Her pupils dip to my lips for a split second, then back to my eyes. Colour flushes her cheekbones. ‘That’s never going to happen.’ She shuts me down immediately, but there’s no missing the blush creeping up her neck again.
Is she picturing it right now?
Picturing all the ways I could pleasure her?
I hope so. I said I wouldn't touch her. I didn't say I wouldn’t flirt with her. There has to be some up sides to having a stunning, off-limits woman living under my roof.
‘Tell me about your family,’ she demands, swiftly changing the subject.
‘You met Ciaran, Cathal and Owen.’ I tap the table with my finger. ‘Kai and Tristan are twins. Tristan is in Liverpool for a few months. Kai is in the States with Frankie.’ I don’t mention Keira, my sister. Her loss isn’t something I can bear to talk about.
‘And what about your mother and father?’
‘My father is currently sitting in Ravenhill Maximum security prison, serving time for murder.’
She gasps. ‘Who did he kill?’
‘One of the men who murdered my mother.’ There’s no point trying to hide it. It’s a matter of public record. She could google it in seconds.
Now it’s my turn to swiftly change the subject. ‘I want you to plan the wedding. The dress. The flowers. No expense spared. I want it to be sensational. I want the entire country to be talking about it. But leave the band and the invitations to me.’
‘Why go to so much trouble?’ She frowns.
‘Everything has to look authentic. Remember Frankie’s rule?’
‘Will he be at the wedding?’
‘No. That’s primarily why I picked the last week in July. He’ll be in Mexico on business.’ My jaw locks. ‘By the time he meets you, even if he suspects something is off, it’ll be too late.’ I appreciate the old man and all he’s done for us, but I wish to fuck he’d stick to running the American Syndicate. ‘Frankie and I lock horns. A lot. The only thing you need to know about him is that if he ever shows up here, he’s the one person it’s imperative we convince our relationship is real. Even if it means you riding my face while he watches.’
She splutters, almost choking on her own saliva.
‘Relax, I didn’t mean literally.’ Though it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen me on the job. Frankie likes to frequent Sean Beckett’s club when he’s in town, but I keep that titbit of information to myself. I don’t want to scar her for life.
Aoife thumps her chest, then reaches for her wine glass. Becoming a Kincaid is enough to drive anyone to drink. What we do, what we are—it isn’t for the faint-hearted. If she’d grown up on any other estate than Greenhills, she’d probably be cowering beneath the table right now. She’s been exposed to so much by her father. The man is a fucking disgrace. If I have kids, I’d give my life for them, not expect them to give up their life for me.
Finally, when the sun begins to sink behind the mountains outside the window, and the sky is scorched with deep pinks and purples, she yawns and places a hand over her mouth. ‘Will Sheila really know if I sleep in another room?’
I refill my wine glass and offer her a top up. She shakes her head. Shadows linger beneath her eyes. She looks exhausted. No fucking wonder.
‘Yes.’ It’s the truth. ‘The woman is a military grade bedmaker, neat freak and cleaning fanatic. If even a single sheet was tucked in with a millimetres difference, she’d notice. Plus, I don’t trust her not to rock up extra early tomorrow to “see if we need anything” i.e. coo and fuss over us. You’d swear she was the one in love.’
Aoife’s eyebrows fly upwards.
‘Pretending to be in love. You know what I mean.’ Our eyes lock, and that energy pulses between us again. ‘Go to bed, Aoife. I promise I won’t touch you.’
I can’t promise not to touch myself though.
I giveher a full hour’s head start before going up. Sharing a room will be easier on both of us if she’s asleep. I don’t relish the night on the couch, but given it’s an enormous custom-made Italian bespoke number, it shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.
Knowing she’s in my bed, wearing probably little or nothing, sets a fresh course of blood rushing below. I omitted to add any sleepwear to Sheila’s shopping deliberately.
See?
I did mention I’m not a good man.
I mount the stairs, then gently twist the bedroom door handle, careful not to make a sound as I hover in the entrance, listening for any sign she’s awake.
Soft, deep, even breaths assure me she’s not.
