I’m tossed into the back seat like luggage. Declan leans into my face and orders, “Stay.”
He slams the door, runs around to the other side, gets in, and barks at Kieran in the driver’s seat to get going.
“Hi, Kieran. Long time no see,” I say calmly, ignoring Declan doing an excellent impersonation of an erupting volcano on the seat beside me.
Kieran suppresses a chuckle. “Hullo, lass.” He puts the car into Drive, and we pull away.
Then I hear an alarming metallic clinking. I look over at Declan just in time to see him pull a pair of handcuffs out of a pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. In a burst of panic, I fumble for the door handle, but the door is locked.
“Those child locks are a real pain, aren’t they? Pity the car we used in New York to pick you up didn’t have them. I won’t make that mistake again, either.”
“You smug son of a bitch.”
Smiling dangerously, he dangles the handcuffs from a fingertip. “Hold out your wrists.”
“Go to hell.”
“Been there every day since we met. Do it.”
“No.”
“This is the last time I’ll ask nice.”
My laugh sounds mad and scary. “That’s you asking nice? Such great manners. By the way, it should be ‘nicely.’ So much for that high IQ you keep bragging about.”
Six seconds of thundering silence pass before anything happens. I know because I count.
Then Declan says, “I have one word for you: Stavi.”
I clench my hands to fists.
He turns his palm upward, waiting.
“I’ll get you back for this. I swear, I will.”
His dangerous smile deepens.
I moisten my lips, do a round of utterly ineffective box breathing, then hold out my left hand.
Never taking his gaze from mine, he encircles my wrist with cold metal. An involuntary shiver runs through my body. It makes his dangerous smile grow hot.
He cuffs my other wrist, closing his hands around the metal so I’m bound by both.
Trying hard to keep my voice calm, I say, “I’ve never seen you look so happy, gangster.”
“And I’ve never seen you look so nervous. What awful thing do you imagine I’m going to do to you?”
He’s trying to intimidate me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer and remain silent.
He pulls me close, fists a hand into my hair, and puts his mouth next to my ear. His voice husky, he says, “Whatever it is, you’re right.”
Heart, calm down. This isn’t the time to explode. That goes for you, too, ovaries.
“Being in your presence is awful enough.”
He inhales against my neck, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. “Why didn’t you tell me about the other tests?”
“I was too busy being worried that you were okay, which, in retrospect, is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. Or thought. Or heard of.”
“And why were you worried about me, hellcat? Tell the truth.”
God, his voice is hot. And his body is hot. As are the air, my skin, and my panties. I’ve got a conflagration in my underpants that could turn the entire East Coast into a pile of smoking ashes.
I say hoarsely, “Because I hate you, and I want to be there when you finally get shot through the heart by one of your enemies.”
“But I already have, lass,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my skin. “I already have.”
He pulls my head back and kisses me.
And just like that, I’m gone.
All the fight drains out of me. The will to resist him vanishes in a snap. I sag against him and let him drink deep from my mouth, not caring about the little sounds of pleasure I’m making or that Kieran is witnessing all this or anything else.
I simply surrender.
To his mouth.
To the kiss.
To him.
When the kiss finally ends and I return from outer space, I’m curled in his lap like a kitten, my legs thrown over one of his muscular thighs and my bound arms wound around his broad shoulders. His arms hold me tight as a vise.
I’m panting. Trembling. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive.
“So fucking sweet,” he says, breathing raggedly. “I want more of that sweet side. Give it to me.”
I whisper, “Okay.”
He takes my mouth again. I sink, then sink farther until I’m completely lost, floating lazily on waves of delicious heat, as thick and sugary as cotton candy. He moans into my mouth, and I shudder.
He grasps my jaw and bites my lips. When I whimper, he slides his hand down to my neck. His big hand wraps almost all the way around it.
I might gasp. I might groan or shift against him. I’m not sure what I do, but it makes him even hotter, greedier, and ten times more intense.
“Look at me.”
My lids drift open. He stares down at me with eyes like fire.
