by Jane Henry
He tips a bit of the whiskey onto my naval. I shiver and tense, but I don’t protest, because I know how quickly that will land me straight over his knees. He expects nothing but full obedience. So I bite my lip and watch him, my body quaking beneath the intensity of his gaze. He braces himself above me, his hands on either side of my legs, then lowers his mouth and suckles the drink he’s poured on me. At the feel of his tongue on my belly, I squirm.
When I first met him, I would literally die if I knew I’d be here right now, on full display with the lights on, the belly I used to hate being used as a fucking shot glass, and he knows it.
“I love your body,” he says, his words like the low purr of an engine. “Every fucking inch of you.”
He lowers his mouth to the vee between my thighs, and with his eyes on mine, drags his tongue lazily along my slit, as if licking the very top of an ice cream cone.
“You like that?” he whispers.
I whimper with need and lift my hips for more. “Love it. Do you like that?”
He grins. “I fucking love it.”
He returns to my folds and licks me again, slow and sultry and hot, the smell of whiskey in the air sweet and pungent. My head falls back and my eyes close as I lose myself to the seductive feel of his tongue. My need to come ratchets higher and higher until I’m barely able to control it when I whisper a hoarse, strangled, “Sir.”
“Good girl,” he says, kissing my thigh. “I want to be in you when you come tonight.”
“Let’s go, then,” I say with a teasing grin. He playfully slaps my thigh, positioning himself above me as he unzips his trousers and removes his swollen cock.
“Spread your legs,” he says. My wrists are still trapped and soon, my body’s pinned beneath his strong, powerful, muscled one. He lines the head of his cock at my entrance and teases my clit. My hips convulse, I’m so close to climax. Grinning, he gently pushes himself in, teasing, before he pulls out again, and with his eyes on mine, he pushes into me again, fully this time, with one firm thrust. And it’s utterly fucking perfect.
“I love you,” I tell him, when he rocks his hips and I clench around him, my heart beating a staccato beat against my ribs. I’m panting and already prepared to climax with every move he makes within me.
“I love you, Megan,” he says, his breathing ragged and his voice hoarse.
“I love your voice,” I tell him. “I love the way my name sounds on your lips. I love the way you look at me, like you adore every single bit of me.”
“I do,” he whispers. “I love everything about you.”
Our bodies move in rhythm together, as if we were meant for this moment, and hell, maybe we were. Just two souls that somehow, some way, are more whole together.
My pants and low moans mingle with his as ecstasy explodes between us. His grip on me tightens and he breathes heavily in my ear, consumed in bringing me to bliss along with him. I’m swallowed whole by pleasure and the nearness of Carson, his forehead on mine, his strong fingers shackling my wrists, our breath and heartbeats mingling.
Gently, he unfastens my wrists and rolls over, bringing me to his side. We’re still panting, the blankets strewn about us like billows of white sand on a shore.
Tears fill my eyes and I hold onto him tighter, knowing this man is going to be my husband, that I’ll wear his ring and raise children with him, that I’ll wake every day and go to sleep every night by his side.
Epilogue
Carson
A cool wind rustles leaves on the lawn of the McCarthy family mansion when I step outside on our wedding day.
“My God, look at you,” Maeve says, holding her hand to her mouth. I frown at my shiny black shoes, the pressed tux, and crisp white shirt. I’m not much for fancy clothing, but I let them fuss all about me for this one day. I mean, it’s not every day a bloke gets married.
“Thank you,” I say to her with a smile. She looks over my shoulder and waves her hand.
“Oh, Carson, look,” she says. I turn to see my Breena, dressed in a wee pink dress. She wears pretty little white shoes that match the white flowers in her hair. She runs to me, but trips on the hem of her little gown. Maeve gasps and Breena goes sprawling, but I quickly bend and catch her just in time. She falls heavily into my arms with a little gasp.
“Saved!” she breathes. She gives me a ferocious hug. “You saved!”
I smile to myself and hug her closely. “Aye,” I say, though I wonder sometimes if she’s the one who saved me.
