Page 5 of Vicious Betrayal

Before I can shut the door, she slips in under my arm, and the door closes behind her before I can stop it.

She's smirking at me like this is a game we're playing. Maybe she honestly thinks it is. But all I can think is that now I'm alone with her in this tiny office—and even if no one sees her coming in or leaving or comes to the office and catches us together, just being in here alone with her is a temptation that I don't need right now.

The office itself is cluttered, the desk covered in paperwork. Keeping this space neat hasn't been a priority; the opening has. There are a couple of monitors showing flickering security footage from different viewpoints of the club floors and the entrances and exits. The music from the club is a dull, muffled throb through the walls here, like being underwater and hearing something happening on the surface. I back away from her and sit on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, putting what feels like a responsible amount of space between us.

And she immediately disrespects that. She never seems to respect much of anything. She crosses the room and stops close enough that I have to work to keep my hands where they are. If I reached out, I could grab her and pull her against me. It would be so fucking easy.

"Why did you follow me?" I ask. My voice comes out rougher than I want it to.

She smirks. "Why did you let me?"

For the first time in years, I feel the urge to roll my eyes. "I didn't let you do anything. You just did it."

"Maybe I'm used to doing what I want." She reaches out, one pointed fingernail dragging down my chest in the open space of my shirt. "Or who I want."

Fuck. That's all it takes. My dick surges in my jeans, stiff as iron from the touch of her finger in the V of my shirt, against my skin. It pushes at my fly, throbbing almost painfully, and I feel briefly like the room swims slightly. When was the last time a woman got me hard by touching my chest with her fingertip? When I was a fucking teenager and a virgin? What the fuck is wrong with me?

I'm a forty-year-old man. A deadly enforcer in the Irish mafia. It's one thing to get a hard-on fantasizing about a girl like this, questionable as that might be, but to get harder than I have in memory from the brush of her finger?

She can see the effect she's having on me, too. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction, that smirk turning to a seductive smile as she hooks her finger in my shirt and steps between my legs. Her body is brushing against me now, and before I can stop myself, a rough groan rises from my throat.

Her cheeks flush. My cock pulses. Something about her has cracked open a well of desire that I hadn't even realized was sealed shut. I haven't wanted anyone this badly in longer than I can comfortably remember, and some reckless, furious part of me wants to enjoy the way she's looking at me before common sense wins the way it always wins.

"You should go back to your friends," I manage, as if saying the same thing I did before will work better this time.

"I don't want to." She leans in, her lips suddenly at my ear, brushing against it. The way she's angled against me, the natural thing would be to grab her hips and pull her in. Every cell in my body screams at me to do it. "Do you want me to?"

Yes. That's the answer. That's the only answer that makes any sense, given everything I know about how badly this could go wrong in every direction I can think of.

I don't say it.

"You don't know anything about me," I warn her, my voice rough. "You don't know what kind of trouble I could be."

"You're exactly the kind of trouble I want." Her mouth ghosts along my jaw, and I fucking feel my cock leaking pre-cum into my boxer briefs as it throbs, testing the strength of the zipper it's held behind. "I'm not scared of you, Cormac."

"You should be."

"Maybe." She pulls back slightly, and her eyes drop to my mouth. "But I'm not."

That's it. In that moment, every instinct is drowned out, something primal and needy that's been building since the second she sat down next to me at that bar, overwhelming every rational thought. I close the last of the distance and kiss her.

She tastes like sugary alcohol and lip gloss. It's so distinctly feminine that the taste of her goes straight to my cock, that throbbing intensifying until I'm suddenly worried for the first time in my adult life that I'm going to lose control of my orgasm from kissing a woman. My chest goes tight, desire crashing through me with a force that makes my hands come up before I can stop them. One slides into her hair, the other grabs the curve of her waist, the fabric of that ridiculous dress silky against my palm, and I pull her tight up against me. She makes a small sound against my mouth, surprised and pleased all at once, and her hands fist in the front of my shirt like she's afraid I might pull away. And I was going to—fuck, I swear I was going to… in one more second. One more moment of her soft, plush, hot mouth against mine.

She opened for me the second I kissed her, and it made my imagination run wild. If she's that eager to kiss, what else would she do? Her entire body feels pliable and willing, ready for me to taste and lick and touch, to sink my cock into until I've sated us both. I'm going to stop… but God, I want to kiss her a little longer. This is a terrible idea, but I've already done it, so just another second, another…

Her fingers find the collar of my shirt. My hand tightens in her hair. The muffled bass from the club seems to fade out completely, replaced by the sound of her breathing, my own pulse pounding thick and heavy in my ears. For a few seconds I let myself have this. This woman who is wrong for me in one very obvious way and probably a lot of other less obvious ones, kissing me, a scarred enforcer twice her age, like she's so hungry for me she can't help herself.

I should stop. I need to stop. But fuck… I can't.

3

CORMAC

She moans against my mouth as my tongue slides against hers, and I feel my self-control slipping another notch. Before I can stop myself, I slide off the desk and switch us so that she's the one on the edge of it, my hand pushing her knees apart so that I can move between them. My other hand is still in her hair, cupped around the back of her neck as we keep kissing, hot and breathless. Her tiny dress rides up her thighs, and if I could break the kiss, I'd look down to see what kind of panties she's wearing. A thong, probably, or something soft and silky that won't show under her dress. Fragile lace. All the possibilities make my cock ache.

I yank her tightly against me, and she lets out a breathless gasp as she feels my cock press against her, thick and rigid, my jeans and her panties all that's between us. She arches, hips grinding against me as she rubs herself against the clothed ridge of my stiff length, and for a second I really think I'm going to lose it. That I'm going to come in my pants from grinding against a woman like it's senior year all over again.

She whines as she writhes against me, her hands fisting in my shirt, yanking as if she's going to rip it open. She's still grinding herself against me, gasping with little, desperate sounds as I press my thumb against her jaw and find a new angle to kiss her, and I realize she's trying to get herself off. Fuck, this girl is about to come from grinding on me while we're in the office of the club I run security for.