Her words are oddly shocking to me.
For one thing, Roisin is not just from ‘a mafia family’. Her family is as old as mine when it comes to organized crime, and just as successful. She’s absolutely not some kind of outlier, or someone who is adjacent to this world.
Her father is the MacAntyre that supplied the guns for part of the rebels in Ireland. They’ve been a part of Irish resistance for years.
Not for the cause, though. For a healthy, healthy paycheck.
The fact that she’s staring up at me, her green eyes wide with rage, her hair wriggling out from the tight bun that she wrangled it into earlier, her cheeks flushed with rage…
I can see the blush of her anger, all the way down to the tops of her breasts.
Her breasts that are just begging for my touch.
When I came in to this dressing room, I expected to find her ready to go. I informed the shop attendants that it would be three hours and then I needed her, because we would be on the road to wherever Liam and Stassi are.
I didn’t expect to find her…
In a state of undress.
It puts me right back to that night when I found out that she was a MacAntyre.
Right back to the moment where I first started to wonder what was truth, and what was a lie.
And with her current confession, we’re right back there again.
I step back, my spine stiffening. “You hate mafia men?”
“With every fiber of my being,” she spits.
Her accent is thicker now. It’s rarely as pronounced as it is at the moment, and it’s…
Fucking sexy.
I growl. I’m frustrated and I want to reach inside that fucking whisper of lace and tug out her pretty pale nipples, and rip the remaining fabric off of her body before trapping her in front of the mirror and slowly peeling the pants she’s wearing off. I want to make her watch as I slide my fingers down and inside her…
Stop.
I take a deep breath, struggling to regain control. Shutting my eyes, I let it out, counting the beats as I exhale my fury into the crowded dressing room.
“Did you hate them when you decided to kiss me that day at the cottage?” I rasp.
Fucking hell.
I can’t help myself, can I?
I seethe at my lack of control. I never get like this. I’m not Dino. Controlling my mouth, and my intentions, is a pivotal piece of my job.
More than that, I’ve been able to hide who I am from everyone. Always.
The fact that Roisin keeps digging my true self out from under all of these layers is…
Inconvenient.
She makes a small noise in her throat. “That was different.”
My eyes fly open, and they search for hers. “How?”
Roisin looks away. “You… it’s just different.”
Something inside of me snaps.
In a heartbeat, I’m pushing Roisin up against the dressing room wall. Her eyes are wide and her strong arms are ready to grab me, but I gather both wrists in one hand and pin them up above her head. She pulls, and I’m impressed all over again at the strength in her slim body.
Unfortunately for her, I am stronger.
“You think I’m different? I’m not, Roisin. I’m every fucking inch a mafia boss. It’s in my blood, and if you think for one second that I’m any fucking different, you’re fucking fooling yourself,” I snarl.
Roisin squirms, and one of my knees comes up to part her legs.
We realize that she’s so wet she’s practically dripping through both layers of clothing at exactly the same time.
Roisin blushes, turning her head. “Don’t think this has anything to do with you,” she snaps.
Oh.
That’s how you want to play it, then?
“I think it has everything to do with me,” I rumble, leaning forward until our faces are nearly pressed together. “In fact, I think if I put my hands inside… whatever the fuck this is, I think you’d be soaking wet for me, Rosin.”
Her pupils go wide, and her lips part. She licks them, and her little pink tongue darting out makes my cock pulse painfully against my zipper.
“Jumpsuit.”
I blink. “The fuck?”
“It’s called a jump–”
I don’t give a fuck.
I crash my lips over hers, because her voice is throaty and because when she spoke, she rubbed herself on my thigh.
She wants me.
I fucking know it.
Roisin leans into the kiss, her lips parting as my tongue slips inside. She moans, rubbing herself on my thigh as I drop her hands from mine and cup her face, deepening our kiss.
When I can feel her heat pulsing through the fabric of my trousers, I pull back and press my forehead to hers.
“Fuck, Roisin…”
“Do you want me or not?” she whispers.
I look down at her lips.
This is a very bad idea.
We’re not supposed to do this. We’re not supposed to have anything real.
And she just told me that she hates mafia men. Which I absolutely am. She said it with so much fire, it actually makes me feel like I’m going fucking crazy.
I know I must be, because I take one look at her beautiful green eyes.
