Grind: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  As we’re standing there, I’m very aware of how large Connor is. With my hand looped through his arm, I’m feeling his muscles straining the fabric of his suit jacket. It’s very distracting. He starts moving confidently toward the stairs, and we ascend the sweeping staircase.

  It’s not exactly that I feel out of place. I attended upscale events with Brooks while we dated. But those were always stuffed to the gills with people looking for something and weird unsavory overtones. Just the thought puts me slightly on edge. The patrons here are more diverse, and definitely totally engrossed in the artwork.

  We stop briefly at the top of the stairs and then step into a side room. It’s deceptive. The room is beautifully arranged, with careful lighting and exquisite portraits on the walls. A single leather bench sits in the middle of the room. He leads me over to the bench, helping me sit before lowering his considerable bulk down beside me. The bench shifts a little, and I slide toward him, our knees touching.

  “What is this place?” I whisper.

  He’s studying my face, looking a little concerned. “It’s amazing,” I add quickly, and can’t help but smile when he visibly relaxes. There’s a touch of something almost vulnerable in his expression.

  “It’s actually a private art gallery,” he says. “They do different shows. Big name artists have work that goes through here before it shows up at the Stewart Gardner Museum or the MFA.”

  When I catch his eye, I tilt my head inquiring. Something simmers just below the surface, a sort of anticipatory anxiety. He pulls a card from his jacket pocket embossed with elegant script. “There are two exhibits here. These paintings are ancient Irish monastery art.”

  My eyebrow shoots up. “The subject matter is a little heavy,” he admits. “But the other works they’re showing are actually a collection of art by Boston artists of Irish descent.”

  He stands up suddenly, holding out his hand. I follow him down the hall, to the last room at the end of the corridor. Stepping in, I see a mix of paintings and photography. But his eyes immediately settle on one painting and he moves that way with purpose.

  It’s a painting of a young woman, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. She’s dressed in a loose-fitting dress, and it has a dreamy quality. Even with my lack of art training, I can tell it’s good. I Then I glance at the golden tag next to the door and then look closer. It reads ’A self-portrait by Kathleen Doyle, Boston Massachusetts.’

  “Doyle?” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  “My mom painted this,” he says, his eyes on the painting. “She was a really talented artist, although she didn’t get to do as much after she married my dad. But this and a couple of other ones are still on display.”

  This huge man who drives too fast, who was quick to get into fights, who commands a crowded nightclub without effort, spends time with his mom’s paintings. And chose that to show me on our first real date. A study in contrasts.

  “I just wanted you to see it.” His voice is very quiet, his eyes on the painting.

  “Does she still paint?” I ask, moving in a little closer.

  “She died when I was little,” he says simply. I reach out and take his hand. My throat catches.

  “This is beautiful. She was such a talented painter. Thank you for sharing this with me.” For all the attention that this man commands, I suddenly wonder how often he is really seen.

  We linger there a bit longer and then head out into the night. “Let’s walk to the restaurant?”

  He doesn’t let go of my hand. My shoes aren’t great for trekking around the cobblestones of Beacon Hill, but I don’t really want to disrupt the night. To break the spell.

  As we walk down the hill, I trail a bit behind him. His shoulders seem impossibly broad. What’s it like, being a Doyle? How much of his father’s legacy does he carry – and what does that even mean? Brooks had been weighed down by his family’s corruption, and I always assumed that’s at least part of why he drinks so much.

  Not that it excuses for a second anything he’s done. Not by a mile. But when you’re confronted by a monster, you have to wonder what shaped them.

  My eyes go back to Connor, so very, utterly different. Completely different.

  From the little bit of reading that I did about Murphy Doyle, what I could dig up, he’s a conflicted figure. Definitely some underworld ties, at least early on, although that clearly hadn’t stopped Seamus from becoming a lawyer. And beloved in his parts of the city of Boston. Apparently a champion in a lot of ways, especially of the working class Irish roots he’d never gotten far away from.

