Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
When her entire being trembles, I feel like I'm going to explode too. She gasps and twists against me, like she's trying to find my lips for a kiss, but the angle won't allow for it. I turn her toward me, my hand never leaving her clit, her folds growing slick as her wetness spreads over her perfect pussy.
The kiss is pure passion, pure belonging. I never dreamed a savage like me could experience something like this.
After, she leans away, panting. "Sorry," she murmurs.
I don't need to ask what she means. I hear the nerves, the awkwardness. She's telling me, Sorry, but I can't return the favor. I slide my hand out of her pants, gently kissing her on the cheek.
"Don't apologize to me, a stór," I growl, even as my cock throbs with desire.
She smiles, putting her cheek against my chest. "One day," she murmurs.
But that's where she's wrong... or she should be. This should be the end. If I was a decent man, if I could put her safety before my own selfish need. The more time I spend with her, though, the more impossible that's becoming.
The next morning, I wake early to a call from Owen. I sit on the edge of the bed, letting myself imagine a world where I ignore the call, lie with Lucy in my arms, forget about the crown, or the fact Uncle Frank could rally his troops to set this city ablaze.
"Yeah?" I say, answering.
"We need to meet. Can you come by?"
"What is it?"
"Not over the phone."
I sigh. "I'll be there soon."
I stand up, looking down at Lucy. She's sleeping peacefully, a beautiful smile on her lips. I don't want to wake her when she seems so at ease. Instead, I kiss her on the forehead and leave the room quietly.
Clover sleepily walks over to me, nuzzling my leg. "Go to sleep, girl," I tell her.
Ronan is waiting for me downstairs in the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Shit, bro," I say. "Where did you sleep?"
"There's a chair in the office," he replies.
"I'm so—"
"The prince doesn't apologize to his troops," Ronan says gruffly.
"Don't start," I say. "You sound like Colm."
"I'm here to protect your lady. I don't care if I have to sleep on the floor."
"You're going to need to stay a while longer," I tell him.
"I'll stay as long as I need."
"Owen wants to see me. It sounds like there's been a development."
Ronan nods, tapping his waistband. "If anybody tries to hurt Lucy while I'm away, I got you."
"Maybe ease up on the 'prince's woman' stuff," I say.
He smirks. "But I'm not wrong, am I? I've never seen you like this before. You were different when you were just visiting her for coffee, but this is something else. This is the real thing. You can deny it all you want, but it's the truth."
Despite the pain of saying it, I declared, "I should let her go. I should accept that, by being with me, she'll always be in danger. I should put her first."
"Should, should, should," Ronan mutters. "But what about what you want?"
"Thanks for doing this," I tell him. "Want me to swing by your place and pick up some fresh clothes and toiletries?"
"I stink that bad, eh?" Ronan says, laughing.
I leave The Celtic Crust and drive to Owen's house, finding it difficult not to think about last night. After touching her and bringing her to that orgasm, holding her again, listening to her breathe softly, letting my mind spiral into wild dreams as I envisioned a future together.
Owen is in his study, looking like he hasn't slept, emphasizing his age. "Thank you for coming so early," he says.
"It's no problem," I reply, shaking his hand. "Have you heard from Frank?"
"Hmm," he mutters. "He's throwing a ball, in fact. He wants everyone there. Everyone. A show of unity, he says, and if anybody refuses, he'll take it as a slight."
Shit. That means Ronan will be forced to attend. I could hire a security firm like I did with the trafficking victim, but if Uncle Frank learns I've done that, he'll perceive it as a declaration of war. I'll need to think of a workaround.
"It's typical of him to deal with all this by throwing a party. Maybe he thinks getting drunk will make it better."
"I did some digging," Owen goes on. "I've got friends in the police, old-timers who were around during the time of your father's crash. It turns out there was a scandal concerning the brakes... someone cut them and covered it up, but I couldn't get more information."
I clench my fist tightly, my head throbbing, as I look at Owen... and there's this feeling. Is it instinct? I've been out of the game for a long time, but the mob instinct has never fully left me. It never will. One half of me is the charming, at-ease man grabbing a virgin Irish coffee and winking at the beautiful bakery owner... the other is pure hellfire.