And I decide.
I curl my hand up the back of her neck and grab a fistful of her beautiful strawberry blonde hair, pulling it out of the bun that she’s fighting a losing battle against anyway. It feels like yards and yards of silk in my hand, the curls wrapping around my fingers, welcoming me in, and I tug her head back to get better access to her mouth.
She gasps.
And I’m gone.
I devour her. There’s no other word for it. I’ve never kissed anyone like this, and I’ve never had a kiss like this.
Ever.
Even when we kissed at the cottage, it wasn’t like this.
This is so much more than just a kiss. It’s… an obsession. I’m lost in her. My hands roam her body, greedy to experience everything. The silk of her skin and the lace covering it make me crazy, because the difference in textures makes me want to use all my senses on her.
I want to feel how wet she is for me.
I want to taste her skin, taste the spot that’s practically weeping onto my thigh.
I want to watch her, to see what she looks like when she comes, wrapped around me with her head thrown back, to watch my cock plunge into the sweet release of her body…
I want her. I want her so badly.
This kiss is more than it was before. More than the gentle exploration that we had of each other that day.
This is something unfinished. Something that we waited too long to address.
Something that’s been burning us both up.
Roisin isn’t protesting anymore. Her hands scrape against my neck, mussing the hair that I just worked so hard to get into shape. Without letting her lips move from mine, my hands circle under her hips and I lift.
She squeaks, but I wrap her legs around mine and press her into the mirror in front of us.
Every touch is a new treasure that I hoard to myself. Her skin is so soft when I free it from the clothes. My clothes, the ones that I bought for her.
The ones that she’ll wear for me, if I want them.
I strip the wildly offensive lace bra from her body, tossing it behind me. I take a minute, panting, to take her in.
I scrape my hand over my mouth, trying to hide the hunger that I’m sure is practically radiating from my face. “Jesus, Roisin. You’re fucking stunning,” I murmur.
She blushes, looking away, but I continue to look at her.
Her hips curve out before dipping back into her neat waist. I lean forward, cupping her breasts in my hands, and her perfect soft flesh flows over the sides of my hands.
When I lick her pert pink nipples, she moans and its fucking music to my ears.
I want this.
I want this so badly it practically ripples through me.
Feasting on her nipples, I pluck and roll them until she’s wiggling, her center rocking against me as she practically rubs herself against my cock.
“Fuck, Roisin,” I growl. “You can’t do that.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she barks.
I grin.
I love this with her. It’s never easy. She never backs down, she’s never afraid of me.
However, in a second her fingertips are coasting along the edge of my pants, and I moan at the sensation.
We didn’t make it this far, last time.
We didn’t have the chance.
Her fingers in the waist of my pants feel cautious, but curious. When she wraps them around my hard cock, I have to take in a deep breath to keep myself from erupting.
I don’t want to come like this.
I want to be inside her. I want to feel her wrapped around me. I want…
Dropping her abruptly, I move so that she’s in front of me, and I’m behind her.
Roisin squirms, but I band an arm across her stomach, pinning her against me. In the mirror, I can see both of us, and the quaking of her breath as she breathes, staring at me in the mirror.
I want her. I want her so much.
My voice is practically guttural. “Do you want me to touch you, Roisin?”
She hesitates.
It’s the hesitation that’s going to kill me.
I hate mafia men.
Should I stop? Should I…
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
Fucking hell, I can’t.
With a growl, I span my hand across her waist and sink it slowly down against her skin, until I reach the spot where her… pelvic bone meets the curve of her hip.
I stop there, looking at her eyes in the mirror.
She nods.
My lips trace against the side of her neck, my eyes locked with hers as my fingers press against her skin, slowly smoothing down so that they’re coasting over the smooth, firm skin of her belly.
“Fuck, Roisin,” I groan as my fingertips reach the center of her heat. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”
I expect her to disagree, to say something like she’s not, or it’s not for me.
Instead, she shocks the hell out of me by gasping, “Yes.”
I bite at the column of her neck. ‘Do you need to come, baby?”
Her eyes roll back in her head and she moans.
I take that as a yes.
Slowly, I slip a finger inside of her, utterly shocked at the amount of moisture gathered there. Roisin’s knees buckle, and I hold her tighter. She’s propped up by my fingers inside her and my arm banded under her breasts, and the sight of her in the mirror, my hand working the thin fabric of her panties as I slide in and out of her, is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
She shudders, and I smile.
