“She…she told me to apologize.” She swallows hard.
The air goes still.
“Go on, Luv. I won’t bite. At least not yet.”
She takes a deep breath. “She told me to…to apologize to you.”
The silence stretches for a beat. And then, heated amusement ripples through me. Her grandmother told her to apologize. To the man she kidnapped and drugged.
I slowly turn her, switching our positions until I press her back against the wall. My hand remains on her throat, tender, my thumb brushing her jaw.
“Did you speak to anyone else?”
Her fingers curl onto the wall like she wants to melt through it to escape. She bites her lower lip, glancing down. “How angry will you be if I say yes?”
Tension snaps back into my shoulders and neck like a whip. My mind races through my calculations again. “Tell me now, Lexie.”
She inhales deep and gathers herself. “Okay. I spoke to the receptionist.”
I blink. “What was that now?”
She shrugs, offering a little smile. “She had to buzz me in.”
All the tension drains, leaving me with the sheer absurdity. I grin, shaking my head. “Bloody Christ, you’re adorable.”
She squeezes her shoulders, looking relieved. “I thought the mood needed lightening.”
I give her a dastardly grin. “Ye did, did ye?”
Before she can react, I sweep her off her feet, tossing her over my shoulder like a sack of grain.
“What are you doing?!” she squeals, pounding her fists on my back.
“You still drugged and handcuffed me, Lexie Darlin’.” I stride towards the living room. “It’s time for some punishment.”
I dump her onto the couch, but she fumbles, rolling off the other side and making for the front door.
A dark, rich sound leaves my throat. I let her take two steps, then catch her by the waist. Frantic, she pushes against me. What a sight with her nipples pressing hard against her pink peasant dress.
“Trying to run, mo Róisín?”
Seizing her wrist, I pull her flush against me, then twist her red-gold hair around my wrist until her head falls back, and she offers me her eyes.
“Are ye going to be a good girl for me now? After all, Luv, ye zip-tied and handcuffed me. Only fair for the turnaround.”
She pants, her brows scrunching together. “You mean ‘turnabout’s fair play’?”
I shrug. “Potato, potahto.”
The moment her eyes drop to my lips, I march her over to the kitchen table and bend her over the edge, pressing her chest against the wood. Plates rattle as her hips hit the surface.
“Stay.” My hand firms at her back.
She arches. “Liam, wait?—”
“Quiet. Be good. Or your punishment will be worse.”
To my surprise, she obeys. She watches my movements as I select one of many mafia romances from the nearby bookshelf. The gray in her pretty orbs turns silver.