“Don’t you look a picture,” Maeve says, reaching for Breena, but she won’t let go.
“See the ring, daddy?” Breena asks. “Where is it?”
“Uncle Nolan’s got it,” I tell her. “You’ll see it at the church.”
Megan’s decided to go the traditional route and get married at Holy Family. Some of the other girls have chosen the garden with the trellis, but Megan says she wants “the bells, the incense, my heels to click on that ancient wooden floor, my man standing in front of that marble altar, and the ghosts of our ancestors floating about.”
I’m not so sure about the ghosts of our ancestors, but I know my own mum would’ve been pleased we got married in the church. There’s nothing Maeve or I can say to detach Breena from my neck. For some reason, she’s a bit clingy today. Maybe she knows that today’s the day things change for us.
When we get to the church, Fiona and Sheena are standing outside, dressed in the lovely olive green dresses Megan picked for the wedding. Sheena’s holding her baby to her chest, and I think she might even be nursing the babe on the steps of the church, but I’m focused on Fiona.
“Little bit of help?” I ask her with a grimace.
“What, detaching the little barnacle from your neck?” Fiona asks, tickling Breena. “Come with Auntie Fiona and we’ll get you a front row seat,” she says. “But you have to hurry before the big boys come and take them all. And if you’re extra special good, I’ll let you carry my flowers.”
And just like that, Breena lets go, takes Fiona’s hand, and toddles off, waving over her shoulder. “Bye, daddy!” I almost wish she hadn’t let go.
“Bye, Breena,” I say. Keenan, Cormac, and Nolan arrive all at once, and my heart swells. I was loyal to these men as brothers before I knew we shared a father. But now…
“There he is,” Nolan says with a grin. Instead of the usual chin lift or fist bump, he gives me a big bear hug. “Congrats, brother. It’s something else, the two of you getting married, isn’t it, though?”
“Aye,” I say, my eyes growing misty when Cormac slaps me on the back and Keenan embraces me as well.
“Proud to see you two take this step,” Keenan says. “Hell, brother, I’m proud of you,” Keenan says. “Takes a real man to do all that you’ve done. Seamus McCarthy’s proud of you as well.”
I go into the church surrounded by family, ready to welcome my bride. I feel as if I might be walking on clouds. The girls assemble, all here before my bride, our guests and relatives filing in and taking their seats in the old church. It smells of polished wood and wax candles, incense, and the flowers brought in from Maeve’s garden.
When the organ changes pitch, I know it’s time. I draw in breath and face the entrance.
When she walks in the door, I can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Her hair’s on top of her head in loops and swirls, with delicate swaths of white ribbon. She’s absolutely stunning, bedecked in white satin and lace, buttons and pearls, to the tops of her toes.
“She’s a princess!” Breena shouts, and everyone laughs. Megan smiles at me, grinning, holding a bouquet of roses in her hands.
Ah, but no. She isn’t a princess.
I know this now, as I watch her walk toward me to take our vows.
Megan’s my queen.
From the author: I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Carson: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance. Next in this series is Lachlan, due August of 2020.
I am so grateful for your support! Please read on for previews of my
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Keenan
I watch from where I sit on the craggy cliffs of Ballyhock to the waves crashing on the beach. Strong. Powerful. Deadly. A combination so familiar to me it brings me comfort. It’s two hours before my alarm goes off, but when Seamus McCarthy calls a meeting, it doesn’t matter where you are or what you’re doing, the men of The Clan answer.
I suspect I know why he’s calling a meeting today, but I also know my father well enough not to presume. One of our largest shipments of illegal arms will arrive in our secured port next week, and over the next month, we’ll oversee distribution from the home that sits on the cliff behind me. Last week, we also sealed a multi-million-dollar deal that will put us in good stead until my father retires, when I assume the throne. But something isn’t right with our upcoming transactions. Then again, when dealing with the illicit trade we orchestrate, it rarely is. As a high-ranking man of The Clan, I’ve learned to pivot and react. My instincts are primed.