She’s close.
“Come for me, Roisin,” I whisper against her ear. “Be a good girl and come all over my hand. Let me see how fucking much you want me, and come for me–”
I meant to say more. Clearly, she likes it when I talk dirty to her though, because I don’t have to say anything else.
Roisin explodes on my hand.
There’s no other way to describe it. I feel her muscles ripple as they tug my fingers deeply inside, and she gasps as she throws her head back. Watching her shake, while my fingers are embedded in her…
It takes every single fiber of my being to keep myself from coming in my pants.
When her body stops shuddering and her eyes don’t look quite so glazed, I gently pull my fingers out of her. In the mirror, I catch her gaze and lift the fingers to my mouth.
Slowly, I lick her from my fingertips, and I watch with satisfaction as her nipples tighten again and her mouth parts.
“You may hate mafia men, Roisin, but I just made you come apart with my fingertips. Hate me all you want… but just know that you fucking shattered. For me,” I growl.
With that, I slam the dressing room door open and stalk out.
Leaving Roisin behind.
A solid hour later, which I’m sure she decided to do out of spite, and Roisin is heading for the front of the department store.
She looks amazing.
She’s wearing the most expensive athletic pants that I’ve ever seen, and they sculpt her toned body into looking like a fitness model. I swear I can see every muscle in her legs flex as she walks, and the expensive-looking bra top cups her breasts so perfectly, I ache to reach out and touch them.
She managed to wrangle her strawberry curls into two long braids, and despite the fact that she looks cute as a button in them, I know that they’re not meant to be attractive.
Roisin didn’t dress like I am expecting her to, and she knows it.
She dressed for war.
My blood heats. I can’t tell if she knows what she’s doing to me or not, but fuck me.
I love a fucking challenge.
She tugs on an athletic jacket. “I’m ready,” she practically snaps at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you decide on something to bring?”
Instead of responding, Roisin just snaps her fingers. A small train of attendants rolls out of the women’s dressing room area, each one of them rolling a suitcase that is probably chock-full of clothing, and each one with an expensive logo that I would be worried about hurting my credit card.
If I worried about such things.
I’ve been making investments through the years. I’m proud to say that it’s my own, not tied to the family… before he went to jail, my grandfather gave me a gift of a thousand dollars.
I turned that into a portfolio that means I’ll never have to worry about who is putting clothes on my credit card.
It’s the only thing that I’ve really done for myself, or for a family that I had, in a fit of delusion, thought I might have one day.
The second my father died, though, that illusion was shattered for me.
Quickly.
I knew at that moment that I wouldn’t ever be looking out for my own happiness in life.
I’d always be trying to figure out how to help my siblings. I’d always be watching over the family.
I took on the role of their protector, and I was happy to fill it.
But it did mean that my dream, and the assets I’d put together to live it, disappeared.
She glares at me. “I finished my shopping, darling.”
The venom on the endearment makes me chuckle. “Well I hope it was worth your while, pumpkin.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I certainly hope you meant it when you said this card had no limit.”
At this point, the shop attendants are watching us like a tennis match. Aware of their attention, and the fact that they might be reporting to people who care about this, I move over to Roisin and tuck her close.
“You couldn’t bankrupt me if you tried,” I whisper.
She stiffens. “I’ll see about that,” she mutters.
Roisin peels away from me, stomping forward.
And I grin as her ass jiggles on the way out.
ROISIN
I am the dumbest person alive.
In the Jaguar, Marco follows my directions. The back is stacked with an unseemly amount of packaging that jostles, rolling from side to side as we careen down the narrow Irish countryside, heading for our family home near Sligo.
I think that’s where Liam is.
The fact that he appeared to me at the cottage recently does give me some doubt, but if he’s getting married and trying to make at least somewhat of a spectacle of it, then he’s going to be at home in the house that’s officially unofficial.
As it always has to be.
I meant what I said to Marco in the dressing room. I do hate mafia men. I hate that they’re bossy and demanding, that they think you owe them every single thing.
I hate that they’re self-assured and conceited. That they think you can throw money at a problem and it will all go away.
I hate how much they’re like my father, if I’m being honest.
The problem is that Marco?
