My heart, and maybe my cock, have less sensible ideas. I try not to think too hard about how good it feels to hold her in my arms, and on instinct, I carry her over to the leather couch and lay her down, taking her in.
She’s so fucking sexy when she’s disheveled. Her hair is curling softly around her shoulders now, and her chest is heaving. Her nipples are straining through the linen of her dress, and I realize she’s not wearing a bra.
Goddamn.
There’s not enough room, but I manage to move over her. Those nipples need to be in my mouth or I’m going to fucking die. I suck on them through the linen, and she bucks up against me. Her hands move frantically through my hair as I press my tongue against her hard peaks. I slide the skirt of her dress up and press my knee against her center.
“Yes, Kieran. Oh god. Fuck.”
Filthy words from such a beautiful, refined, elegant woman.
It might be in that moment that I’m lost.
The contrast.
Hot and cold.
Reserved and unrestrained.
Politeness and passion.
“Christ,” I manage, just barely.
Her nipples harden as I work them with my fingers now so I can take her mouth again. Her sweet tongue caresses mine as she arches her back, inviting me to press my knee tighter against the white panties I can see covering her pussy. Her hands have moved to my back, and she’s grabbing at me desperately, her breath coming in little pants.
“Kieran! Oh god,” she says. “I’m…oh my god.”
Every chance of me walking away from this evaporates with those invocations.
“Let go,” I urge, biting her neck gently. “Come for me, Siobhan.”
She grinds herself against me. I press my knee harder against her, rubbing in circles. She gasps, begging for more, harder, deeper.
I am more than happy to oblige, though I wish it were my cock deep inside her making her fall apart like this. It’s like I’d give anything to be moving inside her, watching her beautiful face as she climaxes. She arches against me as she gives into the power of her orgasm, whimpering and moaning as it passes through her in waves.
I stroke her gorgeous breasts, still through the linen, swirling around her nipples as she comes back down in a series of small squeaks that I will hear in my best dreams for the rest of my goddamn life.
Her hands are fisting the cotton of my shirt.
Fuck, I want to see her naked so goddamn bad.
She finally relaxes, and I move off of her, kneeling on the floor next to her. The moment should have passed, but it doesn’t. Caught up in her, wanting more, I kiss her forehead, her cheeks, and then her mouth.
She responds to me eagerly.
I can’t get enough.
“That felt amazing,” she whispers, almost shyly.
It takes everything I have to hold it together when she adds, “And we didn’t even take our clothes off.”
A small warning flare goes up.
She’s a bit younger than myself, but she’s a grown woman.
How inexperienced is she?
There are moments in a man’s life that lead up to something, and I have the strangest feeling that I’m on a trail that led me straight here.
An edge is forming, some part of me that wants to possess this woman.
Show endless pleasure to this woman.
Open her eyes to things in life that are both good and bad, and then bring her so much joy that she’ll realize life doesn’t really happen in sheltered places. Beauty and light are so much more powerful, so much more treasured, when they’re visible against the shadows.
I’d be the shadows casting her brightness into stark relief.
“Can I touch you?” I ask, my hand resting on her thigh. Her soft gaze gives way to a look of intense lust.
I trace a finger lightly down between her breasts, and to the hem of her skirt which is still hitched up by her hips.
One soft word: “Yes.”
An oath crosses my lips as I slip my finger under her soaked panties into her moist heat. Remember this is about her, a warning voice says as I stroke her gently, first just exploring the outer lips before dipping in to press down against her clit. She makes another one of those goddamn beautiful noises. I make lazy circles over her clit, rubbing the very tip and then pressing hard.
She’s starting to get worked up again, and I know I’m going to make her come twice on this couch today. Teasing her opening, I take the invitation when she presses into me, whimpering. I slip two fingers into her, my thumb still teasing her clit.
I remember what she told me about not liking being teased. It was bullshit then, and the way her breath hitches lets me know it’s bullshit now.
“Jesus, you’re so tight, Siobhan. Fuck.”
She squeezes my fingers with her inner walls as I pick up my pace, adding a twist now and again as I see her getting closer to the edge, changing the pace before she can come. Her eyes are closed, and I’m seeing how long I can hold her before she breaks apart again.
Massage her clit and then ease off, until she’s whining and cursing my name.
It’s more fun than I’d like to admit.
When her cries get too intense, I finally give her what she needs, curling my fingers and pressing hard on her clit again. She seizes around my fingers and lets out an earsplitting scream as she comes, bucking wildly as I continue to finger her through it, whispering words of encouragement.
