We ascended the stairs to the second floor. My house was terrible. Soulless and glitzy, like an endless hotel lobby. Limestone and gold accents winked from every direction; dramatic curtains and fountains attacked your eyeballs no matter where you looked. If nouveau riche had a face, it would be Avebury Court Manor.
Cillian showed the Brennans the left wing, also known as the family hall, filing through our rooms as he recited our family’s history like we were the Kennedys.
Sam slowed his stride gradually. At first, I didn’t think it was intentional, but soon, we were walking at the same pace, eight feet away from the rest.
He was the first to speak.
“Suffering from a jock itch?”
I gave an unwavering smile that did nothing to calm my nerves but didn’t answer. His presence alone had me feeling disoriented, excited, and manic.
“You’re awfully slow,” he continued. His husky voice trickled into my system, like sweet venom.
“You’re awfully rude.”
I stared ahead at our families’ backs. Cillian was standing in front of a portrait of Cormac Fitzpatrick, the first-generation Fitzpatrick who arrived in Boston after the Great Famine. Troy and Sparrow looked about ready to fling themselves out the French windows.
“Found yourself yet?” he inquired.
Not even close.
I felt my cheeks reddening under my makeup. “I had a bad night that night.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” He chuckled.
Cillian shot us a frown. “Hurry up. And remember, Brennan, I’m watching you.”
Sam smiled at my brother, who was only a few years older than him. “Like what you see, Fitzpatrick?”
“Not even remotely.” Cillian narrowed his eyes.
“A word to the wise: I don’t like being told what to do, but for the right price, I can be motivated into doing just about anything.”
“And you’re proud of that?” Cillian drawled.
“Immensely. You’ll be lining up for my services the minute Daddy isn’t able to pull you out of whatever bullshit you get yourself into.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Cillian muttered.
Sam slowed his pace. It didn’t surprise me Sam didn’t care about Cillian’s warnings.
“My brother is a character,” I said defensively.
“That’s just a nice way of calling someone an asshole. Sailor tells me you’re going to med school.”
I nodded curtly.
“Why?”
“I want to help people.”
“No, you don’t.”
We officially lost our families. Cillian was too busy showing Sparrow and Troy the library, our family’s pride and joy. Sam stepped under a little alcove with a window overlooking our vineyard, snatching my wrist and tugging me with him out of sight.
I gasped, digging my nails into my palms, half-crescents of anxiety and anticipation denting my skin.
“You kept your mouth shut.” He looked at me like he wanted to touch me.
I knew what he meant. I never went to the police. Never said anything about the man he killed.
“I’m trustworthy.”
“Most people aren’t,” he said.
“I’m not most people.”
“I’m starting to see that. Listen carefully now. Your daddy is a very rich and important man, and I’m a very ambitious and a very bad man. I want his business, and nothing is going to stand in my way, least of all you. So stay the fuck away from me and don’t give me those puppy eyes, begging to be fucked right there in front of your entire immediate family, like you are doing right now. You have no idea what you’re asking for. Men like me eat girls like you for breakfast. And not in a pleasurable way. You got that?”
I did. The game was over before it had even started. Sam was a monster, and I was a princess stuck in an ivory tower, bound to be saved by someone else. His adversary, probably.
I nodded, even though my head hurt and the back of my nose and eyes pinched with tears.
“Yes. But …”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more. I didn’t know what to say.
“Yes?” he hissed, finally.
“One last kiss,” I murmured. “I won’t tell. You know I’d never tell.”
He seemed to consider this, before tilting his head down toward mine.
“One kiss,” he whispered, his body brushing mine. “One last measly, stupid kiss. And don’t you dare come back for more again.”
My lips fell open.
He gave me a lustful, devastating kiss. It was bold and demanding and sexy, and it created a damp, cold spot in my panties. He sucked my lower lip into his mouth, and I whimpered, biting him desperately in response, not sure what I was doing but doing it anyway. My hands found his hair, tousling it. His tongue stroked mine. I wanted to feel it between my legs, and brushed my breasts against his chest, chasing the friction.
He laughed into my mouth.
“You’re feral.”
“I know,” I grumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I fucking love it.”
Love. The way he said that word made my toes curl inside my pumps.
He grabbed me by my butt cheeks and hoisted me so that my thighs encircled his leg. His fingers dug into my flesh as he ground me up and down his muscular thigh, giving me much more than the friction I was after. Each movement made my clit scrape against the fabric of my panties. It was like he was rubbing two twigs together to create fire, and the fire was a climax, climbing up my spine from my toes.
“I feel like I’m … I’m …” I tried to articulate what it was, but I couldn’t. It felt like floating and crashing at the same time. I was quivering. I wanted him to do more of the things he knew how to do that would make me feel this way.
“Empty?” he hissed into my mouth, his tongue wrestling mine.
“Yes. That’s it. I feel so empty.”
“I wish I could fill you with my fat cock.”
“Oh,” I cried as he rubbed me against him faster and harder, and everything inside me clenched, my muscles bunching.
“God … I’m … I mean, am I …?”
There was nothing I hated more than not knowing. I knew everything there was to learn from textbooks and webminers. But I didn’t know this. It made me feel like a kid. Like a cliché.
He laughed when it happened. When a wave of warm pleasure descended on my body, little earthquakes everywhere.
“I think you did.” He kissed me deeper, his hands everywhere on me, his thumb sliding up my torso, rubbing at my nipple under the fabric of my dress.
“Huh,” I sighed into his mouth, “La petite mort.”
He tore his lips from mine, frowning at me.
“Say what, now?”
“La petite mort,” I repeated. “A brief unconsciousness. A little death, in French. That’s what they call that beat after an orgasm, sometimes.”
My French governess had told me that. Sam’s eyes twinkled with so much delight, my chest flared with pride. His smiles were like human handprints. Each one was just different enough to be completely unique.
“You, Aisling Fitzpatrick, are a lovely torture.”
He broke our kiss. Everything was blurry, and my panties were really, really wet.