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I brace myself for her feisty wrath, but it doesn’t come. In fact, she won’t—or can’t—look at me.
The disappointment sinks to my stomach. “Upstairs, now,” I growl. She doesn’t move. I follow her gaze down to her hands, which are wrapped around a single red rose.
Jaw clenched, I snatch the rose from her hand and toss it to the ground. I take my trusty hip flask from my jacket, untwist the lid with my teeth and slosh the brown liquid over it. Then I take my Cartier lighter from my breast pocket, flick it open and drop it onto the sodden pile. The flames instantly lick the stem, curling the petals and turning them to ash.
I do one of the things I hate to do the most: repeat myself. “Upstairs,” I say again, stabbing a finger in the direction of the Museum. “The threat of the vegetable patch applies to you too.”
Head down and mouth closed, she walks two steps ahead of me towards the cobbled building.
Damn, she looks nothing short of ethereal today. Heaven-sent. Her long, copper hair cascades down her back, catching the light. As much as Orna has pissed me off by taking her eyes off Poppy today, I have to mentally thank her for stocking up her closet. The floral dress she’s wearing billows in the light breeze, riding up her thick thighs as she makes slow, deliberate movements towards the Museum.
I grit my teeth, beating down the monster inside of me that wants to pick her up, sling her over my shoulder and march her into the outhouse and away from all of these nosy bastards on my payroll.
She doesn’t pick up the pace, moving tantalizingly slow as I let her into the lobby, and then order her up the stairs. The most I get from her is a flinch when I slam the bedroom door behind me, locking it with my key. Immediately, she flees to the window seat, peering out into the grounds. Like a moth to a flame.
Is she looking for him?
I clench my fists. “I saw the way you were looking at him,” I growl.
Now, she gives me something. A little eyebrow raise, enough to show she’s surprised. “Who?”
“That kid, Cillian.” She turns back towards the window, but I can see her frowning in the reflection. “You belong to me. What part of that don’t you understand, Miss Murphy?”
Now, she cracks.
“I’m not yours,” she cries, whipping around so fast that her fire-red hair fans around her like flames. “I’ll never be yours! I have a boyfriend and soon enough he’ll realize what’s happened to me and will come to find me.”
I seethe, taking in her defensive stance, her glowering emerald eyes and arms folded across her chest. This is not a woman that will bow down to me. Not willingly, and definitely not while she has some asshole college kid on the brain. I always say that if you cut me, I’ll bleed green, but that’s not usually because of jealousy.
Grinding my molars together, I weigh up my options.
Nuclear: I’ll hunt that weedy little fucker down and drag him to Boston by his goddamn glasses. Because geeky college kids always wear glasses. Then I’ll get him on his knees, put the barrel of my Glock to his head and make her watch as I blow his brains out.
Or, I could teach her a lesson in another way.
The hot, thick tension lingers between us. I rip through it by grabbing her arm and dragging her over to the chaise lounge. “Let go of me,” she squeals, but she must know by now, that isn’t going to happen.
“I’ll show you that you belong to me,” I growl, flipping her onto her front and sprawling her across my lap. “If you want to behave like a spoiled little bitch, I’ll treat you like one.” She wriggles underneath my palm on the small of her back, her protests lost in the velvet upholstery of the couch. But the feeling of her lower stomach pushed against my cock only makes me want to devour her more. “If you don’t stop squirming then I’ll use my belt.”
With my free hand, I lift the hem of her skirt, revealing her sensible cotton panties. Her smooth, porcelain skin looks so fragile and delicate, I’m practically salivating at the thought of breaking it.
So, I’m hoping that she doesn’t answer my question the way I’d like.
“I’ll ask you once, Miss Murphy. Who do you belong to?”
My teeth clench together and my eyes close as she takes a deep breath, pushing harder against my bulge.
“Fuck you,” she whimpers.
I can’t stop the smirk that splits my face. In one swift motion, I tear off her panties, revealing the beautiful curve of her ass. My hand comes down on her soft, untouched skin. I use only a fraction of my strength, but it’s enough to trigger the yelp that I was begging to hear. “Isaid,who do you belong to?”
“No,” she gasps, pushing her mound into my cock to get her ass away from the wrath of my hand. The friction makes me want to moan out loud, but I stifle my pleasure to dish out her punishment.
Another slap to her ass, a little harder this time. The noise it emits is less of a yelp and more of a moan. My eyes travel up to her face, covered by thick strands of her red hair. I can’t see her expression, but I don’t need to—the way her fist is curled around the corner of the cushion tells me everything I need to know.
I need confirmation.
“Open your legs.”