He’s nothing like my father.
My fingers drum anxiously on the leather interior, the luxury of it absorbing the sound from my fingertips annoyingly well.
Marco is…
In many ways, yes. He’s absolutely a mafia man. He’s conniving and arrogant and slick, always with a plan up his sleeve and a fucking song in his heart as he murders people in cold blood.
I’ve seen him do it.
But on the other hand..
The Marco that I got to know at the cottage is kind. He’s protective, but in a way that doesn’t feel condescending or overbearing. I had the sense, many times, that he genuinely cared for me.
That he wanted me.
Just like I wanted him.
Just like you still want him, you hussy.
I flush.
The memory of riding Marco’s thigh, and then his fingers, is something that I’m probably going to feel very conflicted about for a long time. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I want Marco with every fiber of my being.
Which is a problem in itself.
I promised myself a very long time ago that I wouldn’t sleep with anyone who was in the same sphere of influence as my brothers and my dad. After Kieran scared the shit out of me, and my dad basically imprisoned me, I swore off men altogether.
You’ll find someone you want badly enough to try all this out with, I would tell myself.
I know the basics. I own a vibrator, and I’m not naive or anything.
But the truth is, I haven’t exactly been with a man yet.
And that… almost went out the window earlier today, when I was practically begging Marco to take me.
I shuffle, uncomfortable as I look out the window.
The Jaguar is literally eating up the road on the way to Sligo. The family home, interestingly, is an old converted manor. The joke was that the English lord who tried to inhabit it was killed because of MacAntyre weapons that we smuggled into the country back in the day, so it was given to the MacAntyre family.
Except it isn’t in our family name.
The people in the town protect us, which is something that I’ve hated ever since I was a child. I can see how for Liam it’s an advantage right now, and it’s another reason I’m thinking he will probably have the wedding here. He can control, through the town, who has access to our home.
When I was a child, though?
I wanted to escape from my father. I wanted to find my mother again, to figure out where he and Kieran had hidden her. I tried to walk away more times than I can count, and every time it was a well-meaning, if wayward, townsperson who brought me back, kicking and screaming, to my father’s house.
The memory makes me shiver.
I don’t like mafia men. I don’t. My reasons are my own and they’re perfectly rational. Who would, after everything I’ve been through?
But the memory of Marco’s hands on my body lingers.
“So. What’s the story?” Marco rumbles.
I shift, staring at him.
He winks. “What are we going to tell them about how we met?”
“The exact story about how we met. I took you into custody–”
“Won’t work,” Marco shakes his head. “They’re going to know that I chose to be in custody.”
I snort. “You didn’t say that when I had you at gunpoint. It seemed you were very much at my mercy then.”
“You’d love to think that, wouldn’t you Roisin?”
I arch my eyebrow at him. “You were allowing yourself to be caught?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Why the hell would you do that?’
“So that I could negotiate the deal to protect Dino’s children,” he says without skipping a beat.
I blink. “We offered you that deal–”
“I knew you would, as soon as I heard that Interpol had located the twins and Marisol. Dino came to me to ask me what to do years ago. I monitored them. It only happened recently that they were on Interpol’s radar, and I had to protect them.”
My eyebrows knit together. If that’s true, that means Marco…
“You just… stayed in witness protection?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “Why?”
Marco sighs. “Because I needed to at the time.”
“That’s ludicrous.”
“It’s what we mafia men do to protect what’s ours,” he says in a voice that feels laced with venom and promise.
Hmm. Interesting. Clearly, my comment earlier bothered him. “You’d just as easily sell him out if you had to,” I say quietly.
Marco’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t respond.
We continue in silence, as we wind up the road. Eventually, a familiar bend comes up, and my heart aches as the manor house comes into view.
“Welcome to Aughris House, Marco,” I say quietly.
My heart sinks.
Because this house is my worst fucking nightmare.
I kind of want to ask Marco what he’s thinking as we walk up the stone drive to the house.
Kind of.
But not really, because I’m currently refusing to speak to him until otherwise indicated.
That, of course, and I don’t really want to be here so…
Silence dominates our conversation.
The house isn’t huge. On the outside, it looks like a lot of other old houses in Ireland. Stone walls covered in whitewash, two stories and several wings, and the type of old-fashioned peaked roof that has to have a specialist come in to repair. It’s bigger than some manor houses around the area, built a little more like a castle than just a house, but it’s not exactly out of the ordinary.
