I meant to head back to Boston straight from the restaurant, but as soon as I got into the car, I realized I couldn’t.
I still have one night left.
I’m taking it.
Juliet unlocks the door to her motel room, pausing when she sees me standing beside the bed. She exhales a quiet breath, then shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t bother to ask how I got in.
When she turns back to me, her eyes are shining with emotion. “You can’t expect me to throw away my whole life for you.”
“Yet you expect it of me,” I say gruffly.
Biting her lip, she looks down at her shoes. She’s wearing another one of those gauzy sleeveless summer dresses that look so good on her. That look so goddamn good as I tear them off.
“I…” She stops, takes a breath, and starts again, still looking at her feet. “I’m not trying to be argumentative. Or mean. Or unfair.” She glances up at me, her brows drawn together. “But there’s so much about you that doesn’t make sense.”
I take a step toward her, because I can’t stand not to touch her for one second more. My hands are itching to feel her skin. “I said I’d tell you everything.”
That makes her eyes flash. “But I have to trust you first.”
“Aye.”
She’s getting angrier. I can see her trying not to, but she can’t help it. The blood is already rising in her cheeks.
“Why do I have to go first? Why can’t you trust me and tell me everything?”
“Because there are too many lives at stake to take that risk.”
That stops her short. But not for long. She steps toward me, insisting, “What does that mean?”
I shake my head sharply. It pisses her off.
She steps closer. “Your delivery boy, Diego. He said something that’s been bothering me.”
Damn Diego and his big mouth.
“He said what you were doing was important work,” she goes on when I don’t say anything. “I thought it was ridiculous at the time, that he was just misguided, looking up to the biggest bad guy he knows like some kind of father figure. Like something to aspire to be. The worst of the worst. King of criminals.
“But then on the walk back here I remembered how you said you erased my FBI file. That you erased it, not someone else. Which means you have access to the FBI’s database. Which—taken with your ability to manipulate government satellites, and find people like they’re needles in a haystack, and run the kind of background checks that can tell you how I like my fucking eggs, is very, very interesting, to say the least.”
She walks closer and closer until she stops in front of me and stares up into my face. Her voice drops. Her eyes burn like she’s on fire.
“And then you said you were helping people, too. ‘Me fucking, too,’ you said, all angry and proud, like I’d insulted you. Which, of course, makes no sense. How can the head of the Irish mafia possibly be helping people when it’s in the job description to lie, cheat, and kill?”
She waits for an answer. I have to curl my hands to fists at my side not to reach for her. Not to crush my mouth to hers and rip off her dress and bury myself inside her.
Not to force her to be mine.
She has to offer that willingly.
“And then there’s the matter of your name,” she whispers, staring into my eyes. “Killian. A name, as far as I can tell, that no one else knows you by but me. To the whole world, you’re Liam Black, ruthless gangster extraordinaire, but you asked me to call you Killian. You said it was your real name. Strangely enough, I believe you.”
She’s so close I can smell her skin. Feel her body heat. See the pulse pounding in the hollow of her throat.
We stare at each other in superheated silence, only inches apart, until she demands, “Tell me what the big mystery is, gangster.”
I fire back, “Tell me you’re in love with me.”
Her cheeks turn scarlet. She grinds her back teeth together. “Tell me how you found out who my father is. Who I am.”
“Tell me you’re mine and mean it.”
She’s looking at me like she wants so badly to smash in my skull with a blunt object. “Tell me what you meant by there are too many lives at stake for you to trust me first.”
“Tell me that lie I made you tell in the supply closet wasn’t a lie at all, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
She examines my face in tense silence. Then she exhales, throwing her hands in the air. “You know what? Just go. I’m done playing this game with you.”
She turns away. I grab her arm, spin her around, and pull her against my chest. I clasp her jaw in my hand, forcing her to look at me.
“I’m not a boy,” I say gruffly. “I’m a man. I don’t play games. I know who I am, what I want, and what I’m willing to do to get it. And I’m willing to do anything to have you.”
Breathing hard, she stares at me with thinned lips and distrustful eyes.
I lower my voice. “But you have to make the same level of commitment, lass. You have to be mine. In every way. In all ways. You have to take a leap of faith—”
“Faith! Ha!”
“—and let this thing between us be what it is. Stop fighting it. Let it be.”
She blinks. Her lips part. The distrustful look in her eyes vanishes and is replaced by one of deep confusion. Maybe even fear.
She glances away, swallowing. When she looks back at me, she seems lost.
She says quietly, “I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
“I do want you. I do…” She looks away again. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I do have feelings for you.”
Christ. My fucking heart.
I almost groan out loud. I almost crush my mouth to hers. Instead, I stay still and silent, waiting. Giving her time.
It’s probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
When she looks back at me, she’s chewing her lip. “But I just have, like, zero frame of reference for how to deal with this. I want to trust you, but I don’t even trust myself. I can’t figure any of this out. It’s so wrong that you’re you, and I’m me, and we’re even standing here, having this conversation.”
Stroking my thumb over her satin cheek, I murmur, “I know.”