“You’re my captive.”
I nod, my head fuzzy. He wants something, but I don’t know what it is. I can’t think. I can barely even breathe. I’ve got Red Bull and heroin scorching through my veins.
“You’re going to stay with me. And do what I tell you to do this time. And be good. Obedient.”
That makes me smile. I like him when he’s delusional.
“Say yes.”
“Yes. For tonight.”
“We’ll talk about timing later. Why are you only wearing one shoe?”
“It’s a long story.”
His mouth claims mine again, seeking, pulling, demanding. He kisses me like he’s on death row, about to be executed, and I’m his last meal. I’ve never been so savored. So devoured.
Or so turned on. I think if he even breathed on my nipple, I’d come.
But he doesn’t go anywhere near my breasts. He simply kisses me, over and over, all the way back to the city. Every once in a while, he stops to murmur something to me in Gaelic, his mouth pressed close to my ear so only I can hear. By the time we pull into the parking garage of his building, I’m out of my mind with need.
For the elevator ride to the top floor, I’m thrown over his shoulder again.
With any other man, being treated like luggage would make me crazy. I’d never accept it. I’d kick him in the face and make him lick my foot.
But there’s something incredibly hot about the way Declan’s big hand is splayed possessively over the back of my thigh, and how easily he can carry my weight, and how he didn’t ask permission to manhandle me. He just did. Like it wasn’t up to me. Like he’s calling all the shots from here on out, whether I like it or not.
God help me, I like it.
A lot.
The elevator doors slide open. He walks us inside his home. The automatic lights come on, illuminating our way down the corridor to the master bedroom. Neither of us speaks a word.
He flips me over and tosses me onto the bed. I bounce, breathless, and stare up at him with wide eyes, my heartbeat flying, my bound arms raised over my head.
He gazes down at me with a hard jaw and half-lidded eyes, working at the knot in his tie.
“You need food. And a shower.”
I take a moment to catch my breath. “That wasn’t what I was expecting you’d say.”
“I’m going to bathe you. Then feed you. Then fuck you, in that order. No, close your mouth. No talking.”
Trembling, I bite my lip and stare up at him. He smiles.
First, he discards his tie to the floor. Next, he shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it aside. He unbuttons his white dress shirt, his strong fingers working deftly until they reach the bottom button. Then he pulls the shirt off and stands there with it dangling from one hand as I struggle to draw another breath.
The man is art.
Hot-as-fuck, tattooed, muscular art.
Had I known what he looked like under his tailored Armani suits, I might have been nicer to him sooner. I’m lucky I wasn’t standing up for this, because I’d definitely have melted into a puddle at his feet.
“Are you drooling?” he says, his smile growing wider.
He’s relishing my obvious lust and astonishment, but I ignore him.
He’s covered in ink, from his shoulders all the way down both arms and all over his chest and washboard abs. There are roses and skulls and angel’s wings, crosses and sunbeams shining through clouds. I glimpse other Biblical stuff, including a line from scripture, inked in heavy black serif right over his heart: “Vengeance is Mine.”
And he’s ripped as hell, like all he does is eat lean protein and work out twelve hours a day. His shoulders are wide, his lats taper to his waist in a perfect V, and why am I only now just noticing that even his hands are gorgeous?
Someone should sculpt this person. This kind of masculine beauty should be on display in a museum.
Please, god, let him have a good dick. Nothing skinny or crooked or short. Do me this one favor, and I’ll start going to church again.
I stop praying when Declan leans over me and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of my head.
“My turn.”
He hooks a finger into the open collar of my blouse. His expression turns thoughtful. “I just remembered…you didn’t ask for any bras on that clothing list you gave me.”
“Yes, I did. You just didn’t buy them.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind. Speak again, and I’ll spank you.”
He stares deep into my eyes as I suffer through a moment of existential angst trying to decide if I should obey him and be quiet or burst out singing the national anthem. Which will earn me an orgasm first?
He smiles again. “Ah, such a tough decision. I’ll wait.”