Except for the roses.
The entire structure is nearly covered in climbing roses, and a garden of roses winds around it for what feels like a mile. Even now, in the early part of the year, walking up to it is impressive. There aren’t many in bloom right now, except for some of the smaller, hardier winter ones, but in the summer the whole thing is basically covered in blooms.
Behind me, Marco makes a noise.
I turn. “What.”
“That is an insane amount of roses.”
I could tell him that it’s how I got my name. My mother was so impressed by being brought back here, before she knew what my father was, that she named me for the roses on the house. There’s always been a girl in the family who bears the name of the roses.
My father was thrilled, of course, when I could take that one.
And furious when she stole me away and hid me from him.
Furious enough that he basically burned things down to find me again… and my mom hasn’t’ been seen since.
The thought makes anger burn through me, so instead of responding to Marco I turn on my heel and march to the front door. Unfortunately, that means that I’m once again face-to-face with the manor house.
Ugh.
It really should be gorgeous. The roses and the stone walls, with whatever chemical is on them to make them white, are a shocking contrast. It makes the vines of the roses almost look black, and without the brilliant blooms, the whole effect is kind of like a goth house. Behind the house, I can just see the edge of the pond that comes with the property. I know that if I keep walking in that direction, I’ll come across a stable where my father kept all his prized horses.
Further on, I’d find myself on a path to the sea. The Atlantic Ocean is brutal on this side of Ireland, nothing like the deep (if narrow) Irish channel. On this side of the country, the sea stretches like an endless line on the horizon.
I used to think that I could see New York, if I tried hard enough.
Until Kieran almost drowned me by shoving me down the cliffs into the freezing ocean below. He disavowed me of that belief, by pointing out how stupid I was to think that you can see America from Ireland.
Most of my memories of this beautiful place are, in fact, completely ruined by Kieran.
I wish the dread that’s threading through me at the thought of seeing his twin wasn’t so total. Liam technically never did any of those things to me that Kieran did.
Technically.
Still, it’s insanely hard to look someone wearing the same face as the one that comes straight from your nightmares in the eyes, and believe that he won’t hurt you.
I know it bothers Liam. It’s probably the only reason that he maintains our little spying arrangement. I’m sure if I just stopped giving him information, he wouldn’t ask why.
But, he seems to use it to his advantage.
I’m still not sure why I do it. Family loyalty. Terror of my brother’s ghost.
Mostly, just a connection to keep to my family, in case he hears anything about my mother that I wouldn’t hear through Interpol, I guess.
This is all so fucked up.
“Roisin?”
Marco must have noticed that I’m at a dead stop on the path, glaring up at the house. I don’t answer him. Instead, I march forward until we’re on the threshold, feet poised to take the step up into the ancient home.
I’m surprised there’s not a security guard or something outside… or maybe there are, and I just haven’t noticed.
I crane my head up and grimace.
Yep. Someone’s sitting on the roof with a rifle aimed down at us.
Resisting the urge to yell that I do, in fact, live here, I go to knock on the door…
Only to find it’s already swinging open.
I blink, my hand raised in front of the thick carved wood panel in front of me.
“Ro?”
I let myself smile, the movement kind of rusty. “Hi Liam.”
“What are you doing here?” my brother asks.
He hasn’t noticed Marco yet. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I came for the wedding.”
“The wedding isn’t for a few weeks…”
“Good,” I murmur. I’m curious if Stassi is here, because if she is, I want to look at her. I want to make sure that Liam isn’t doing the thing that Kieran would do.
Which is to say… I want to make sure that he’s not kidnapping her and forcing her to be here.
I can tell the moment Liam notices Marco. His easy going demeanor shifts, and all of a sudden there’s someone in front of me who doesn’t look like Liam at all.
My fists clench. He looks like Kieran.
Kieran is dead.
“Who’s this then?” Liam rumbles.
Marco steps forward, gently putting his hand over my shoulder. “Marco De Luca.”
“I know who you are. The fuck are you doing here with my sister?”
I know Marco will have an answer.
I’m sure it’s not the answer I want.
So, before he can get it out, I toss his hand out of the way and look at Liam.
“Marco’s here to be my wedding date.”
