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Chapter Two
Finn
God,she was perfect.
And when I said perfect, I meant it.
I’d fucked a lot of women. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, even the rare thing that is a natural head of black hair. None of them, not a single one, lit up like Aoife Keegan.
Her cheeks were cherry red and in the light camisole she wore, a cheerful yellow, I could see how the blush went all the way down to the upper curve of her breasts.
She’d go that color, I knew, when she came.
And fuck, I wanted to see that.
I wanted to see that perfectly pale flesh turn bright pink under my ministrations.
Even as I looked at her, all shy and flustered, I wondered if she was a screamer in bed.
Some of the shyest often were.
Maybe not at first, but after a handful of orgasms, it was a wonder what that could do to a woman’s self-confidence, and Jesus, I wanted toseethat, too. I wanted a seat at center stage.
My suit jacket was open, and I regretted it. Immensely. My cock was hard, had been since we’d shaken hands, and her fingers had clung to mine like a daughter would to her daddy’s at her first visit to the county fair.
Fuck.
Squeezing her fingers wasn’t intentional. If anything, I’d just liked the feel of her palm against mine, but when I put faint pressure on her, she jerked back like she’d been scalded.
Her cheeks bloomed with heat again, and she whispered, “Mr. O’Grady, what can I do for you?”
You can get on your fucking knees and sort out the hard-on you just caused.
That’s what she could fucking do.
I almost growled at the thought because the image of her on her knees, my cock in her small fist, her dainty mouth opening to take the tip. . . .
Shit.
That had to happen.
Here, too.
In this fancy, frilly, feminine place, I wanted to defile her.
Fuck, I wanted that so goddamn much, it was enough to make me reconsider my demolition plans.
I wanted to screw her against all this goddamn lace, which suited her perfectly. She was made for lace. And silk. Hell, silk would look like heaven against her skin. I wouldn’t know where she ended and it began.
When her brow puckered, she dipped her chin, and that gorgeous wave of auburn hair slipped over her shoulder.
If we’d been alone, if that brassy bitch—who was staring at me like I could fuck her over the counter with her friend watching if I was game—wasn’t here, I’d have grabbed that rope of hair, twisted it around my fingers, and forced her gaze up.
Some guys liked their women demure. And I was one of them. I wasn’t about to lie. I liked that in her, but I wanted her eyes on me. Always.
It was enough to prompt me to bite out, “Can we speak privately?”
She jerked at my words, then as she licked her bottom lip, turned to look at the waitress. “Jenny, it’s okay. I can handle the rest by myself. You get home.”
