“Yes. I want you to.” She stops any further discussion with her tongue.
I grind my shaft, dragging the base across her clit until she’s panting with the force of her own orgasm, and then I allow myself to explode deep inside her.
Amelia holds it together during dinner as if nothing happened between us.
As if I didn’t fuck her on my desk, on the rug, in my leather chair.
As if I didn’t check that the coast was clear in the foyer when I opened the door and watched her head back upstairs to her room, her torn panties in her pocket, to rinse the smell of our sex from her body in the shower.
She’s wearing a thin, cerulean turtleneck sweater to cover the mark on her neck from where I sucked the blood to the surface. The color suits her. The sweater hugs the curves of her breasts, reminding me how fucking sexy her body is.
Whenever our eyes meet across the table, a faint blush steals into her cheeks, and she looks away, careful not to get caught exchanging glances that are anything more than a boss and housekeeper relationship.
“You’re quiet, Declan,” Orla says, setting down her cutlery on her plate halfway through the meal. “Did you think about our conversation earlier?”
I steal a glance at Amelia before I can stop myself. Her expression is neutral; she’s clearly a lot better at handling this than I am. Put me in a room filled with mob bosses armed with an assortment of weapons and I won’t even flinch. But sit me at a table with my beautiful housekeeper and I’m like an awkward teenager who got caught kissing his best friend’s girl.
“I discussed it with Amelia, and she is going to stay.” Because there isn’t a fucking chance in hell that I’m going to let her slip through my fingers.
“Amelia,” Orla shifts her attention to our new housekeeper. “Are you happy with the situation?”
Amelia smiles, and I’d be shocked if Orla hasn’t noticed the way she lights up the room with her presence. “Yes, I’m very happy. Thank you.” She pauses. “And I’m sure I’ll soon get used to the colder weather here.”
Orla’s gaze hops between the two of us. Any moment now, I think, she’ll call us out about what happened in the study. She’ll say that she heard us, that she could smell the pheromones from the other side of the house, that we missed the giveaway signs when we were clearing up.
Then she smiles, and I unfurl my clenched fists. “I hope you brought some warmer sweaters with you. Perhaps Declan could take you into town tomorrow and make sure that you have everything you need.”
If she realizes what she’s doing by throwing us together, she hides it well.
I smile at Amelia, and my cock reminds me of all the things I still want to do to her. Because I’m only just getting to know Amelia York and, so far, I love what I see.
“Is that alright?” she asks. “If you’re busy, we could always go another time.”
I’d clear my diary for the next fucking twelve months for Amelia if I thought it would make her happy. But instead, I say, “Tomorrow works for me.”
We drive into Dublin the following morning.
Just the two of us.
Amelia soaks up the views through the passenger window, asking questions along the way. It feels awkward between us—more my fault than anything she has done—until I reach for her hand across the center console and squeeze it.
She smiles at me then, and it feels as though everything is right with the world. If this were wrong, I believe that I’d have been struck dead already, and I remind myself that she wants this too. She’s a grown woman who knows her own mind, and we’re not hurting anyone. She’d have said if she was in a relationship back home.
Wouldn’t she?
“Amelia, is there anyone in your life… Back in the States?” My mouth is dry. I don’t know how I should react if she says yes.
But she shakes her head, and her perfect smile is back. “No, there isn’t. What would you do if I said there was?”
Good fucking question. I grip the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turn white.
“I’d make sure that nothing ever happened between us again.”
She licks her lips, opens her legs, and rubs her pussy through her jeans. “Are you sure about that?”
I barely drag my gaze from her lap and back to the road in time to avoid mounting the verge and rolling us into the field. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’ll be the fucking death of me.”
She laughs. “I’ll take that as a no then.”
