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Thankfully I manage to join the right lane and then it’s a straight shot to the upscale neighborhood where the Moran Enterprises offices are located.
“How is your father, Molly?” Murphy asks after a few long moments of silence.
I warn myself to calm down when my insides do a little flip of excitement. Hearing him say my name in his husky growling tone sends shivers of need all through me, working their way deep into my body and touching sizzling parts of me, deep-buried parts that beg to be touched again and again.
I find myself imagining silly impossible things, like Murphy ordering Cillian to leave the car so we can have some alone time, dragging me into the backseat where he presses firmly down on my legs, sliding closer to my sex, making my lips hot and hotter the closer he gets…
I push those thoughts away and focus on his question.
“Better, thank you,” I murmur. “I just hope…”
I trail off. I don’t want to voice my anxiety about Dad’s gambling problem, not to his best friend and the man who has done so much to try and help us.
I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining.
“I hope so too,” he says, seemingly reading my thoughts.
I nod, gripping the steering wheel harder so I don’t reach up and brush at my hair. Being so close to Murphy has got me wanting to do it more than ever, to pull strands of my hair loose from the tight bun and smooth them so I don’t have to face him, don’t have to feel like I’m on display.
But at least he asked about Dad, and he said my name.
As silly as it seems, I want to cheer and punch the air at this new development. Maybe he’s not that angry with me after all.
“We’ll need to make arrangements when we get to the offices,” Murphy says quietly, addressing Cillian now instead of me.
I do my best not-listening face, even as my interest is piqued.
Arrangements for what?
“We will.” Cillian nods, his eyes flitting to the rearview to make sure I’m not looking… which I am. I quickly look away. “We won’t let this happen, boss.”
“I know.”
Murphy sighs darkly, making a rumbling sound that moves deep inside of me, burrowing into my belly and making me think of all the other rumbling noises he could make, grunting as he paints my body with his lust-filled touch, groaning as he drives up between my legs.
Stop it, I scream at the crazy desires flowing endlessly through me. He’d never want you like that. He’d die before he even looked at you like that. So stop torturing yourself.
But even as I try to get my desires under control, they multiply and flow through me, stampeding over my resolve and making it so I can’t look at this moment with anything approaching reason, with anything approaching clarity.
I know he’d never look at me like that, and yet it’s impossible to convince my tingling body, my rioting nerves of this fact.
The men are quiet for the rest of the journey.
Murphy stares out of the window, his hand a tight fist on his leg, his jaw tight as he watches the city roll by. Cillian is on his phone, typing furiously with two thumbs, presumably making whatever arrangements they need to sort.
I try my best not to study Murphy as we stop at a red light, but it’s difficult when I’ve waited for what feels like centuries to see him again.
Fine, it’s only been three years, but it feels like much longer. Even as I warn myself to keep my gaze pinned on the road, whenever I get the chance I glance in the rearview to steal a steamy glimpse of him, his blue eyes brooding, his jaw tight, tension moving through his giant body like he’s going to tear off his shirt to show me his throbbing muscles underneath.
Finally, we reach the offices and I drive into the underground garage, looking around for a parking space.
Murphy coughs out a deep laugh. “I have my own spot, Molly.”
Of course, he does. My cheeks flame red and I fight down a snappy response.
You don’t have to talk to me like I’m an idiot, I want to scream. It’s my first day. Give me a break.
“Sorry, Mr. Moran,” I say instead, hating that I apologized.
But it’s not like I can take it back now.
“It’s at the end, on the left. There’s a sign with my name on it.”
“Of course,” I murmur.
I try to shoo away the burning redness in my cheeks, but the harder I try, the more the blush spreads until my cheeks and my neck are burning crimson.
Murphy smirks at me in the rearview. For a second I let myself believe it’s because he finds me attractive, cute, alluring in some way.
But of course, it’s not that.
