By the idea of being seen by the driver.
“Topher’s a good-looking guy,” I say, just to see what happens.
“Topher’s in multiple unmarked graves if he lays a hand on you,” Declan says calmly.
Heat flares low in my belly as his thumb brushes my clit. He tugs the top of my dress down, exposing my breasts like it’s nothing.
“He licked my pussy first,” I say. Now I’m just being reckless.
A beat of silence follows.
“And he?—”
“Be careful, Molly girl.” He pulls me down, bites my nipple, his voice a rough whisper against my skin. “I don’t care about your past. But your now? That’s mine. Every last part. Every orgasm. Every first.”
Then he pushes a finger into me, thumb working my clit. Ecstasy curls, warm and tight, my eyes drifting shut…
“We’re here,” the driver announces.
Declan grins, wicked. “Fix your top, Marlowe. We need to talk.”
He slips me off his lap and gets out, leaving me to scramble and cover myself, still shaking.
I hate that I love him edging me. I follow him out of the car on unsteady legs.
My phone buzzes. Leon’s name flashes across the screen.
He’s alive. My heart leaps in my chest. He’s reaching out. And I…
I send the call to voicemail.
Because I’m cold. Heartless. Addicted to the wrong man.
Before I can change my mind, Declan appears next to me. He plucks the phone from my hand and threads our fingers together before dragging me inside.
The pub is Irish with scarred wood,old photos, and a mixed crowd of dangerous and normal. People greet him, nodding their respect. He’s completely at ease.
I glance around for his brothers. No one looks like him.
He sits me at the end of the curved bar. A woman rushes over to talk to him. She puts a hand on his arm like she has a right to be there. I want to claw her eyes out.
I order a whiskey. Straight. Then I tell the bartender to leave the bottle and put it on Declan’s tab.
The tattooed guy in skinny jeans and a Ramones shirt snorts. “Sweetheart, heownsthis place.”
“Of course he does.”
I knock back the first shot and pour another. I’m lifting it when a hand closes over my wrist.
His hand. No one else’s feels like that.
“Not on my watch, Molly.”
Declan drops onto the stool beside me and throws back the shot I poured.
His phone is out again, the screen open to a list of names. A woman walks by, leaves an envelope, and keeps moving. He marks off a name and pockets the envelope.
“Work,” he says. “Call it rent collection.” His gaze slides to me. “Now… about your problem. The dead not-cop. The price on your head. I can handle it. But we were together the night we met in Queens.”
