“I’m not worried about it, Gwenie. I’ll help you, day or night.” Reilly confirms.
“Even when it isn’t sex?” I tease, grabbing the mattress as he does.
“Careful with the steps,” he says. “And that was a misunderstanding,” Reilly mutters, carrying the weight of the mattress. The only thing I’m good for is directing it.
Hell, I’m not much help at all.
We slide the mattress through the door on the kitchen floor and he picks up the front, dragging it over the carpet. “Where to?” Reilly asks.
“The haunted room on the left?”
He raises a brow but doesn’t say anything. He settles it on my bed frame and sits down. “The place is haunted? What in the world made you live here?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you believe in that stuff. Mills thinks it is because of the stain on the carpet,” I say with sarcasm in my voice.
“Could be anything,” Reilly muses.
“She thinks it’s blood,” I add as I roll my eyes, plopping on the bed. “Anyway, thanks for the help. I appreciate it.”
“Anything for ye, Gwenie.”
I roll over until I’m straddling him, flipping my hair over my shoulder to get it out of my way. “Anything?” I purr.
His hands rub up and down my back, gripping my ass. “Anything,” he whispers as his hazel eyes heat, darkening a bit as lust takes over.
I kiss his neck, nibbling the sensitive flesh. I lick a trail to his ear and then blow on it, cooling the skin. I watch as his pale skin pebbles and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Gwen,” he whispers my name as I make love to his neck with my tongue, lapping and nipping it like he is a chocolate lava cake—my favorite dessert. He wiggles underneath me, thrusting his hips against mine to try and find friction.
“Reilly,” I whisper, ghosting my lips over the shell of his ear.
“Yer driving me mad,” he rasps.
I suck his earlobe into my mouth, flicking the meaty flesh with the tip of my tongue before letting it go with an audible pop. “That’s the plan,” I say seductively.
He spreads his arms out, tilting his head back to say, “Do with me what ye want. I’m yours.”
I splay my hand across his chest, using him as a strong base to lift myself up to stare at him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
He glances up at me, cupping my chin with his hand. “More than anything.”
I kiss him once, twice, and on the third time our tongues twist together, and he moves his hand from my chin to my cheek. I love it when he does that. Something about the gesture makes me feel treasured.
“I could kiss ye all night. Yer lips are addicting. I love them,” Reilly raves.
I want to tell him I love him. I love everything about him, but something holds me back. Saying those words would break what little resolve I have. I won’t allow myself to have one foot out the door anymore, preparing to run away from the broken pieces of my shattered heart.
Pushing those thoughts away, I let my hands sneak under his shirt, feeling the soft tickle of his chest hair against my palm. “Are ye trying to cop a feel? I’m not that kind of lad, ye know,” he jokes, throwing his arm over his eyes.
I cup his cock through his jeans. “What kind of man are you, Reilly?” I ponder as I unsnap his jeans.
“The horny kind,” he winks, flexing his hips again.
Something on his right hand catches my attention as the light shines off of it. When he tosses his hand back down onto the mattress, I notice it’s the Claddagh ring Lucky gave him. I researched them when I was seventeen, hoping to earn his love one day. There are a few ways the Irish wear it, and I want to see how he wears his.
He reaches for me, but I stop his hand with mine, curling my fingers with his. I take my free hand and unzip his jeans, letting the tip of his cock out. I glance over at his hand and see that the point of the heart is turned toward the wrist, which means he is either already in a relationship or isn’t looking for one.
I try not to read too much into it, but it had been like that at the party too. The thoughts flee when I push down his jeans and his briefs at the same time, letting his long shaft pop free. It bounces against his stomach, leaving a trail of pre-come. I settle between his legs, sticking out my tongue and taking a swipe at the vein that engorges his meat.
“Christ!” he shouts, running his fingers through my hair. “Ye look so good down there, love.”
Love.
