Page 47
He hasn’t said a word since he opened the door and waited for me to walk out first, then strolled back the way we came as if nothing had happened.
Unfortunately, it did, and I’m not wondering whether I’d have gone all the way. I know I would have. I would have let him tear that dress at the seams, put my ankles over his shoulders, and fuck me on those mats while a hundred people drank champagne forty feet away.
I’m still clenching around nothing. Still so damn wet because of him. Minutes of walking hasn’t fixed one single thing, and the worst of it is that I’d turn around right now if he crooked a finger at me.
Christ, what’s wrong with me?
I would’ve let Fionn Harrington strip Eilish’s dress off me and take me on the floor of his private gym while his engagement party carried on inside the house.
My stomach twists.
Shame burns through me, and I berate myself for even considering it. Not only is he a Harrington, he’s my best friend's fiancé.
Fionn pauses at the French doors to the orangery for a beat and then pushes inside.
I follow, keeping my chin lifted because pride is cheaper than therapy, and I have plenty of it lying around.
Inside the orangery, the chatter from the party fills the silence between us.
I rake my fingers through the length of my hair and check my dress one final time.
He looks over at me while he shrugs on his jacket, and for one suspended second, his eyes move over my face, my mouth, the neckline, and the thigh slit.
Nothing changes in his expression as he plucks out his links from his trouser pocket and returns them to his cuffs.
I could say something cutting. Throw an insult his way or even toss a framed photograph at him for revenge. But the darkness lurking behind his eyes reminds of Rafe's warning.
Once he’s content he’s immaculately presented again, void of any sign that he almost lost control, he turns and walks out.
I stand there, alone and shaking. Furious that I let him get to me. After a quick internal pep talk, I walk back to the party.
Ahead of me, Fionn walks into the middle of the crowd. His cousin Lorcan steps into his path and claps him on the back. He’s handsome in a careless, dangerous way, with a grin built for bad decisions and dark hair shaved close to his scalp at the sides.
“Thought you’d got cold feet,” Lorcan says to him as I keep my head down and walk. “Alasdair was getting pissed.”
Fionn accepts a glass from a passing waiter without breaking stride. “He’s always pissed about something.”
Lorcan laughs.
I pass behind them without slowing and find Ronan near one of the tall windows, speaking to an older woman with a jeweled necklace.
His gaze catches mine over her shoulder, and he excuses himself at once.
“There you are,” he says, moving toward me. “I was starting to think you’d escaped.”
“Not yet.”
His smile fades a little as he looks at me properly. “You all right?”
“Of course.” I swipe a glass of champagne from a tray and knock it back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you look like you’ve either murdered someone or you’re about to.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t bring a gun.”
Before he can ask another question, a hush pulls through the room, and Alasdair Harrington steps into view.
He stands at the stone fireplace with a whiskey in his hand and a smile that doesn’t look human.