The sun rises in early May at precisely 5:52 a.m., and it’s rare I get to watch it. So this morning, in the small quiet interim before daybreak and our meeting, I came to the cliff’s edge. I’ve traveled the world for my family’s business, from the highest ranges of the Alps to the depths of the shores of the Dead Sea, the vast expanse of the Serengeti, and the top of the Eiffel Tower. But here, right here atop the cliffs of Ballyhock, paces from the door to my childhood home, overlooking the Irish Sea, is where I like to be. They say the souls of our ancestors pace these shores, and sometimes, early in the morning, I almost imagine I can see them, the beautiful, brutal Celts and Vikings, fearless and brave.
A brisk wind picks up, and I wrap my jacket closer to my body. I’ve put on my gym clothes to hit the workout room after our meeting if time permits. We’ll see. My father may have other ideas.
I hear footsteps approach before I see the owner.
“What’s the story, Keenan?”
Boner sits on the flat rock beside me, rests his arms on his bent knees, and takes a swig from a flask. Tall and lanky, his lean body never stills, even in sleep. Always tapping, rocking, moving from side to side, Boner has the energy of an eight-week-old golden retriever. My younger cousin, we’ve known each other since birth, both raised in The Clan. He’s like a brother to me.
“Eh, nothing,” I tell him, waving off an offer from the flask. “You out of your mind? He’ll knock you upside the head, and you know it.”
If my father catches him drinking this early in the day, when he’s got a full day of work ahead of him, heads will roll.
“Ah, that’s right,” he says, grinning at me and flashing perfect white teeth, his words exaggerated and barely intelligible. “You drink that energy shite before you go work on yer manly physique. And anyway, get off your high horse. Nolan’s more banjaxed than I am.”
I clench my jaw and grunt to myself. Fuck. Nolan, the youngest in The Clan and my baby brother, bewitched my mother with his blond hair and green eyes straight outta the womb. Shielded by my mother’s protective arms, the boy’s never felt my father’s belt nor mine, and it shows. I regret not making him toe the line more when he was younger.
“Course he is,” I mutter. “Both of you ought to know better.”
“Ah, come off it, Keenan,” Boner says good-naturedly. “You know better than I the Irish do best with a bit of drink no matter the time of day.”
I can toss them back with the best of them, but there’s a time and place to get plastered, and minutes before we find out the latest update of the status of our very livelihood, isn’t it. I get to my feet, scowling. “Let’s go.”
Though he’s my cousin, and I’m only a little older than I am, Boner nods and gets to his feet. As heir to the throne and Clan Captain, I’m above him in rank. He and the others defer to me.
He mutters something that sounds a lot like “needs to get laid” under his breath as we walk up the stone pathway to the house.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Eh, nothing,” he says, grinning at me.
“Wasn’t nothing.”
“You heard me.”
“Say it to my face, motherfucker,” I suggest good-naturedly. He’s a pain in the arse, but I love the son of a bitch.
“I said,” he says loudly. “You need to get fuckin’ laid. How long’s it been since the bitch left you?”
I feel my eyes narrow as we continue to walk to the house. “Left me? You know’s well as I do, I broke up with her.” I won’t even say her name. She’s dead to me. I can abide many things, but lying and cheating are two things I won’t.
“How long?” he presses.
It’s been three months, two weeks, and five fucking days.
“Few months,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Christ, Keenan,” he mutters. “Come with me to the club tonight, and we’ll get you right fixed.”
I snort. “All set there.”
I’ve no interest in visiting the seedy club Nolan and Boner frequent. I went once, and it was enough for me.
Boner shakes his head. “You’ve only been to the anteroom, Keenan,” he says with a knowing waggle of his eyebrows. “You’ve never been past there. Not to where the real crowd gathers.”
“All set,” I repeat, though I don’t admit my curiosity’s piqued.