I love how the word sounds coming from his foreign tongue. It fuels my already wanton desire for him. I suck my lips around the thick helmet, dipping my tongue in the slit. He smells musky, with a hint of soap as my nose brushes against his trimmed pubes.
“Why ye so good at that?” he whines, clutching my hair so close to my scalp I feel tears prickle my eyes. I’m not going to let the slight pinch of pain deter me from giving him pleasure. I hollow my cheeks, taking him to the back of my throat and swirl my tongue around the long cock. I hum and palm his big sack.
“Do that again! Oh, do that again,” he begs, clutching the sides of my head as I bob up and down. I wrap a hand around the base and take him down my throat a few inches and hum again. His legs tremble beneath me and his hands touch every part of me he can reach. First my face, then my hair, down to my shoulders, and when he finds my breasts, he doesn’t let them go. He slides one hand under my shirt, rubbing a nipple between his fingers.
“Gwenie, I’m going to come. If ye don’t want it, get off,” he warns, tapping my shoulder.
That’s considerate, but I want his Irish cream.
Chapter Twenty
Reilly
“You okay, Reilly?” Brock asks.
I glance up from the stack of papers I’ve been looking at for a good part of thirty minutes. “What?” I shoot back at him.
“Are you okay? You’ve been out of it all morning,” Brock says, wiping down the bar. He has really been proving himself lately. Our little talk has really made a difference.
I wipe my hand over my face, bone freaking tired. And it doesn’t help I can’t get my mind off the best blow job I’ve ever gotten in my life. “I’m fine. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
Or at all, not with Gwen in my life. I want her all the time. Even right now, I can barely keep my eyes open, but my cock starts to wake up from the thoughts of the amazing sex we had this morning. I had fallen asleep at her place and having her all night to myself has made me realize that I want that every night.
I have to tell Anthony and soon.
“Alright. I’m just making sure. You know the fight is tonight. You’re going to be here, right?” Brock asks, his voice filled with concern.
I put my head in my hands and shake my head as I speak, “No, no, no. Please, tell me I didn’t tell Gwen to come train tonight for her first shift.”
He tosses his head back, laughing. “You forgot about the fight? What kind of Irishman are you?”
“A busy one,” I grumble, tossing the paperwork to the side. “Pour me a shot of Jameson, would ye, Brock?”
He lifts one of his well-groomed brows at me but doesn’t ask any questions. Good. I don’t feel like answering any. I’m overwhelmed. To the left of me is a stack of resumes for the cook position. Who would have thought so many people in town know how to make a burger? Making a good one? Well, that’s up for debate.
To the right sits a letter from Anthony along with a bunch of other papers that list all the accounts I have my name. Anthony asked if I wanted a beneficiary for all of it, and it couldn’t be my ma. And of course, the person I really want as a beneficiary is forbidden, because he would notice it was his sister.
Brock clanks four shot glasses down in front of me and another four in front of himself. “Jesus, Brock. I asked for a shot, not for ye to get me hammered,” I say with a laugh.
He pours Jameson in every other glass and then fills the others with pickle juice. I hold up my hand. “What in the hell do you think yer doing?”
“I�
�m making us something called a pickleback. It’s good, trust me.”
“I have to say, I’ve been working a bar for over ten years, Brock and I ain’t ever heard of this. My grandpa would roll over in his grave if he saw me taking whiskey like this,” I mention, curling my lip when I get a whiff of the pickle juice. I don’t even like pickles.
“Cheers,” is all Brock has to say.
I watch in horror as he takes the shot back and drowns the perfectly good whiskey with pickle juice.
“Damn! That’s good. Okay, you go,” he points as he finishes his drink.
I shake my head, running my hand through my beard. “You want to explain to me how this is going to help?”
He spread his arms over the bar and stares at me right in the eyes. He has dark circles under his eyes, probably from getting no sleep with a young baby. “Maybe if you loosen up a bit, your tasks won’t seem so mundane.”
