Scorched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (Byrne Brothers Book 3)

by Holly Hart

  “I don’t get mad,” Kieran says with a light voice. “I get even.”

  “Wha’s tha’ suppos’ta mean?” I ask, screwing up my face. I copy Kieran’s accent, mocking him even further. I barely notice as he takes a step towards me. “Read tha’ on t’ back o’ a box of Lucky charms, did ye?”

  Kieran takes another step forward. He’s so close that I can feel the heat crackling from his skin.

  “Say that again, will ye?” He asks. Kieran sounds reasonable, but his eyes give his true feelings away. They narrow, and burn into me. I should take the warning. Of course I don’t. I can’t control myself.

  I lift my arm to flick my fingers at Kieran dismissively. “Oh, go on,” I hiss mockingly, “ what are ye goin’ ta –.”

  My famous last words.

  Kieran’s hand jumps out at what seems like the speed of light. He’s too quick – by the time I realize what he’s doing, his fingers are locked around my right wrist.

  “I think,” Kieran smiles, looking satisfied, “that someone needs a lesson in manners.”

  “Get off me,” I growl. But it’s not lost on either of us that I’m sounding a whole lot less self-confident. I bite my lip. Even pissed-off Sofia should have known not to tweak Kieran’s tail. He’s a beast of a man,with a foot and a hundred pounds on me. Just because he’s got the temperament of a saint – patient, calm and relaxed – doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his breaking point.

  Kieran leans forward. His breath tickles my cheeks. “Or what?” He says – growls, really. “Big, brave girl like you must have a plan? No?”

  “Get off!”

  Kieran shakes his head. His fingers travel up my arm, abandoning my wrist, but never relinquishing his grip. I glance down, and notice that he’s left a white ring around my wrist, where the blood couldn’t get in.

  “Hey!” I yelp. While I was distracted, Kieran played me like a Times Square hustler. His other hand leaps out like a king cobra and grabs my other arm. He’s got me locked in, and I don’t think he’s going to let go.

  A satisfied, victorious smile dances across Kieran’s face. He looks goddamn handsome like this – not that I’d ever admit it to him. He’s smug enough as it is.

  “Let go of me!” I say, meeting Kieran’s stare; his domineering stare. His eyes are burning a path down my face. I didn’t know he could act like this. It’s all kinds of scary – and kind of hot at the same time. Kieran’s revealing a side of him I never knew existed. I like it.

  “I think, Miss Morello,” Kieran says, licking his lips, “it’s about time someone showed ye what happens when ye don’t behave…”

  “What are you –?” I croak. My tongue is dry, my mouth drier. I don’t know if Kieran’s about to fight me or fuck me; and every nerve ending on my body is screaming at me to do different things: run; kiss him; struggle; apologize.

  I’m tongue-tied and held tight. I can’t act on any of my instincts, even if I knew which to follow.

  “I think yer anger is fake, Sofia,” Kieran growls. He pushes me towards the bed. “Not all of it – but some.”

  I shake my head, and my hair flies from side to side. “And what are you going to do about it, Kieran?”

  “Teach ye a lesson.” Kieran says. His eyes are full of desire, his voice breathy and tight. The way Kieran is looking at me, I know that what’s about to happen will be intense, and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

  He pushes me backwards, and, before I know it, my back collides against the firm mattress. Kieran is on top of me before I steal a second to escape. He binds both of my hands with one wrist, and presses them against my stomach.

  “What are you doing?” I ask again. This time my voice lacks conviction. I know exactly what Kieran has planned, and I’m excited, not scared. The desire in Kieran’s eyes provokes a response in mine. My pussy is hot. If it wasn’t for Kieran’s weight pressing me down, I would be bucking my hips against his body.

  I don’t know where this new excitement, this tremendous heat – this overwhelming desire – has come from. It feels like it erupted out of nowhere, hitting me like a steam train.

  Kieran leans down and presses his lips against mine. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. Kieran is taking exactly what he wants, when he wants it. He bites my lip, hard enough that my eyes water. The second he releases my tender flesh, I shake my head to one side. It’s as though I’m telling him that I’m in control, when in reality that is so, so untrue.

