Carnal Urges

26

Her voice muffled by the sheets, she says, “Please don’t make me say it.”

“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

After a pause, she speaks in a miserable whisper. “Yes, I do. And we both know the answer. And I couldn’t bear it if you made me say it out loud. I’ll hate myself forever. Please don’t make me say it, Declan. Please.”

Ah, f**k. What that does to me.

It’s like she plugged me into a socket. Electricity jolts through my body. Adrenaline floods my veins. I break out in a sweat, and my heartbeat goes arrhythmic. My d**k aches, my balls are tight, and holy f**k, I want this woman so much, my mouth waters.

And all it would take is to force her to admit she wants me to keep going.

Which she does…but also doesn’t.

I exhale slowly, gathering my self-control.

I flip her over, settle her between my spread thighs, and grasp her jaw in my hand.

I kiss her. Deeply.

She responds, sagging against the arm I’ve got wound around her back and making a soft, feminine sound of pleasure deep in her throat.

Then I push her off my lap, stand, and walk out of the room.

In a life full of difficult moments, this one makes the top five.

15

Sloane

S

o here I am, sprawled on the carpet with my hands tied behind my back, stunned, panting, and humiliated.

And soaking wet.

Because although I hate Declan, my coochie thinks that bastard is divine.

To top it all off, he handled me like I was as weak as a limp noodle. All those years of self-defense training, all the hours I’ve sweated through advanced yoga poses, contorting my body in near-impossible ways, honing my core strength and toning my muscles, and that bossy Irishman wrangled me into submission in ten seconds flat like I was a bleating baby cow in its rodeo debut.

Then he spanked me, kissed me, and—for the final indignity—shoved me onto the floor and swaggered out.

The arrogant son of a b***h. First, he almost made me cry. Then, he almost made me come. As soon as I get the chance, I’m going to kill him.

Slowly.

Muttering curses, I sit up and get to work on the necktie binding my hands. After a few minutes of struggling, the knots loosen, and I get free.

The first thing I do is head straight to the drawer in the dresser in his closet where I saw a cigarette lighter when I was snooping earlier. I return to the bedroom and light his tie on fire.

Watching it burn is right up there with the top five most satisfying moments of my life.

When there’s nothing left but a smoldering scorch mark on the carpet and the acrid scent of burnt silk in the air, I toss the lighter onto the bed, sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the windows, slow my breathing, and meditate for twenty minutes.

And when I say “meditate,” I mean mentally run through all the ways I’d love to see Declan die.

Take a deep breath and remember who the f**k you are.

He’ll never get a rise out of me again. Every time I see him from now on, I’ll be a rock. I’ll be a cat, aloof and disinterested. Armed with sharp teeth and claws.

“Fucker,” I mutter under my breath. “Egotistical, overbearing, bad-tempered jerk.”

Take a deep breath. Remember who you are.

Another twenty minutes of affirmations produces as little positive effect on my mental state as the meditation did. I move on to yoga, but quickly discover that all the Feathered Peacock poses in the world can’t rid me of the brain stain that is Declan O’Donnell.

So be it.

I’ve survived bullies before.

I’ve survived humiliation before.

I’ll survive him.

Hours later, another one of the goon squad arrives, carrying a tray of food. He’s got dark blond hair, hazel eyes, broad shoulders, a cleft chin, and a spiderweb tattoo on one side of his neck.

His hands are the size of anvils. His jawline could cut steel. I instantly nickname him Thor.

I’m beginning to think Declan hires these guys based on their level of hotness. Birds of a feather and all that.

“Where’s Kieran?”

Thor doesn’t spare me a glance as he sets the tray down and picks up the old one. “Don’t bother tryin’ to chat me up, lass. I’ve been told not to talk to you.”

Like Kieran, he pronounces “you” like “ye.” Declan must’ve put something funny in the last food delivery, because I’m starting to think Irish accents are the sexiest of them all.

Or maybe that’s my brain bleed talking.

I don my brightest smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I just wanted to know your name so I could tell Declan what a good job you did, but I understand you’re under orders. Mum’s the word.”

He straightens and glowers at me.

I make a zipper motion across my lips. “Seriously. No talking, I promise. Except if you could just tell me if Kieran’s okay, that would be great. We’re friends, you know. You and I could be friends, too, if you wanted, but I know that probably goes against your whole badass gangster vibe to befriend a helpless captive and whatnot. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Thor, the Norse god of thunder?”

He pauses before saying, “Usually I get Captain America.”

I gasp. “Oh my god, you’re so right! It’s that jaw. Very heroic.”

He looks momentarily pleased, before he remembers he’s not supposed to be talking to me. The glower makes a reappearance.

“Right. Sorry. My bad. If you could just tell Kieran I was asking after him, I’d really appreciate it. I feel so bad about his nose.”