I laugh, wrapping my fingers around one of the shot glasses. “Is that what you tell yourself when ye rock ye baby to sleep, Brock?”
He tosses the dirty bar rag at me. “Stop being a wee bitch and drink the damn thing.”
“Okay. I see how it is.” I smile and down the whiskey, still holding onto the shot of pickle juice. “Here goes nothing.” I squeeze my eyes shut and toss the salty liquid down my throat. I expect my stomach to roll or maybe projectile vomit. But I snap my mouth together and stare at Brock. “Hell, you Americans have gone and done it again. That shite was good.”
“Told you! Have more faith and maybe things won’t go as badly as you think.”
I grab the second shot, lifting it up. If he only knew how much I need a little bit of faith. “Cheers to that.” We clink glasses and take the amber back, chasing it with the pickle juice. I smack my lips as the sour of the pickle juice roars on my taste buds. “I really can’t believe how good it is.”
“Things sometimes will take you by surprise,” Brock fires back.
He knows something. He’s speaking in fortune cookie. “Spill,” I demand.
“Hmm? What?” Brock coyly responds.
I lean back in my chair, taking the stack of resumes in my hand again. “Ye want to tell me something but aren’t.”
He pours another round of shots. “I know you’re seeing Anthony’s sister,” he says calmly.
I don’t say anything as I take another shot. I want to hear what he says. I don’t confirm or deny his assumption—even if it’s right.
“I think you should tell him before someone else does,” Brock warns.
I lean forward, dropping the stack again. “Are ye threatening me, Brock? I don’t take too kindly to threats, especially when I think they are coming from a friend,” I growl at him.
His eyes widen and he takes a step back. “Whoa, no. Of course, I’m not. I’m not going to say a word. I’m not stupid. I value my life.”
I nod, picking up the stack again and start to flip through the applicants. “It isn’t anyone’s business what she and I decide to do in our relationship. Small town folk talk and we don’t want to be the talk of the town yet.”
“You already are. Word is going around you bought Gredence Place.” Brock replies.
“Aye. I did,” I say, adding nothing more. I start making a pile of rejections.
“Reilly. How did you buy it?” Brock prods.
“It was a good deal,” I answer as I lick my thumb, putting down another rejection. I stop when I finally have four people to call for an interview. I figure I'll just have them make me a burger, and if I like it, I’ll hire them. I plan to set the interviews up for a few weeks from now. It gives me time to build a small kitchen. I don’t want anything fancy, just something big enough to make bar food.
“Bullshit, Reilly. What’s the real reason? Does Gwen know?” Brock persists.
I grab the letter off the table from Anthony, folding it up and putting it in my pocket to make sure Brock doesn’t see it. “I got it from Lucky. He had a few tricks up his sleeve apparently.”
“I don’t believe you.” He shakes his head, taking the dirty shot glasses and washing them in the sink.
I shrug my shoulder. “I don’t really give a shite if ye believe me or not Brock. My business is me own. I don’t appreciate ye trying to loosen me up to tell ye me personal life. I’ll tell people when I’m damn good and ready. Is that understood, Brock?” I clutch my fist against the bar, trying to rein in my temper.
He lifts his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to be there for you. You can talk to me, that’s all.”
I start to laugh. What a fucked-up situation. My bartender knows about me and Gwen, but Anthony doesn’t. Anthony knows I’m a billionaire, but no else does. I need the same person to know everything. “Ye a good lad, Brock. Ye don’t need my problems in ye life. I’m not a good friend, Brock. Alright?” I sigh as I let the words finally hit me. Anthony bends over backward for me and what do I do to repay him?
I fuck his sister.
I love his sister.
Would he see it like that, though? I need to take a step back. I don’t want to lose Gwen, but I don’t want to lose Anthony either.
“You don’t have to choose, you know. You can have both. You and Gwen are adults. Anthony will see that.” Brock chimes in.
“I don’t know what ye talking about.” I don’t want him to know shite about what’s going on in my head. “What do you think? Out of these four?” I shove the resumes in front of him, trying to let him know that this conversation is over.
