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Donnacha
It’s been a long day sitting in various glass-clad offices in New York City, burying sinister threats under small talk and accidentally flashing the Glock tucked under my jacket every time I crossed my legs. Psychological warfare was enough, and I only had to snap three fingers to secure the word of every CEO on my list that they’d retract their support for Belsky’s manifesto. Those three fingers belonged to the same egotistical cunt—James Broad, the director of a boutique investment bank down on Wall Street. New to the city and new to how things work around here.
It’s been a long day but a good one. Less blood, more quivering lips.
Refreshing.
As I ride the elevator up to the penthouse, my heartbeat quickens with every floor I pass. I haven’t seen Romy since our delightful dinner date last night. When she tried to stab me with my own bathroom mirror, and I had no choice but to teach her a lesson.
I’m not a man who gets flustered. Hell, I don’t think I have it in my DNA to blush. But I can feel the heat creeping up my shirt collar the closer I get to the apartment.
Professional. Polite. Think of the family.
My cock tingles in my slacks.
At the very least, Don, no more fucking spankings.
The elevator doors ping open.
“Are you seriously going to stand there all day, every day, like a lobotomized oaf?”
Romy’s shrill voice echoes through the apartment, reaching my ears long before I clap eyes on her.
Ah, home.
Rounding the corner, I find her in the kitchen, hands on her hips and rage on her face. In front of her is a row of wire racks and baking trays filled with sweet treats. Behind her, thick black soot coats the backsplash above the oven. To her right, there’s Paddy. Indeed, standing there like a lobotomized oaf.
I chuckle to myself. Romy’s eyes slash to me. “What’s funny?”
What’s funny, is that Ronan truly sent one of our men who can handle her. Paddy is one of my oldest, most loyal men. We call him The Shield, not just because he’s six-foot-ten and just as wide, but because you can throw anything at him, and he’ll take it without flexing a muscle.
I don’t say that to Romy, though. Instead, I stroll over and place my palms on the island, extinguishing her angry gaze with my ice-cold one.
“Is it really necessary?” she mutters. “He just appeared out of nowhere around three hours ago and hasn’t fucked off since. He even follows me to the bathroom when I go for a piss.”
Up close, I notice the flour dusting the bridge of her nose, like edible freckles. I push my tongue behind my teeth to stop myself from licking them off.
“Did you learn your lesson yesterday, Romy?”
My wife falters. She must have thought we’d sweep the memory under the rug and move on. She shifts, glances at the lobotomized oaf, then back to me. My glare is unwavering. Challenging.
She nods.
A hiss escapes between the gaps in my teeth, her small act of obedience stirring up a storm in my stomach. But I clench my jaw, keep my features neutral, and nod.
“Paddy, you can leave for the evening.”
He grunts something along the lines of “yes, boss,” and a few heated moments later, the elevator whirs down the shaft, taking my man with it.
The loudest silence swirls around us, packed full with all of the questions I want to ask but won’t.
Is my mark still decorating your tight ass?
Do you think of me every time it stings?
Can you defy me, just one more time, so I can convince myself I have to do it again?
Instead, I look at the muffins. “These any good?”
