"Lorcan," I choke out. I grip the edge of the dresser so hard my knuckles ache, my head falling back against the mirror.
He ignores me, or maybe he likes the sound, because he just gets faster. He’s obsessive. He tracks the movement of my hips, and whenever I start to lift, he presses his face harder into me, his tongue working in a tight, frantic rhythm. My breath comes out in short, broken gulps. I’m arching my back, my toes curling against the floor, trying to find some leverage, but he’s got me completely pinned.
I can feel him through the fabric of his trousers, the solid, heavy heat of him. He doesn't use his hands to gentle me; he uses them to keep me right on the brink. He licks until I’m shaking, until the dampness is running down my thighs, until I’m sobbing his name because the sensation is too bright, too focused.
He pulls back, his lips wet and shining in the vanity light. He doesn't give me a second to settle. He reaches for his belt, the metallic click of the buckle loud in the room. He strips his trousers down, and he is heavy, hard, and pulsing with a desperate need. He finds me, and he pushes inside without a prelude.
It’s a blunt, grounding entry. He fills me, thick and hot, and I gasp as he hits deep.
He doesn't grind; he settles, letting his weight pull him into me. Then he begins to move, slow, deliberate strokes. He pulls back until he’s barely there, the air hitting the wetness inside me, and then he drives back in, his eyes locked on mine. He doesn't looklike the Don. He looks like a man who is trying to anchor himself to the only thing that’s real in a room full of lies.
He leans in, his mouth covering mine in a slow, deep kiss. His tongue tangles with mine, the rhythm of his hips matching the slow slide of his mouth. The weight of the dresser digs into my thighs, but I don't care. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase every inch of space between us.
"Atara," he growls against my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips until I know the bruises will bloom by morning.
I don't hold back. I let my eyes flutter shut, and I surrender to the rhythm of his body, the friction of his skin against mine, the heat that’s rising up to consume us both. I pull him in, my nails digging into his shoulders, forcing him to match my desperation.
He breaks. His rhythm shifts from slow and conversational to something frantic, something raw. He drives into me, his thrusts accelerating until I’m sobbing, my head tossing from side to side. He hits that perfect, agonizing spot inside me again and again, and my walls clamp down, milking him, trapping him.
I cry out, my body shattering into a hot, blinding light. His name is the only thing I can say, the only thing that makes sense. He spills himself into me, a searing, heavy heat that makes me feel hollowed out and completely full at the same time.
We stay like that for a long moment, locked together, our breaths matching, the silence of the room returning.
He eventually pulls back, adjusting his clothes, his movements quiet. He kisses my forehead—a soft, lingering touch that feels more intimate than anything that came before it.
I look at him. I see the man beneath the Don. I see the grief, the duty, and the desperate, stubborn man who is fighting for a life he never thought he could have.
I make a silent promise.History doesn’t repeat itself.
Not with Maeve. Not with the Gala. Not with him.
I fix my hair, smooth the red silk of my dress, and look at my reflection. I don't look like a victim. I don't look like a girl who cries over breakups.
I look like a woman who is ready to win.
I catch Lorcan’s eye in the mirror. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
I’m ready.
26
Lorcan
The ride to the gala is a chore. The car is silent, save for the hum of the road and the occasional static of the comms, but my focus isn't on the port logistics anymore.
It’s on the leg pressed against mine.Fuck.
Atara is wearing a dress that’s basically a suggestion of silk, a deep, blood-red thing that leaves nothing to the imagination.
My hand is on her thigh, my thumb tracing the line where the fabric ends. I can’t stop touching her. I keep needing to check she’s there, solid and real, and every time my skin brushes hers, the car feels like it’s shrinking. If this weren't a public event, if I didn't have a trap to spring, I’d turn the car around and keep herin that bedroom for another three days. I’m starting to hate the way the rest of the world demands my time.
"Stop that," she murmurs, though she doesn't pull her leg away. She’s looking out the window, her jaw set, but her hand has drifted toward mine, her fingers twitching near my wrist.
"Stop what?" I ask. My voice is lower than I intended. I slide my hand a little higher, feeling the soft, warm curve of her skin.
"You’re being… clingy. It’s unprofessional."
"I’m not being clingy," I say, and I let my hand rest heavily on her thigh. "I’m being possessive. There's a difference."