“Not that one,” he points.
I like that one. “Why?”
“Because he went to culinary school.”
I scratch the side of my face with my fingers, giving him a credulous look. “Isn’t that a good thing? That’s what we want.”
“No. We want someone who will stick around and flip burgers and who doesn’t have an issue with small-town life. This guy is from New York City. What’s he doing here in Virginia? Doesn’t sound too good to me, Reilly. He won’t be here long.”
“Damn it, ye right.” I place him in the ‘no’ pile. My phone takes that moment to vibrate. I reach into my back pocket and slide my finger across the screen without looking at it. I see a photo of Gwen in nothing but a sexy lace teddy. I keep my phone on my leg where Brock can’t see it and marvel at the photo. Only half of her face is in it and her lips are painted, matching that hot, little red number she has on.
Gwen: I’ll be seeing you tonight.
Me: 1.) If ye wear that on ye first shift underneath your uniform, I’ll make sure you never step foot out on the floor. 2.) We need to reschedule your first night, tonight is the fight. I forgot.
I nearly fall out of my chair when the next photo is of her with her legs spread, her hand coyly covering her sweet folds. “I need to talk a call in my office, Brock. I’ll be right back. Look at all the other resumes, for me. Will ye? You seem to know what yer doing.” I cough to clear my throat as I slam my office door behind me.
Me: Woman, I am at work. Ye distracting me with all that beauty.
Gwen: But I need you. Can’t you leave for a half hour?
I press the palm of my hand to my rock-solid erection and take a few deep breaths. She is out to kill me. My phone dings again and I whimper. I want to see it, I really do. But I’m afraid if I do, I might as well sign over the bar to Brock with how much I am never here.
Like I’m not going to look. I scoff at my own thought and open the photo.
Except it isn’t a photo.
It’s a video. I swallow, pressing play. Her moans bounce off the walls. “Shite. Shite. Shite!” I curse, turning the volume of my phone down and pressing pause. I’m sweating. My entire body burns. I take a deep breath, in and out, trying to calm the raging desire coursing through my veins. My cock needs a breather too, but I know if I let it touch the air, I’ll come. Her little tease had gotten me close, quick.
I press play, taking a swig of water from the bottle I had placed on my de
sk this morning. It seems like her phone is leaning against something and music is playing in the background. She dips, twists, and turns, moving her body in a sensual manner that has me going out of my fucking mind. Her heavy mounds are pushed up so high, they spill out of those cups that are way too small. My palms hold them perfectly, though.
Her ass bounces from side to side and my resolve breaks. I stand up so fast the chair hits the ground. I stuff my cock in the waistband of my pants, grab my keys, and walk out the office door.
“Brock. I’ll be back in a half hour. I have an errand to run.” I call as I walk away.
“You got it.”
Thank Christ he didn’t ask me any more questions.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gwendolyn
My breasts are pressed to the mattress and my butt sways in the air. I moan into the pillow as Reilly eats my pussy from behind. This is the first time his mouth is on me down there and it’s making my body climb to temperatures I didn’t even know existed. He spreads the apples of my cheeks, diving his tongue into my wet hole. He growls, sending deep vibrations up my canal, through my body, and I swear they leave out of my throat, because that is the only thing that can explain the sounds that are falling out of my lips.
“Ye taste so good,” he says between my thighs.
I get even wetter when his speaks in that Irish lilt against my folds. My knuckles are white with how hard I’m clutching the sheets. “Reilly,” I whimper. I don’t know what I want. I want him to stop and take me, but at the same time, I want him to keep going, licking me over and over again until I fall off the cliff and end up in Ireland. In Ireland? Is that a euphemism for Reilly? I don’t even know. I can’t think with how hot he has me.
“What is it that ye need, love?” he purrs as he rubs his palms over my rear, as if he is worshiping it. “Ye have a beautiful bum.”
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