“If I undo you, promise not to run.” I pick up the package I had expedited and pull out the pretty dress. Of course, I forgot shoes, but her sneakers are bright red and they’ll look cute with the cherry print dress.
“Am I your doll?”
“We’re meeting your mam. Together. We need to have a discussion.”
“And my day just gets better,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her words. “I won’t run.”
I’m not entirely sure I believe her, but she’salso gazing at the dress with eagerness, and I bet she wants to get changed out of those sweats.
I undo her hands and feet, and she snatches the dress and looks around, jumping up when she sees the bathroom door.
While she changes, I text her mam.
Me: Declan Murphy here, Ma’am. Change of plans. Meet me at the Murphy Bodyguard office. Bring the threats. We need to talk about your daughter’s situation.
I add the address and a time, then press send.
At that moment Marlowe barrels into me, intent on getting out the door. I grab her just before she can grab the handle and toss her over my shoulder again.
“Put me down?—”
I slap her ass, just to hear the soft little moan she makes when I do. That’s one thing I like about Marlowe, she likes a bit of rough. She likes what I do to her, and I want to do more. So much more.
“Not very nice, Molly, breaking your promise like that. Now, be quiet, we’ve got places to be.”
I take the stairs down to the garage and toss her in the back of the big car where Clive, the driver, waits.
Mikey’s in Queens this week with Lucie’s mam, running that side of the business.
Personally, I think there’s a little something-something between those two, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry than ponder love.
“New business we’re dabbling in?” Clive asks.
I look at him. “No.”
I tell him where we’re going and close the door behind me. The world instantly shrinks and grows electric.
Molly looks cute in the dress. The top hugs her small breasts. It’s a little loose everywhere else, but I like that look. Probably because it screams easy access.
We pull away from the brownstone, and while the West Village gives way to changing neighborhoods of Third Avenue, I’m more interested in Marlowe.
The murder in her eyes, the way every part of her quivers with hate and desire, that potent cocktail I want to suck down.
It’s pounding in my blood, too. Her gaze slips to my mouth, then farther south before she drags it back up to my face.
I’ve never been inside something so roomy that feels as small as a matchbox, one we’re both crammed into.
The air’s alive with her.
It caresses, stings, and throbs.
“We didn’t have hate before, Molly. It adds a little something, don’t you think?”
“It adds hate.”
I lean in, rub my nose to hers, and say against her lips. “I think it makes you want me more.”
With that I kiss her; long, deep strokes of my tongue against hers. My hand slides into her top to toy with her nipples. I want to feel her up, push her onto my cock. I want to pull her into my lap and push her panties aside and thrust up into her and have her tell me all the things she wants to do to me. I want her to unleash that anger and ride me into oblivion until we’re so lost we’re one.