“And you know what would happen if my father found out we were together, right? You know that would start a war. You know people would die. A lot of people, on both sides. It would be a bloodbath.”
“Aye.”
Her voice rises. She’s starting to look panicked. “And maybe innocent people, too. I can’t be responsible for that. I don’t want blood on my hands. I don’t want—”
I say firmly, “Listen to me.”
She falls silent, staring wide-eyed up into my face.
“I’ll handle your father.”
Her brows lift. “Is ‘handle’ code for kill?”
“No.”
“So, what? You’ll go talk to him? You’ll work it all out?” Her laugh sounds slightly hysterical.
“Aye,” I say softly, gazing into her eyes. “I’ll go talk to him. I’ll ask him permission to marry you, and we’ll work it all out.”
She gapes at me in blank astonishment for a long moment. Then she pushes me away with both hands flat on my chest and shouts, “Are you crazy?”
All things considered, that’s not a bad reaction. I expected to be bleeding by now.
I say calmly, “No.”
“Are you—are you joking? Are you toying with me?”
“No.”
She starts to pace back and forth, wild-eyed and shaking, her arms clasped around her chest. “You’re a mental patient. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the mystery. You’re an escapee from a psychiatric ward who’s impersonating an infamous criminal. Or no—wait!” She throws her head back, laughing. “I’m starring in a new reality show where the main character doesn’t know she’s being filmed. Like what was that movie where the guy’s whole life was televised but he didn’t know it?”
“The Truman Show.”
“Yes! That one! I’m Truman!”
“You’re not Truman.”
She spins around and paces the other direction. “Or maybe this is all a hallucination. Maybe I was involved in a serious car accident, and I’m in a hospital somewhere right now, dreaming this all up. Maybe—”
I grab her by both arms and pull her against my chest again, because this is getting out of hand. I growl, “Does this feel like a dream to you?”
Then I fit my mouth over hers and give her the kiss she doesn’t think she needs, but absolutely does.
She instantly melts against me the way she always melts when I kiss her. The way she’d deny to the death that she melts. She winds her arms around my waist and falls against me, moaning a little, giving me her weight. I sink my hands into her hair, cradle her head, and kiss her until we’re both breathless.
I break away and demand, “Tell me you’re in love with me.”
Her lids drift open. Her eyes look like she’s drugged. She says slowly, “I’m in deep, conflicted, weirdly, ambivalently something with you. That’s for damn sure.”
“Not good enough.” I kiss her again, harder.
This time she breaks away first, groaning. “No! I’m not in love with you! That would be the stupidest thing ever!”
Stubborn wench. I kiss her again, walking her backward toward the bed.
I push her down to the mattress, sink to my knees on the floor, and push her dress up her thighs. Bending down, I take a big mouthful of her flesh, the tender, succulent flesh a few inches to the left of her panties. I suck, then gently bite down.
She moans. Sinks shaking hands into my hair. Curses me.
I rub my thumb up and down the warm center of her panties. “Where else do you want me to suck, baby?”
“I hate you. You know where.”
“You don’t hate me. Unless you’re substituting one four-letter word for another.”
I inhale deeply against her panties. Fuck, I love that scent. Warm, earthy, and utterly female. Utterly her.
Already hard, my cock twitches. It twitches again when I pull her panties aside and expose her beautiful pink pussy, wet and ready to eat.
I blow softly over the plump little nub of her clit, and she whimpers.
“Is that a please, baby?”
Her head moves restlessly back and forth. She rocks her hips.
That’s a definite fucking please.
Very gently, I swirl my tongue over her clit. She gasps, her body bowing against the mattress.
“Do you like that?”
“I love it.”
“What else do you love?”
I swirl my tongue around and around, then gently suck. I slide my finger inside her. My reward is a long, low moan of pleasure.
Then she says through gritted teeth, “Aardvark.”
Challenge accepted.
I suck more firmly on her clit, flicking my tongue back and forth when she shudders. My dick throbs, aching to plunge into all that sweet, wet heat, but I control the urge to sink it into her and start pounding and simply lick and suck and press my finger in and out until she’s writhing against my face and pulling at my hair.
I love how she responds to me. How she never holds anything back in bed.
If only I could get her to do the same with her feelings, I’d be a very happy fucking man.
Still licking her pussy, I open the fly on my jeans and release my cock from my briefs. It pops out like it’s spring-loaded, rock hard and eager in my hand.
I rise to my knees, my dick in one hand and her clit pinched between two fingers of the other hand, and stare down at her. My heart pounds.
I growl, “Show me those beautiful tits.”
Her eyes hazy and her cheeks flushed, she fumbles with the buttons on the bodice of her dress. She gets them all open and bares her chest to me, thrusting her breasts up like a dare.
She’s not wearing a bra. Her nipples are hard, pink, and impossible to resist.
I lean over and take one into my mouth, sucking.
She gasps. Arches. Sinks her fingers into the muscles of my shoulders. I rub the head of my cock back and forth through her wet folds until she’s moaning and panting, begging me for more.
