The Debt of Skin and Bone
The air in the Blackwood library is so thick I can almost taste it. It’s a suffocating, intoxicating cocktail of aged parchment, expensive Irish whiskey, and the sharp, masculine musk of Cormac Blackwood.
I feel the edge of the massive mahogany desk bite into the small of my back. The wood is polished and freezing—a stark contrast to the furnace-like heat radiating from the man standing between my thighs.
Cormac doesn’t just enter a room; he lays claim to it like a conqueror. He is inches away, his white silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist. The gap in the fabric reveals a torso of hard, sculpted muscle and a dusting of dark hair trailing into his tailored trousers.
To the world, he’s the genius who built Blackwood Industries. To me, he’s the predator who signed the death warrant of the O’Malley legacy. I came here to ruin him, but as his shadow swallows me, my body is committing a treason my mind can’t stop.
"You’re late, Lana," he murmurs.
His voice is a low, dangerous vibration that hums against my skin.
"The archives were locked," I lie.
My voice is steady—a mask of professional boredom hiding the fact that my heart is slamming against my ribs. I’m not just a secretary; I’m a ghost seeking a blood debt.
"I don't like waiting."
Cormac steps closer, his presence a physical weight. He slams his hand against the bookshelf right next to my head. Crack. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
"And I especially don't like being lied to by a woman with eyes as guilty as yours."
He leans in. His hot breath ghosts over my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. Every instinct screams at me to run, but the magnetic pull of his lust is a drug I hadn’t prepared for.
"What are you going to do about it, Cormac?" I challenge.
I meet his gaze—piercing, silver, and predatory.
His answer is silent and violent. He grabs a handful of my hair, tilting my head back until my throat is exposed.
"I'm going to remind you who owns this office," he growls. "And who owns that mouth."
He crashes his lips onto mine. It isn’t a request; it’s a conquest. He tastes of smoke and dominance, his tongue demanding entry with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. My hands, which should be reaching for a letter opener to plunge into his side, instead bury themselves in his thick hair, pulling him closer.
Cormac doesn't waste time with gentleness. His large, calloused hand slides down my side, bunching up the black velvet of my dress. He hikes the fabric high, revealing my hips and the pale skin of my thighs.
"f**k, Lana," he groans against my skin, his teeth grazing the pulse point on my neck.
"You’re a beautiful little liar."
He spins me around with brutal efficiency, pressing my chest flat against the cold leather spines of the books. The sensation is agonizing—the freezing library air on my back and the heat of his body crushing me from behind agonising. I feel the heavy, insistent length of his c**k pressing firmly against me, a hard promise of destruction.
"Tell me you want this," he commands, his voice a dark rasp.
He reaches around, his hand cupping me through the thin lace of my underwear. His thumb finds my centre, applying a rhythmic, punishing pressure that makes my knees buckle.
"I want..." I gasp, my forehead resting against a gold-embossed spine. "I want you to stop talking."
He doesn't need to be told twice. With one swift, territorial movement, he strips my lace aside. He doesn't use a condom; he wants me to feel every inch of his claim. He guides his c**k to my entrance, teasing the slick, swollen heat of me. I arch my back, my breath hitching as he enters me in one deep, relentless thrust.
The world vanishes. There is no O’Malley empire, no bankruptcy, no revenge. There is only the friction of his skin against mine and the rhythmic sound of his weight hitting my hips. He moves with a savage pace, his hands gripping my waist so hard they’ll surely leave bruises. Every thrust is a reminder of his power—a deep, filling sensation that reaches my core.
"Look at me," he whispers.
I turn my head, catching our reflection in the darkened window. I see a stranger—flushed, desperate, and utterly possessed by the man who ruined me. Cormac’s eyes are locked on mine, dark with a hunger that goes beyond the physical.
As he reaches his peak, his movements become frantic. He fills me with a hot, branding release that feels like a permanent mark of ownership.
Just as the aftershocks begin to fade, the heavy oak doors of the library creak open.
"Cormac? Are you in there?"
The voice is cold and aristocratic. My blood turns to ice. It’s Róisín, the woman who signed the documents that destroyed my name.
Cormac doesn't pull away. He holds me pinned against the shelf, his body still joined with mine. He looks into my eyes, a cruel, beautiful smirk stretching across his face. He knows exactly who is at the door.
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear as the light from the hallway spills across the floor.
"Don't move a f*****g inch, Lana," he hisses, his hand tightening on my hip. "Unless you want her to see exactly whose name you’re taking tonight."
The door swings wide.