I smile back. “It wasn’t all that tough.”
He flashes a grin, then rolls me onto my belly and spanks me, the blows hard, his palm stinging me right through my jeans. When he finishes, we’re both panting.
But I’m the only one who starts begging.
“More. Please. With my pants down. Pretty pretty please.”
“I appreciate the please, but next time add a sir.”
I flash murder eyes at him over my shoulder. “You’re on drugs.”
“No, I’m your captor. And this is my game you agreed to play, remember?”
Without waiting for a response, he flips me back over, takes the front of my blouse in both hands, and rips it wide open. Buttons fly everywhere. I gasp in surprise.
Nothing else happens for a while, because Declan is too busy looking at me.
It’s excruciating, lying there helplessly, not knowing what he’s thinking as he silently takes me in. I’m naked from the waist up, my shirt in tatters, my arms thrown overhead and my chest heaving.
The air is cool on my bare skin. My face is hot. I can’t seem to draw a deep enough breath.
When he finally touches me, I’m so wound up, I jerk.
“Easy,” he murmurs, sliding his hands along the curve of my waist. He’s bent over me, one knee on the bed, eyes ravenous. He slides his hands up my rib cage and under my breasts, cupping them and squeezing.
I arch into his hands. My lids slide shut. When I feel his hot mouth close around my rigid nipple, I moan softly. A flush of heat between my legs makes me rub my thighs restlessly together.
“Aye, lass,” he whispers against my flesh. “Give me that sweetness. Give me everything you’ve got to give.”
He goes back and forth between my hard nipples, licking and sucking, worshipping me with his mouth. Just when I think I can’t stand another minute without begging again, he kisses a soft trail down my stomach to my belly button. He swirls his tongue around, dipping it in and out, then flicks open the button on my jeans.
When I whimper, he chuckles.
He pulls down the zipper so slowly, I almost scream. He nuzzles his nose into the flesh above my panties. He licks and bites me there while at the same time rhythmically pinching my nipples. Then he takes the hem of my panties between his teeth and tugs on it, dragging it against my swollen clit.
I arch against the bed, sink my fingers into his hair, and moan.
He rises to push my arms back. He pins my handcuffed wrists in one of his big hands and gazes down at me, blue eyes burning hot. “Hands above your head. Don’t move unless I give you permission.”
“I’m sensing a theme here,” I say, panting.
“Aye. And you just bought yourself another spanking.”
“Oh, darn.”
“And another.” He smiles. “But I won’t let you come during either of them.”
My eyes widen in horror. His smile turns into a low, satisfied chuckle.
He peels my jeans off my legs, angrily flinging them away like he never wants to see them again. Then he stares at me lying there shaking and licks his lips.
I ache to feel his tongue between my legs. I ache to feel him inside me. My skin burns, my heart pounds, and I’m more frightened than I can ever remember being, because this is never how it is for me.
I’m not the girl who gets butterflies. I’m not the girl who swoons or begs. I’m the one who moves on before things get complicated, who keeps moving on relentlessly without looking back, like a shark that has to keep swimming forward its whole life or it will die.
I’m the one who doesn’t fall. Who doesn’t feel. Who doesn’t get attached.
Ever.
To make matters worse, Declan sees me struggling.
He lies on top of me, settles his weight between my spread legs, and cradles my head in his hands. Looking into my eyes, he says in a husky voice, “You’re safe with me. You can let your guard down. I’ll catch you if you need to fall.”
That hurts like a knife plunged into my heart.
I turn my head, suck in a hard breath, and close my eyes.
He puts his mouth near my ear and whispers, “You can’t hide from me. I see you. I see all the strange and wonderful things you are, little lion.”
My voice choked with emotion, I say, “I’m not little. And I’m not yours.”
“Aye, you are, if only for tonight. We’ll deal with everything else in the morning.”
He kisses me then, hard and demanding. It feels like he’s staking a claim.
When I’m sure I can’t contain the emotion building in my chest one second longer, he breaks the kiss, picks me up, and carries me into the bathroom.