  “I wasn’t lying, ye know,” Kieran growls, his voice rumbling through my body, “when I said ye looked good in leather.”

  “I’m glad,” I hiss back, “I get you so excited. Now. Get. Off. Me!”

  “No chance,” Kieran smiles, his eyes twinkling. The truth is, I wouldn’t want him to get up. I struggle underneath Kieran’s weight, but the more I do, the more I sense the desire growing inside me.

  “I’ll make a deal with ye, doll,” he says, his face lighting up. I close my eyes. Whatever comes out of Kieran’s mouth, I know is going to benefit him more than it does me. “Ye do one thing for me, and I’ll get off ye…”

  “What is it?” I pant. I’ve given up struggling. I’m dreaming of Kieran’s lips on my nipples, his tongue between my legs…

  “Ye stop fecking moaning…” Kieran grins.

  A surge of anger rips through me. It’s the kind of anger a person gets when they know they are in the wrong. I struggle underneath Kieran one last time, but it’s all a sham. I’m going to give in, we both know it.

  I bite my lip, grimacing. “I wasn’t –.”

  But Kieran doesn’t even give me a chance. The second he hears the complaint escaping my mouth he drags my bound wrists above my head. I look up at him with impotent fury. He’s in complete control, and he knows it. I shouldn’t have taunted him.

  Except…

  I think I’m going to enjoy what’s about to happen a whole lot.

  “You like it rough, baby?”

  “I’m not your baby,” I growl, but my eyes give Kieran the response he’s looking for: yes.

  Kieran drags one boot, then the other from my legs without unzipping them at the sides. The pain makes me wince, but it’s soon forgotten. Kieran’s rough fingers unzip my trousers and drag them down. He doesn’t even take time to blink before pressing his fingers against my soaking pussy.

  “Let me go,” I whisper, pushing my hips up to meet his touch. I’ve given up any pretense that I’m resisting him.

  Kieran shakes his head.

  “Let my hands go,” I growl, the fire relighting in my eyes, “and you’ll see me naked.”

  Kieran’s head tacks to one side for a fraction of a second, and then he releases me. I drag my jacket and my top off, until I’m left in just a bra, with my panties and leather trousers tangled at my ankles. I kick them off, struggling underneath Kieran’s weight. I realize with a flash of guilt that I’ve given up struggling, but I’m too horny to care. I’m desperate for Kieran’s touch; for the things I know he can do to me.

  “I meant it, ye know,” Kieran grunts, flipping me over. Before I know it, I’m looking face down, and Kieran’s fingers are grazing my bra strap. “Yer cute when yer angry.”

  I can’t speak. I’ve got a face full of bed sheets. My bra comes loose, and falls off my shoulders. I feel the air caressing my burning hot nipples, and then Kieran’s fingers as well. I jerk with pleasured surprise, then back my hips up into him, pressing my ass against his stiffening cock.

  I gasp as Kieran’s fingers leave my pussy; then I feel them against my ass. He fumbles to undo his belt, and my desire builds inside me as I hear his fly buttons popping. And then his cock is out, and it’s pressing against the lips of my pussy.

  Kieran doesn’t wait a second before filling me with his entire length. My eyes water and my fingers clutch tightly within the sheets.

  Kieran starts to fuck me because that’s what this is; it’s not making love. He powers into me with long, fast strokes, his hips barely coming flu
sh with my ass before he’s pulling out again. His cock enters me like a jackhammer; and before long, sparks are exploding behind my eyelids. The room echoes with the sound of Kieran’s palm slapping against my ass. I groan with pleasure, imagining the reddish glow my ass must have right now.

  “Do it again,” I groan, desperate to feel the stab of perfect, delicious pain ripping through my body.

  Kieran obliges. The room echoes with a slap.

  “I need –.” I moan, cut off by an explosion of fire between my legs. I try to make my mouth work again, but barely get any further. “I need to –.”

  I need to see your face.

  Kieran reads my mind. He flips me over mid-stroke, and dips his mouth to mine, but this time it’s me who is biting his lip. I scratch his back and dig my fingernails into his ass, pulling the Irishman ever deeper inside me. I can’t even see him. My head tips back as an explosion of pleasure crackles across my skin, and Kieran’s mouth falls to my breasts like a wild animal.

