I’d left so quickly I’d barely let myself register anything anyone else said after McBride said I could go. But something worms its way back into my head, Kearney’s voice, calling out what I’m sure he meant as a joke as I left.At least they're giving you a virgin to break in properly. Not all of us were so lucky when we married.
The other men had laughed. I'd barely registered it until now.
Now, alone in my flat, I look at the photograph again, and that sharp, insistent desire prods at my abdomen, my cock swelling.
She's going to be mine. Tomorrow evening, I'll walk into her home, and I'll claim her. I'll marry her, and I'll take her to bed, and she'll have no choice but to accept it.
The thought should disgust me. I should be repulsed by the entire situation, by the power imbalance, by the fact that she's so fucking young.
But I'm not disgusted. I'm aroused. Painfully so, I realize, my erection stiff enough to ache now, throbbing with my pulse and demanding to be paid attention to.
With a low growl deep in my throat, I close the folder with more force than necessary, drain my whiskey, and head for the shower.Cold water, I think. That's what I need. A cold shower, ice cold if need be, to wash away this unwanted hunger, to clear my head, to remind myself that I'm not the kind of man who gets off on the thought of an innocent girl being delivered to him like a rabbit to a wolf who needs to feed.
I shuck my clothes in my tiny bathroom, forcing myself to ignore my stiff cock jutting out in front of me, no matter how badly I want to wrap my hand around it, ease the ache for even a moment. The water is freezing, but it doesn't help. If anything, it makes it worse. My skin is too sensitive, every nerve ending alive and demanding. I try to think about something else—anything else—but my mind keeps returning to Maeve Connelly.
To her pale skin and red hair. Her delicate mouth, her fragile body. Too young for me, too breakable. I could split her in half with my cock. Shatter her with the force of how badly I want to fuck her right now, a feeling I’ve never had before and shouldn’t have at all.
To the fear I know I'll see in her eyes when she realizes what's happening.
To the fact that in a matter of days, she'll be in my bed, and I'll have every right to touch her, to take her, to make her mine in every possible way.
The need is unbearable. I’ve never been so hungry, so desperately in need of an orgasm. My hand moves almost without my conscious decision, wrapping around my cock. I hate myself for it, but I can't stop.
I think about what she'll look like beneath me. Whether she'll fight or freeze. Whether she'll cry, and what I'll do if she does.
I shouldn't be thinking about this. I shouldn't want this. I shouldn’t want her. I should be thinking of ways to avoid it. How I can get out of consummating this without the Council knowing. I shouldn’t be thinking about how I can make sure she’s calm enough for me to do as I’ve been told.
But I do.
I imagine telling her to lie down, running my hands over her fragile, pale skin. I imagine running my fingers over her cunt, hearing the gasp when a finger touches her delicate clit for the first time. I imagine being the only man to ever show her pleasure, the only one to ever touch her. Teaching her what it’s like to have a tongue between her thighs. I imagine her surprise when I make her come, because despite everything—despite what I am and what I've done—I'm not a monster. I wouldn't hurt her. I wouldn't force her.
But this has to be done. I’ve been ordered to do it. I can’t fail again. I have to get her ready for me, able to take my thick cock as I slide it into her tight, virgin?—
The orgasm hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle, my cock throbbing in my fist as spurt after spurt of hot, thick cum sprays against the shower tiles. I groan aloud with the sheer, visceral pleasure of it. I brace myself against the shower wall, gasping, still stroking my throbbing length, my mind full of red hair and green eyes and a girl who doesn't know yet that her life is aboutto change forever. The release is better than anything I can remember in a long time, better than the last time I came inside a woman.
“Fuck!” I grind the word between my teeth, working my cock until every last drop has been wrung out, until I finally start to soften. When it's over, I stand under the cold water for a long time, trying to wash away the shame.
It doesn't work.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow, I'll be in Boston. Tomorrow, I'll meet Maeve Connelly face to face.
And then there will be no going back.
For either of us.
3
MAEVE
The sitting room feels smaller with four men in it. They fill the space with their presence, their dark suits and harder expressions, making the elegant furniture and soft lighting seem absurdly delicate by comparison. I perch on the edge of the settee, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, and try to look like I'm not absolutely terrified. I notice that the tallest man, the one not wearing a suit, the one with the scar, chooses to stand behind the antique couch that two of the men are seated on.
Mrs. Brady brings in a tea tray and sets it near me on the coffee table, then begins to pour whiskey for the three older men, which all of them requested. The tall man shakes his head, refusing a drink.
I lean forward, pouring myself a cup of tea, and I see Mrs. Brady hovering near the door until Connor McBride gives her a look that's polite but unmistakable. She leaves, closing the door softly behind her, and I feel the last buffer between me and whatever's coming disappear with her.
Connor sits in the armchair across from me, his silver hair catching the lamplight. He has the kind of face that might havebeen handsome once, before time carved lines into it. His eyes are sharp, assessing, and when he smiles at me, it doesn't reach them.
"Miss Connelly," he begins, his Irish accent thick. "First, let me offer my condolences on your losses. Your father and brother were well-respected men, and their deaths are a tragedy for the entire community, here and in Dublin."
