“No, Flynn. I’m not using that.” She tries to sidestep; I snake an arm around her waist, spinning her so her front slams the marble. The towel rides up, exposing the curve of her ass.
I kick her legs apart, my thigh wedging between hers. My hand trails slow, torturously, up the inside of her thigh, fingers brushing damp heat. I lean in, breath hot on her neck. “Relax, and it goes in easy.” I press my knee into the soft flesh of her ass, pinning her. From my jacket, I pull the lube, pop the cap with my teeth. Thick dollops coat the plug, glistening it.
“This will hurt,” I murmur, voice dropping to something black and velvet. “But you’ll take it. Every inch. For me.” My palm splays between her shoulder blades, forcing her to bend over the sink. She squirms; I pin harder, the marble cool against her nipples, straining the towel.
I wrap my hand around her throat, fingers digging just enough to feel her pulse thunder. I tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes to the mirror. Mine locks on hers. “Look at me while I stretch this hole.Breathe.”
She inhales, and I press the plug to her tight ring. She gasps, pain twisting her features, rising on tiptoes to escape. Futile. I push harder, relentless, feeling her stretch around the intrusion. The towel slips lower, one breast spilling free, nipple pebbled like a bullet.
“Flynn, please,” she begs, voice cracking, eyes squeezing shut.
“Eyesopen,” I snarl, squeezing her throat until they fly wide, glassy with tears and defiance. I ease the plug forward until the widest part breaches. She whimpers, a broken sound that shoots straight to my cock. Her nipples arrow harder under the damp fabric, body betraying her with every tremor.
“Good girl. Let itallin.” One final, brutal push. The base sits flush against her skin. I release her neck, slide my hand down to her clit, rubbing lazy circles over her slick folds. Her head falls back against my shoulder, lips parting on a moan. In the mirror, she’s a vision: flushed, wrecked,mine. My fucking goddess, plugged and panting.
I stop. Pull my hand away just as her hips chase it.
“What the—” She whirls, towel barely clinging, eyes wild.
“We’ll consummate the marriage,” I say, voice cold as steel. “But not like this. Not yet. Get dressed. Business lunch.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Fire spits from her tongue. “I’m not your wife. We won’t consummateshit.”
I pause at the door, back to her, letting the silence stretch until itbites. She goes quiet, breath hitching.
“Either you come dressed,” I say without turning, “or in that towel. Your choice, wife. But youwillwalk out this door with my plug stretching your ass.”
I step out, door clicking shut behind me. My cock is so hard it hurts. I want to take her, but I need time, and this lunch will be a great way to announce her. And I can’t wait until it gets to Flanaghan.
Walking down the stairs, Kaden leans against the front door, a cigar in his hand.
“You sure this is a good idea? She’ll make a scene.” He warns me.
“She won’t.” I’ve been watching her since Declan’s wedding. Autumn can snap in private, but in a room full of people? She acts like a lady—quiet, kind. She’ll hide all her hatred toward me.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, mate.” Kaden puts out the cigar and walks to the SUV as I hear Autumn coming down the stairs. I turn, and she’s in suit pants, a black shirt with two buttons open, showing just enough cleavage, her hair loose in waves and just a little gloss on her lips.
I hope she knows no woman in a sexy dress compares to how she looks right this moment.
She walks past me, chin up, fire in her eyes, ignoring me, and I have to keep myself from smiling.
We enter the car. She sits at the far side of the SUV. Kaden drives, and another car with my men follows us from a distance. She stares out the window. Kaden turns the radio on. He reaches to change it when she finally speaks.
“Let it play, please.” Her voice is low and quiet.Arsonist’s Lullabyeby Hozier fills the speakers, and she takes a deep breath.
I’ve seen her playlists. She likes indie music and soft songs. I wonder if she’d like to be fucked to the sound of Dropkick Murphys, though.
Kaden parks. I step out, signal her to wait. She shoots me a death stare that could melt steel. I open her door, extend my hand. Her fingers twitch; she’sthisclose to slapping it away, but a couple strolls past, nodding politely. Her mask slips on: professional, serene. She takes my hand.
“Asshole,” she whispers through a smile.
I smirk.
We walk inside the restaurant.
“Mr Brady.” The hostess beams. “Table for two?”
“For my wife and me,” I add. “We’re expecting another guest.”