  I feel a swell of power growing, surrounding me – like a kite carried along by a hurricane. This orgasm is going to hit, and there’s nothing I can do except dive out of its path; or into it…

  My pussy clenches around Kieran’s cock. I’ve got seconds now, before I come. I scratch his back, and Kieran grunts and drives into me harder, faster, again and again.

  Then it hits me. My pussy squeezes Kieran’s cock one last time, and he releases a jet of heat inside me. He collapses on top of me, breathing heavily. My skin is coated in sweat. Kieran’s exhausted, ragged breath tickles my chest.

  Christ that was good.

  I run my fingers through his hair. I can’t talk. Not after that.

  I feel like I should apologize to Kieran. I never should have taunted him like that. I allowed my worst intentions to get the better of me.

  “Kieran,” I whisper when I’m finally able, “I’m sorry.”

  “For wha’?” He asks, looking up at me.

  “For speaking to you the way I did.”

  Kieran grins. I don’t expect that response. “Ye don’ need to apologize, gal. Because this thing between us – it’s nothing, isn’t it? Just a fling…”

  Kieran stares at me when he says those words. They hit me like a punch in the stomach. My breathing quickens, though I try to hide it. Kieran’s right – even though I think he’s trying to make a point when he says it. After all, I was the one who set the ground rules. I was the one who said that Kieran wasn’t allowed to “catch feelings.”

  Except – now I’m the one who’s infected.

  I nod. My voice catches in my throat. “Yeah –,” I whisper. “That’s right.”

  Kieran picks himself off me. My skin cries out for his touch. “So’s,” he says, picking his T-shirt up off the floor, “I guess we better figure out what to do.”

  God, I hate how businesslike his tone is. I know I shouldn’t. I’m getting what I want – what I deserve. But I hate it nevertheless. I let Kieran speak, because I can’t.

  “Fer now, gal, we put on a charade. Act like we’re gonna get happily married. Then we can figure how ta get out of this mess. Does tha’ work fer ye?”

  I nod, dumbfounded. It’s a good plan. But just when I’ve realized I feel something for Kieran, I sense him pulling away.

  It hurts.

  13

  Sofia

  I hand the barista a couple of creased dollar bills, and take my coffee in return. I flash the young girl a smile, but there’s no life in my eyes. I’m acting on autopilot. I have been all day.

  I can’t stop thinking about what happened on Boston Common with Lucio. I made light of it at the time, but what happened scared the heck out of me. I’ve been trying to push the thoughts out of my mind, but it’s getting harder and harder. Young, otherwise healthy women don’t just throw up, except for two reasons: either they aren’t as healthy as they think they are, or…they’re pregnant.

  I’m almost certain I’m as healthy as a horse. So that only leaves one option. But that’s not possible: right?

  Except, maybe it is. Usually, my body is like clockwork. I can track my time of the month to the day. The problem is, that day has come and gone. It passed a week ago, to be precise.

  I turn away from the counter, lifting the plastic lid from the paper cup to check they got my order right. The rich smell of freshly roasted coffee fills my nostrils; and, like everything else this morning, the smell curdles in my stomach. A wave of nausea rises in my throat. I have to resist throwing the coffee straight into the trash; anything to get the gruesome smell away from me. I stop myself, but only just; only because I want to avoid making a scene.

  I know one thing: I need to get outside, into the fresh, inviting chill of a Boston morning. The cold will help.

  I shoulder my way through the Starbuck’s glass “out” door. I brush past a middle-aged woman in a thick, fur coat, barely grazing her arm. Out of the corner of my eye I see the woman’s Waspy features twist. She looks like she’s smelled dog muck on her shoe. I ignore her.

  There’s a homeless man sitting by the side of the road. He’s blowing air into his fingers in a fruitless effort to keep them warm.

  “Are you cold?” I ask, biting back on the rising tide of nausea climbing its way up my throat.

