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“And that’s—you.” My words catch, run together, and I can see her mouth twitching as she takes in how drunk I am.
“Yes,” she says finally. “Me, and your seat at the head of that damned table. But I don’t want bloodshed any more than you do. And I’ll remind you of what I said before, that I have other reasons for wanting the money that comes with marrying you.”
“Oh, yes.” I laugh, a heavy sound. “Yourcharity. What every wife says when she just wants to spend her husband’s money on overpriced martinis for lunch while she gossips and pretends to be doinggood.”
Saoirse’s face tightens. “I’m not sure why you’re being so cruel to me,” she says coolly. “Or why you’re acting lately as if you hate me now, but surely there’s a middle ground between the way we were in Dublin and London, and being outright enemies.”
She turns as if to go, her entire body tense, but I’m not about to let her walk away. “You don’t—walk away—from me—” I manage, reaching out to grab her at the same time that she pulls away, both of us off balance. We stumble, grabbing at one another as we fall onto the couch, Saoirse beneath me as I land half atop her, breathing hard as I look down at her beautiful, flushed face.
Something about the pained look in her eyes opens up a hole in my chest, an ache like the one I felt earlier. Her lips part, and I can feel her shudder even as she tries to wriggle away, but I don’t want to let her go.
I don’t want to lose her, and that’s the crux of it, I realize.
I don’t ever want to have something that hurts to lose again.
Her hazy face blurs and comes back into focus, my body thrumming with alcohol and emotion and desire, and I reach up to run the back of my knuckles down her cheek.
“Do you remember?” I murmur, looking down into her wide green eyes. “Do you remember the first night we met?”
18
SAOIRSE
Idon’t want to feel this anymore.
Connor is on top of me, making my heart race in my chest, all thoughts of my earlier meeting with Niall gone at the hot weight of him, the smoky smell of him, the feeling of his rough hands and the sight of his auburn hair falling into his face, his eyes glazed with alcohol and lust.
I want him. I want him so fucking badly, even as he infuriates me to the point of wanting to scream. He’s mercurial and frustrating—but he’s also strong, and good, and intelligent. He’s a good leader, a good man, someone that others choose to follow, and when he’s not being a combative asshole, I can see why.
“That wasn’t the first night we met,” I murmur, feeling slightly breathless at his weight on top of me. “Connor—you’re crushing me—”
“Is this better?” He rolls off of the couch to the floor, thudding on the rug, but I doubt he feels it, as drunk as he is. He brings me with him, pulling me atop him as he looks up at me hazily.
“I—Connor, we should go to bed.Youshould go to bed.”
“That was the first night you met the man I am now,” he breathes, and I let out a sigh, because I’m so tired.
Tired of wanting, tired of being played with, tired of Connor giving me a glimpse of what we could be and then turning cruel and angry because he blames me for the loss of a life he sacrificed not for me, but for his brother. All of this comes back to Liam and that goddamned ballerina, but instead I’ve suffered for it, and I’m continuing to suffer.
And I’m fucking sick of it.
“Who?” I ask mockingly. “William Davies? Is that who I met? Your fuckingalias?”
“Yes,” Connor murmurs drunkenly, and then before I can try to wriggle off of him, he reaches up to grab a fistful of my hair and drags my lips down to his for a kiss.
It’s different from the way he usually kisses me. It’s not a battle, a fight for dominance, trying to master me. He kisses me as if he simplywantsto, his lips searching out mine hungrily, tasting, exploring. His fingers stroke the back of my head, pulling me closer, as if he can’t get enough. My thighs are splayed on either side of him as I try to get my balance atop his broad body, and I feel him harden between them, his cock thick and stiff against my pussy despite his inebriated state.
“That’s the man I wanted to be,” Connor says, his voice rough and thick, his other hand sliding under my dress to grip a handful of my ass. “The man I always wished I could be before, when I was under my father’s thumb.” His hand slides around from my hair to cup my face, his fingers stroking my jaw, my cheekbone. “Brave,” he whispers. “Passionate, reckless.” He punctuates each word with a kiss, trailing the words over my lips, and I can feel myself aching for him, softening, melting into him at this sudden drunken vulnerability.
“William Davies, if he were married to a woman like you, would never let another man fuck her.” His thumb presses into my lower lip, and I stiffen, shocked. It’s almost as if Iamhearing another man, another side to him, another personality. He doesn’t sound like Connor—angry, stiff, condescending. He sounds like the Connor who brought out things in me I never knew I wanted back in London, the man who aroused me and teased me and drove me mad.
He sounds like someone I could love.
“He wouldn’t?” I whisper tremulously against his fingers on my mouth, and Connor shakes his head vehemently, his words slurring thickly as he speaks.
“No. He’d fuck her so well she’d never want another.” His hand fists in my skirt as he speaks, dragging my dress up, and when he encounters resistance he grabs it in both hands, yanking it up and over my head so that I’m left in only my bra and panties. His fingers go instantly, clumsily to the hooks of my bra, yanking it free.
“I want to see you,” he groans. “I want to see my beautiful wife.”