The rocky pathway leading to the family estate is paved with large, roughly hewn granite, the steep incline part of our design to keep our home and headquarters private. Thirty-five stones in the pathway, which I count every time I walk to the cliffs that overlook the bay, lead to a thick, wrought-iron gate, the entrance to our house. With twelve bedrooms, five reception rooms, one massive kitchen, a finished basement with our workout rooms, library, and private interrogation rooms, the estate my father inherited from his father is worth an estimated eleven million euros. The men in The Clan outside our family tree live within a mile of our estate, all property owned by the brotherhood, but my brothers and I reside here.
When I marry—a requirement before I assume the throne as Clan Chief—I’ll inherit the entire third floor, and my mother and father will retire to the east wing, as my father’s parents did before them.
When I marry. For fuck’s sake. The requirement hangs over my head like the sharpened edge of an executioner’s blade. No wedding, no rightful inheritance. And I can’t even think of such a thing, not when my ex-girlfriend’s betrayal’s still fresh on my mind.
I wave my I.D. at the large, heavy black gate that borders our house, and with a click and whirr, the gates open. When my great grandfather bought this house, he kept the original Tuscan structure in place. The millionaire who had it built hailed from Tuscany, Italy, and to this day, the original Tuscan-inspired garden is kept in perfect shape. Lined with willow trees and bordered with well-trimmed hedges, benches and archways made from stone lend a majestic, age-old air. In May, the flowers are in full bloom, lilacs, irises, and the exotic violet hawthorn, the combined fragrances enchanting. The low murmur of the fountain my mother had built soothes me when I’m riled up or troubled. I’ve washed blood-soaked hands in that fountain, and I laid my head on the cold stones that surround it when Riley, my father’s youngest brother and my favorite uncle, was buried.
We walk past the garden, and I listen to Boner yammer on about the club and the pretty little Welsh blonde he spanked, tied up, and banged last night, but when he reaches for his flask again, I yank it out of his hand and decidedly shove it in my pocket.
“Keenan, for fuck’s—”
“You can have it after the meeting,” I tell him. “No more fucking around, Boner. This is serious business, and you aren’t going into this half-arsed, you hear?”
Though he clenches his jaw, he doesn’t respond, and finally reluctantly nods. I’m saving him from punishment ordered by my father and saving myself from having to administer it. We trot up the large stairs to the front door, but before we can open it, the massive entryway door swings open, and Nola
n stands in the doorway, grinning.
“Fancy meetin’ you two here,” he says in a high-pitched falsetto. “We won’t be needin’ any of yer wares today.”
He pretends to shut the door, but I shove past him and enter the house. He says something under his breath to Boner, and I swear Boner says something about me getting laid again. For once in my life, I fucking hope my father assigns me to issue a beating after this meeting. I’m so wound up. I could use a good fucking fight.
“Keenan.” I’m so in my head, I don’t notice Father Finn standing in the darkened doorway to our meeting room. He’s wearing his collar, and his black priest’s clothes are neatly pressed, the overhead light gleaming on his shiny black shoes. Though he’s dressed for the day, his eyes are tired. It seems Boner isn’t the only one who’s pulled an all-nighter.
“Father.”
Though Father Finn’s my father’s younger brother, I’ve never called him uncle. My mother taught me at a young age that a man of the cloth, even kin, is to be addressed as Father. It doesn’t surprise me to see him here. He’s as much a part of the McCarthy family as my father is, and he’s privy to much, though not all, of what we do. It troubles him, though, as he’s never reconciled his loyalty to the church and to our family.
Shorter than I am, he’s balding, with curls of gray at his temples and in his beard. The only resemblance between the two of us are the McCarthy family green eyes.
Vicar of Holy Family, the church that stands behind my family’s estate, Father Finn’s association with the McCarthy Clan is only referenced by the locals in hushed conversation. Officially, he’s only my uncle. Privately, he’s our most trusted advisor. If Father Finn’s come to this meeting, he’s got news for us.
He holds the door open to my father’s office, and when I enter I see my father’s already sitting at the table. He’s only called the inner circle this morning, those related by blood: Nolan and Cormac, my brothers, Boner, Father Finn, and me. If necessary, we’ll call the rest of The Clan to council after our first meeting.