  The man looks at me with bleary eyes. It looks like he’s only just woken up. I can’t blame him. I’d like to go back to bed myself…

  “Here, take this.” I choke, thrusting the hot cup of coffee into his hands. There’s nothing charitable about what I’m doing. If anything, he’s doing me a favor. I walk away to a soundtrack of the man’s muttered, startled thanks.

  I unbutton my coat as I walk, trembling fingers stumbling as they move too fast to be useful. A couple of commuters hit me with a surprised side-eyed stares – probably wondering why there’s a crazy lady undressing herself in the street. I ignore them. The moment the cold air bites against my torso, I finally relax. It takes the edge off the queasiness, for now, at least.

  “Pull it together, Sofia,” I mutter, wiping a droplet of moisture away from the corner of my eye.

  I pull out my phone. Surely it’s not possible to get morning sickness so early? I cast my mind back to high school, trying to remember if they said anything about it in health class, but I come up blank. Maybe they should spend less time trying to drill algebra into your brain, and more time force feeding information that would actually be useful.

  I punch a query into the search bar on my phone. A list of blue links pops up, and my thumb hovers over the first for what seems like an age before I tap it. I want to know, and I don’t. An epic battle is raging inside me. If I know, then this could be real, and I won’t be able to hide from it any longer.

  Just do it.

  I tap the top link.

  It takes an age to load. I swear I could climb up into the nearest cell tower and pull the data out faster. My eyes devour the information at warp speed.

  “Most women,” the website reads, “experienced the onset of symptoms of morning sickness at around six weeks post-conception…”

  My phone flashes with a notification. It fills the entire screen – so what I don’t need right now. I’m just about to swipe and get rid of it, when I see who it’s from: Kieran. The text message reads: “Date night. Eight o’clock. Be there.”

  My stomach does a backflip; either that or the hundred butterflies inside it all decided to pull a barrel roll at the same time. This is exactly what I wanted: and yet, and yet…

  … Truthfully, I’m terrified. I flick my thumb right, and Kieran’s message disappears. I need to make sure that I’m right; because if I am, then tonight’s date is going to go a whole lot smoother.

  I keep reading. I kind of wish I hadn’t.

  My stomach sinks the second my eyes touch the next line down. It doesn’t just sink, it plummets. “… For some women, morning sickness can be the first sign of pregnancy, occurring as early as 2 to 3 weeks after…”

  My phone scre
en blurs. I feel like I just hit the bottom of a bungee jump. Everything stops: my lungs; my brain; it all just grinds to a halt at once.

  I stop reading. I can’t do it any longer. I’ve seen all I need to see … and the news is not good. Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t be. Of course, I would be one of the lucky ones, or unlucky ones, whichever way you look at it.

  I know it in my heart – I’m pregnant. I can’t figure out how it happened. I didn’t use a condom that first time with Kieran – or any time, really – but I’m on the pill! What’s the point in popping that plastic packet every day if it’s not going to do a damn thing to help me?

  You’re jumping ahead of yourself, I hear in my head, trying to reassure myself. You don’t really know anything yet.

  I don’t believe it, even in the quiet of my own head. But the thought feels like a lifeline: a ray of hope on which to cling.

  I spy the green and gold shop front of a pharmacy to my right, and practically run into it. The cashier tears her eyes away from her cell phone, and looks up at me, her eyebrows tented with surprise.

  “Can I help you, Miss?”

  “Pregnancy tests?” I choke out. It’s just about all I can say. God, saying it out loud makes it sound real. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I could just take all of this back.

  “Aisle three, by the –.” I take off, ignoring the rest of the girl’s sentence. Just being around people seems too hard to bear in this state. I feel like a zombie. I’ve only got eyes for my destination: everything to my left and right disappears in a blur of nothingness.

  I grab a basket from the end of the aisle. I slow down in front of the tests. The store has three brands. Who needs three? Surely they all do the same thing? I chew my lip with indecision.

  “Screw it,” I groan. I do a clean sweep. A dozen tests fall through the air and land with a clatter of cardboard in my basket. I jog to the checkout counter, even though my feet are heavy as if weighed down by fear-filled, leaden ankle weights. Every step forward carries me towards a truth I’m not ready to hear.