  I just don’t know how much of their business is above board now. Or how much it even matters.

  Before I can follow the train of thought, Connor turns into a park and says softly over his shoulder. “Let’s cut through here.”

  My senses flare on high alert. This is the kind of place that I’d learned to avoid after Brooks. My free hand slips down to the pocket of my coat. My inhaler is there, just in case.

  Of course, I’m completely safe, because Connor’s here.

  It’s more like a neighborhood garden than a park. Fairy lights hang from trees, casting a glow down over the grass and benches. Gently swaying tree branches catch the lights.

  He leans down and whispers in my ear, “This is one of the most beautiful gardens in the city.” His breath is hot on my skin, and his hand proprietarily settles on my hip. I lean back against him, just soaking it all in. I can’t imagine how beautiful it is in spring.

  Nearby, voices drift down from some rooftop party. Laughing and hushed tones. And over that, the strains of music float over us. I turn my face up to look at him over my shoulder.

  “Damn, you’re beautiful,” he whispers. And then he surprises me again. “Dance with me.”

  There’s no one else there. It’s just me, and this incredibly complex man, and a few notes of some song that we’re borrowing for one moment that seems out of time.

  Folding me into his arms, Connor pulls me so close that I can once again feel the muscles of his body and how perfectly we’re in motion together through the thin fabric of my dress. He’s solid, stable, present. Right now, I’m just here – happy to be here – in this moment. That’s something that’s been missing from my life for a long time.

  Something good. Something to stop my brain from racing ahead, rocketing back, constantly thinking and worrying. Connor’s anchoring me to this moment, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

  The hardness of his cock pressing against my leg doesn’t escape my notice, either.

  He leans in to kiss me as our eyes meet. Capturing my lips with his, he’s giving off a focused intensity that hints at the other activities he has in mind.

  His dimples are back. “Ava,” he says, uttering my name like a prayer.

  My arms circle his neck and I soak in the heat from his body. His hands slide down my back, seeking, demanding, promising. Goosebumps explode across my skin.

  With great effort, he takes a step beck but doesn’t let me go. Connor tips his head back, and then looks down at me with heated eyes. “Ava.”

  He clears his throat, and a wicked little smile twists his lips. “About our plans for tonight…”

  One dark eyebrow arches up. “We have reservations at the best sushi restaurant in the city.”

  Every good decision that I should make flashes through my mind. Caution signs, about taking it slow and watching my back. But my desire for this man, and my desire for something good in my life, are louder than the cautions for once. Before he even speaks, I know sushi is not what’s on the menu tonight.

  “Or I could cook for you. What do you say to breakfast in bed?”

  10

  Connor

  The walk from the car to the loft starts out fine.

  My arm’s around Ava’s waist tight, holding her close. Not as close as I want her, but still good. Until we get upstairs. Her curves press against my body and I can’t wait to explore every one. With my han
ds, my tongue, my cock.

  We’re waiting for the elevator when she turns and looks up at me with those huge green eyes. She reaches up and traces a finger down my cheek, stopping it next to my mouth.

  “I love your dimples,” she whispers.

  Fuck. Self-control, Doyle. This is no one-night stand.

  Then I freeze. What is this? I honestly don’t know, but it’s something. She’s becoming important to me.

  I want her. Not just this, but maybe something more.

  My feelings and that urge to protect her are getting all mixed up with my very real and mounting desire to have her naked in my bed.

  I. Want. Her. That settles over me, hitting me hard.

  If we’re going to do this tonight—and I really fucking hope we do—I’m going to do this right.

  Blood pounds in my ears, my entire focus narrowing down to just this woman. There’s nothing but her upturned face, that gorgeous body in the little black dress that’s been taunting me all night. She’s fucking perfect.

  We push into the elevator, up against the wall. I’m holding onto her like I never want to let her go. She’s going to know she’s safe, she’s going to know she’s beautiful, and she’s going to know that there are good things in the world before this night is over.