Then I rise to my feet, kick off my shoes, rip off the rest of my clothes, and peel her out of her dress. I sit on the edge of the mattress, drag her onto my lap so her thighs are spread around my hips, and kiss her, guiding my cock inside her slick heat.
She tightens her arms around my shoulders and moans into my mouth.
Then she rides me, hard and fast, bucking her hips.
I pull her hair. Her head falls back. I kiss her throat, driving into her as she bounces up and down on my cock. Her breasts are smashed against my chest. She makes these small, feminine sounds of pleasure that make me feel like some sort of wild animal.
When she sobs my name, her thighs and arms clenching around my body, I lose myself.
I roll her to her back and come inside her, biting her neck, seeing stars.
Her pussy convulses around my dick in hard, rhythmic contractions. She shudders and cries out beneath me.
I keep coming. In wave after wave, I spill myself inside her, mindless and grunting. My skin is drenched in sweat. Every muscle in my body is clenched.
Then we’re kissing again. Deep, delicious kisses mixed with soft moans as our orgasms fade and our limbs begin to relax around each other.
When I finally open my eyes and look at her, she’s lying underneath me with a blissed-out expression, her eyes closed and a small, satisfied smile on her flushed face.
The smile lasts for about two seconds.
Then her eyes fly open, and her whole body stiffens. She stares at me in horror, sucking in a breath.
Fuck.
I say, “Before you start to hurl insults at me, let me defend myself by saying that wasn’t on purpose. I simply got carried away.”
It’s true, but she doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the look on her face that she thinks I laid a trap for her and fucked her right into it.
“Is this a bad time to remind you that you got carried away, too?”
She says, “This is a bad time for you to be saying anything, gangster. Especially that.”
She pushes at my chest, trying to get out from underneath me. I ignore that and stay firmly seated inside her. “Look at me.”
She stares at me with eyes like razor blades. I stare right back. “When was your last period?”
She scoffs. “Oh, are you a gynecologist now, too?”
“One more smart remark and I’ll spank your ass until it’s red and my hand is stinging. Answer the question.”
She wants to kill me. God, how much she wants to put a hole in my brain. If her eyes were loaded guns, I’d be riddled with bullets.
She says, “Just over three weeks ago.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And are your periods regular?”
She closes her eyes and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
“Just answer the goddamn question.”
With a sigh, she says, “Yes, doctor. My periods are regular.”
I kiss her gently on the lips. “Then you’re in the luteal phase.”
“I’ve never heard that term in my life. What the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying you probably won’t get pregnant.”
“Probably isn’t definitely.”
“No, it isn’t.” We stare at each other. I say, “What do you think of twins?”
Her face drains of color.
“Because they run in my family.”
She stares at me, horrified.
“I’m just saying. Don’t look so nauseated.”
She sputters, “Y-you can’t—you can’t be okay with…with…”
“What? You carrying my child?”
“Yes!”
I kiss her again. “The only problem I can foresee is what will happen to your temper with pregnancy hormones. It could get ugly. I’ll have to take out extra life insurance. Hire a few more bodyguards.”
She’s dismayed. “This isn’t funny!”
“No, lass, it isn’t funny. It’s life. Messy, complicated, and, occasionally, fucking beautiful. If you’re pregnant, we’ll figure it out.”
“We?”
I freeze. My heart skips a beat. I hadn’t considered the other alternatives.
Seeing the look on my face, she says softly, “I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud, but thank you for being offended by that.”
My voice thick, I say, “More like appalled. That felt like a knife through my heart.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t suggesting that you wouldn’t be involved…” She trails off, then sighs. “Okay, maybe I was suggesting that.” She thinks for a moment. “Actually, it would never in a million years occur to me that you’d even want to be involved. You, with a baby?”
Then she groans and puts a hand over her eyes. “Oh god. This is a disaster.”
I whisper, “Or it could be a miracle.”
She takes her hand away from her eyes and glares at me in outrage.
I say solemnly, “You’re right. Disaster it is. Should I fly into a rage and throw things around the room now, or would you prefer tears? I haven’t cried since I was thirteen years old, though, so I should warn you it might take a while for me to work them up.”
This time when she shoves against my chest, I let her push me away. As soon as I roll off her, she pops up and starts to dress, her shaking hands fumbling with her clothes.
I sit on the edge of the mattress with my elbows on my knees and watch her.
Running away again. Always running away.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is a disaster. She’s an iceberg, and I’m the Titanic, its captain too arrogant to bother to correct course, leading to the deaths of hundreds of innocent people.
A number that could match how many would die in a war started by a mafia king who fell in love with his enemy’s daughter.
Liam’s words come back to haunt me. “You’re the most controlling arsehole who’s ever lived.”
And where has all that control gotten me?
Sitting on the edge of a bed in a rented motel room, watching the only woman I’ve ever wanted to take my last name freak out at the idea of carrying my child.
I realize with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that this is all there is for me. All there ever has been or ever will be. All that a man like me can expect:
Nothing.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhale a slow breath, and reach for my clothing.
