towncar, the leather seat creaking as I roll my hips and his dick slides in and out of me.
Ronan’s a man who makes it no secret what he wants; he’s not a man who shies away from dominating or taking command.
As I rock against him, he’s gripping my throat and holding my lips to his. He’s giving a squeeze and making me even more lightheaded than I already am, the flushed daze intensifying. Then he’s growling at me, telling me how fucking good my pussy feels wrapped around him.
How I’m his beautiful little princess that’s also his dirty little whore.
Only for him. Only with him.
“Your pussy was made for me, princess,” he grunts.
His hips buck up, his hands squeezing the flesh on my thighs to wrench me back down on his dick.
“You’re mine to fuck. Mine to come inside.
Come all over. Look at you, fucking me in the backseat of this car on a fucking public street.
My prim and proper wife is such a filthy little bitch. ”
The degrading words unlock another dimension of pleasure. It quakes through me as he palms my breasts, and I arch into his touch, hips still rocking.
His dick still deep.
A whimper escapes my lips as his thumb drags across my nipple, then he takes it between two fingers and twists.
“Oh!” I cry at the sharp pain lancing through my breast.
“You like that?” he growls, bucking into me. Holding me down ’til his whole huge dick is stuffed into my quaking, slick pussy. “My little dirty whore want more?”
“YES!” I pant unashamedly. “Give me more of that big dick!”
I brace my hands on his shoulders and grind down harder, taking him deeper, holding his dark gaze and burning with lust of my own.
Our rhythm is fast and frenetic as the entire car rocks with us, and we fuck each other ’til we’re hitting our peak all at once and then seizing up.
My cries are drowned out by his warm, dominant kisses. He doesn’t let up, lashing his tongue to mine as my pussy clamps down and an orgasmic explosion erupts inside me. I come with shaking thighs and nails dug deep into his shoulders.
He’s only a minute behind me, releasing a hoarse groan as his hips jerk up into mine, and he grips me up so tight I’m sure bruises will show tomorrow.
We pant for air in the moments that follow. Foreheads pressed together, we’re breathing raggedly with hearts pounding fast inside our chests.
Ronan presses a few more kisses onto my skin, starting with the corner of my mouth then moving down south to my throat.
“How’s that for keeping my fucking hands to myself?” he asks.
I snort out a laugh, still buzzing from hot pleasure. “You’ve proven your point.”
Christmas morning arrives with Callahan House packed with people I’ve never seen before.
Relatives crawl out of the woodwork like they’ve been summoned by some ancestral Irish bat signal. Cousins, second cousins, great-aunts, uncles, and people whose connection to the family tree I can’t even begin to trace.
They fill the house with noise while I do my best to smile and nod as I’m introduced to face after unfamiliar face.
Then there’re the relatives that do leave a lasting impression, like Ronan’s Uncle Eoin.
A stout man with a permanent beet-red flush on his face and white hair sprouting from his ears like weeds, he crushes my hand in his and almost shakes my arm out of the socket.
Judging by the bleary look in his eyes and the whiskey on his breath, I’d bet money he’s already several drinks deep despite the time being minutes before noon.
“Simone, eh?” he booms, shaking my hand up and down again. “You’re a beauty.”
“Thank you. That’s very nice of—”
“Didn’t know my nephew liked ’em chocolate coated,” he cracks on, releasing a laugh that’s as booming as his speaking voice.
Ronan scowls at the less-than-appropriate comment. “Remember a few Christmases ago when you got drunk off your ass and challenged me to that wrestling match and I had you damn near knocked out on the floor? Keep talking to my wife like that and we’ll have a repeat performance.”
If at all humanly possible, Uncle Eoin’s face turns an even redder shade. He merely lets out a lone gruff chuckle then mutters something about finding his wife, Molly.
I watch him go then glance at Ronan. The corner of his mouth quirks into his usual near-grin. He steps closer to me, his body heat providing a strange comfort.
“Sorry about that, princess. Eoin gets drunk every year and says some inappropriate shit. Don’t worry, I’ll knock him out should he step out of line again.”
I nod before we’re separated moments later.
Ronan’s supposed to spend the time leading up to the Christmas feast with the rest of the men in the den.
But I have no desire to head onto the terrace and socialize with the other female Callahans. I tried that once on Thanksgiving and didn’t find the experience all that enjoyable.
As we go our separate ways, I’m reminded that I’ve started to appreciate Ronan’s presence more than I’ve consciously realized.
A sense of thrill fills me whenever he gets protective. He’s territorial over me, and it’s something I never realized I’d relish ’til the moments where it happens.
Then I’m flushed by how he takes control and demonstrates just what lengths he’ll go to in order to protect me.
I can admit I’m physically attracted to him. How can I not be when I get so turned on every time we have sex?
He’s crass and blunt and has a jawline so defined it might as well be chiseled by marble. He exudes the most dominating energy, his broad and angular features always on the verge of a scowl.
Then there’s his eyes, so vibrant and intensely green, they’re emerald gemstones from the earth itself. They darken when he’s angry—or about to devour me.
I never thought I’d see the day where I fell for an Irish gangster. A brute that’s violent and uncivilized and unapologetic about it.
Shaking these confusing thoughts from my head, I decide to spend most of the day in the kitchen with Oona. I help where I can, though mostly that consists of staying out of the way as she barks orders at the staff.
Apparently, Ronan’s father refused to let any of the staff off for Christmas after all. But she does let it slip to me that she’s been approved for two weeks after New Year’s.
“First time in three years I’m takin’ off,” she boasts in her weighty accent.
“All thanks to you and Ronan, love. Oi, you—yeah, you! What in God’s name do you think you’re doin’ with that turkey?
Have you never dressed one in your life?
For Christ’s sake, will I have to do everything meself in this house? ”
Oona disappears from my side to go hassle one of the cooks on the other side of the kitchen. He profusely apologizes, nodding his head fervently and promising to do better.
I’m not sure whether to be a little amused by Oona’s brash and no-nonsense approach or sympathetic to the stuttering cook trying to appease her.
I don’t get a chance to make up my mind before a scream pierces the air. It’s so sudden, loud, and shrill it makes me jump and spin around, realizing the sound is coming from the kitchen doorway.
It’s Cara, Ronan’s sister-in-law and his brother’s wife, standing horror-stricken with her phone limp in her hand and tears misting her eyes.
Both Oona and I are startled enough it takes us another second to start toward her. But before we can ever ask what’s wrong, she’s weeping in hysterics and telling us.
“It can’t be true,” she babbles. “It can’t be true.”
“Love, what is it? What can’t be true?” Oona asks.
“L-Lochlan,” she cries out. “The warden just called. He’s been stabbed to death. A prison brawl. My husband is dead!”