  Her lips are on mine, and she moans just a little, practically driving me to the edge. My hand’s caught in her hair. Long, gorgeous dark hair. My cock is so hard right now that I have to remember to breathe.

  I won’t fuck Ava in the elevator. But my eyes linger on the emergency stop button. Another time, though? Definitely.

  The elevator dings, and we practically fall out of it into the hallway. Crossing to my door, it’s all I can do to keep from kicking it open. It swings shut behind me, and I quickly throw the locks. Nobody better interrupt me tonight.

  Speaking of which, I grab my phone—which has been vibrating in my pocket nonstop with questions from the manager that’s covering the club and a group text from my brothers—and throw it across the room. She’s mine tonight, and this time is ours. Everything else be damned.

  The pulse in my neck is pounding, but I steel myself. Center. Take a deep breath.

  “Ava.” My voice is ragged.

  “Yes?” She’s breathless herself, looking up at me.

  I leave my hands loosely on her waist but pull back so I’m looking at her straight on.

  “You are the most beautiful…”

  Damn it. That’s not what I meant to say.

  “This is heating up really fast, Ava,” I try again. She nods, not breaking eye contact.

  “I would never, ever want to do anything you weren’t ready for. Comfortable with.”

  Fuck it.

  “I want you, but if all you want is dinner, I’m down for that too.” My eyes shift toward the marble island. We could do more than have dinner there.

  “We’re on your timetable. I’m ready,”—I look down at my body, which is telegraphing my real thoughts—“willing and able to deliver whatever it is that you want.”

  “And if that’s dinner, I’m pretty sure I could make food.”

  But I’d rather make her scream my name.

  A number of emotions play across her face. Her eyes have a faraway look, her lips slightly parted from desire. Suddenly, she’s very present. Stepping into the gap between our bodies, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down to kiss her.

  Even though it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done, I pull back just long enough to grind out, “That’s a yes?”

  “Yes.” She’s leaning up to kiss me again.

  Grabbing her around the waist, I lift her up easily and she instinctively wraps her legs around me. Hell, yes. I close the distance to the bedroom in a few strides and kick the door shut behind me.

  I lower her onto the bed as gently as I can. Leaning over her, my lips work their way down her throat, skimming her collarbone, her breasts. My hands slide down her beautiful curves and find the hem of her dress to push it up. I want her out of this damn thing so I can see her.

  My cock twitches, ready for action. Christ.

  Slow it down, Doyle. I’m hard as a rock and all systems are go. But that’s not what this is about tonight.

  Soon, the dress is off. Thank god. She’s on the bed, her hair tousled and the lines of her face cast in shadow. Somehow, she’s even more delicious than I imagined.

  My fingers slide under the hem of her panties, and I look up into her eyes to check in. Yes?

  She moans, so I keep going, sliding them down her thighs and over her ankles onto the floor. She’s arching toward me, and that’s all the encouragement I need.

  I’m kissing my way down her breasts, over her stomach, and lower. My hands slide up to touch her bare ass, and then up around her thighs to pull them apart. Wide apart. She gasps a little, but I want to see her. Really want to make her feel good.

  Every inch of her is fucking beautiful.

  My face is between her thighs, letting her pussy touch my lips. She tastes sweet, and I can’t get enough. My tongue pushes deep, and I drag my tongue up and down her lips. With each motion, her breathing is more rapid, catching. Little moans escape her, and I keep going, loving every response she gives to my touch.

  Her eyes are closed, her mouth open in an expression of pure pleasure. I want her to feel good. Nothing but pleasure crashing down in waves until it drowns out everything else. Heat fills me as I imagine being buried inside her, riding those waves of pleasure together.

  An almost primal sound comes out raw from the back of my throat. Her pleasure, her desire, the way our bodies move together. It’s turning me on and leaving it hard to focus.

  But there’s only one thing that matters. Ava. Her pleasure. For her to feel good, feel safe, feel beautiful.

