Waiting for me to clear her imaginary demerits.
Waiting for me to deliver the punishment she craves.
She'll count every spank, her voice breaking around number six, her pussy dripping and swollen with want and desire.
And when I finally fuck her—when I bury myself inside her and feel her clench around my cock—she'll whisper the words she's been trained to say.
Yours, my King.
All yours.
Because sheis.
All. Mine.
2
Question for ya, Father Patrick… How many Hail Marys for kidnappin' your best friend's naked woman?
Lorcan, mah boy, how do ya always find yerself in such situations?
How, Father?
The answer's simple enough, isn't it? Irish mob, that's how.
And here I am, thirty-one years old, runnin' a criminal empire from the Boston docks, and drivin' a stolen '70s Buick LeSabre that smells like cigarettes and gasoline.
The woman in the trunk is naked.
My best friend's woman.
Who I just kidnapped.
From his basement dungeon.
Which—when you state the circumstances in order like that—doesn't sound nearly as brill as it did an hour ago.
The family business has a way of puttin' ya in positions that'd make the saints weep and the sinners laugh. Situations where the line between right and wrong gets blurred beyond all recognition.
But this might be a new low even for me.
Or a new high, dependin' on your perspective.
Moral relativity's a proper bitch that way.
The dashboard clock blinks 8:54 in green digital numbers that flicker every third second like they're considerin' givin' up entirely. I don't blame them. I'm considerin' the same thing.
I'm not in a good place mentally.
Right. Understatement of the year, that. I've had better days—I've had worse ones too. The kind with gunfire, and blood, and people actively tryna end me.
But at least those made sense. You get shot at, you shoot back, everyone knows the rules.
This is somethin' else entirely.
Not exactly a moral high ground situation, is it?
And…