  Her hips arch, and she presses herself against me. “Yes, Connor, there.” I find her clit with my mouth, swirling around it and dragging my tongue across it over and over again. Moving slow, letting the pleasure build without tipping her over the edge. She’s moaning, pushing against me. Her hands have moved up to her nipples.

  Fuck, yes.

  Ava tastes fantastic, and her hips rock as we pick up speed, moving together in a nearly perfect motion. I slip a finger inside her, tight and wet. Jesus.

  She’s so sensitive and I feel the waves just as it overtakes her. She’s exploding with an orgasm, her hips pressing down into the bed as it rolls over her. The edges of her cries are raw. It’s been way too long, like there’s so much pent-up possibility just waiting to be released.

  God, do I know that feeling.

  “Connor!” The sound of her crying out my name draws me up, kissing my way up across the planes of her belly and between the swell of her breasts, holding her while the last waves of it send tremors through her body.

  Her eyes are a little unfocused, but she looks into mine and runs a hand through my hair. Pulling me down on top of her, she kisses me, an invitation to go deeper. I start to move down, ready to pleasure her again. The feel of her writhing against my lips is intoxicating, threatening to send me over the edge.

  “No.” Urgency edges her tone. “I mean, I want you.” Her hand slides straight down to my cock, leaving no doubts.

  I don’t want to rush. Want to savor every minute with her, but there’s time for other things. Time for exploring each other’s bodies. I want to find every piece of her body that brings her pleasure, that sends her tipping into that abyss of pleasure.

  But her command is my greatest pleasure tonight.

  I’m on my feet in an instant, undoing my belt buckle and shedding my clothes as fast as I can. Reaching into a drawer, I pull out a condom and quickly roll it on. She watches me, appreciation apparent as she takes me in, her eyes roaming over me.

  Her eyes linger on my cock, and she licks her lips, a promise to things to come.

  My cock tightens, reminding me of how badly I want this woman. My heart thunders in my chest, and my hands move toward her, e
ager to touch her and claim her as my own. Claim her?

  What the hell?

  She rolls onto her back, and it strikes me again that the only men who have bothered to fuck her—I don’t like to think about that, but there it is—were assholes out for their own pleasure. Missionary style.

  She deserves so much better.

  I slide in next to her, and then maneuver us so that I’m behind her, positioning my body right up against her gorgeous curves. Skin to skin, the softness of her intoxicating me all over again. My cock is pressed into her back, demanding. She looks over her shoulder at me, a question.

  “You are so fucking perfect,” I whisper. She exhales softly, like the words took her by surprise. My hand slides over her hip, grazes across her stomach, and down to find her clit again. She’s so wet and so responsive.

  “So smart,” I growl into her ear. My fingers roll in slow circles, and she’s whimpering and gasping as she pushes her bare ass against me. Holy shit.

  “So beautiful,” and then the words come out in a rush. “So kind.”

  All I want is to be inside this woman, to feel her around me and to show her what I’m feeling. It somehow seems to have gone beyond words.

  “Here, lift up your leg. Drape it over mine,” I whisper softly into her ear, guiding her into the right position. I nip at her earlobe and she bucks, and I trace my tongue down the hollows of her throat, savoring every bit of pleasure. She’s open to me. The head of my cock is at her opening, so fucking ready.

  Pulling her back against me, I slide one hand around her, cupping her breasts, and the other sliding back to ever-so-lightly caress her. Every inch of our bodies touch, and soon there will be absolutely nothing between us. She gives another little cry, and I push into her.

  The tip of my cock is inside her. She’s so wet, so tight, already pressing back against me. The depths of this woman’s passion and reaction to my body nearly send me out of my mind.

  Self. Control.

  Gentle and slow, I slide up inch by inch until my shaft is completely inside her. Rocking my hips, I work her soaked clit and can feel the heat of pleasure beginning to move through her again. Moving deeper, my cock slides as far inside her as I can go, as she can accommodate. The whole world is Ava.