It’s a strange mix of things I’m feeling. Practically mad with desire, but a singular focus on her pleasure. Giving her the chance to explore these things. Focusing entirely on what she wants. And a strange sense of pride and desire to be the one giving that to her.
Unbelieving that this beautiful angel, who can play music far beyond what I could ever do, lays here making unforgettable music of her own beneath my touch.
She’s whimpering again as she settles against the couch, and her eyes finally open, her pussy still clenched around my hand. I ease out of her slowly, licking my fingers.
“You taste so goddamn good,” I groan. “Next time I’m going to eat you out until I get you to scream like that again.”
She’s trembling underneath me as I kiss her again, the sweetness of honeysuckle and her body on my lips.
She’s still coming down from her orgasm. Her hair has gone completely curly from the sweat of her efforts. I caress the curls. “Guess I’ll never find out if you’re a ginger all over.”
She blushes deliciously. I wonder if she waxes or has someone do it for her. My dick is so hard that I’m afraid it might break my zipper, and it doesn’t help that her hand is moving lazily toward my zipper.
God, I would love that. But no, pleasuring her on a big leather couch feels right, but taking my dick out in my family’s library, not so much.
“Let’s save that for later, sweetheart,” I say, pressing her hand to my dick for just a moment before placing it on her chest. I won’t end this with her thinking she doesn’t make me iron hard with desire. “When we have more space.”
She giggles. She fits nicely between the oversized arm rests. Me, not so much.
“I’ve never come like that with another person before,” she says, her voice still honeyed with sex.
Another person? Color me intrigued. What did pretty little Siobhan get up to with those naughty books she mentioned.
I massage her flat belly with my hand, stroking the top of her pussy a few times. I can see she’d be ready to go again if I give her enough time, and that thrills me.
“My father was angry I wasn’t spending the summer at home,” she muses, throwing her hands up over her head. It’s the half-drunk talk of a very satiated woman.
A man could get used to this.
“He wanted me to date JB Stacy. But I’m not interested.”
It would take an act of god for me to pull my gaze off this woman’s hot body as she wriggles against the leather, coming back into herself, but JB Stacy is a definite boner killer.
“What?” I say, surprised by the possessive edge to my voice.
“What better way to keep city hall off his back,” she sighs, running a hand up my forearm. Her arm looks so delicate and fragile next to mine and I have the sudden desire to be an explorer, following the trail of freckles wherever they may lead.
The business of the Carneys, Doyles and Stacy clans all be damned. But she’s looking at me expectantly.
“The Stacy family’s no good,” I grind out.
“JB’s nice. Just, not for me.”
“You know his full name is John Brahmin, right?”
A bright peal of laughter escapes her. “And I thought his biggest problem is that he’s a professional badminton player.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, my hands at her waist.
She leans up on her elbows. “Badminton. He’s very highly ranked. Just missed the Olympic team.”
“Sorry his shuttlecock couldn’t go all the way,” I reply. She giggles again, and I squeeze her waist.
She sighs again and wriggles out of her panties, handing them to me. “These are useless now. I’m going to go clean up.”
I hold her damp panties in my hand and have to think of John Brahmin in tennis whites for longer than is probably healthy to get my hard-on to subside.
I was right. She’s trouble.
13
Kieran
After bringing Siobhan back to her charming little cottage, I stand on her porch. Looking down into those wide green eyes, the strangest combination of wickedness and innocence blended there, I make a decision.
There are three things I won’t compromise.
A promise to my family.
Successfully completing any job the Doyles need done.
And my commitment never to hurt a woman.
The chemistry between us in the library was unreal. Unraveling that vast coil of tension within Siobhan opened up a responding chasm of need within me so deep it scared me.
I don’t say that easily.
In my line of work, a man can’t afford to get caught up. Can’t afford to get squeamish. Can’t afford to let his heart get in the way.
Until now, it’s never been a problem.
And yet as I contemplate the various scenarios where I could enlist Siobhan as an ally, use her in some way to further my ends, I hate myself for even having the thought.
The Doyles always say that the Carneys are pieces of shit. Nothing Siobhan’s said – and the way that I’ve seen them treat her – tells me any different.
It’s clear Siobhan’s father sees her as a tool to use her for his own ends.
That her brothers are cold and uncaring, doing whatever they think is best without taking her needs and considerations into account.
She’s not here on Martha’s Vineyard to take my uncle’s house.
She’s here to enjoy a summer away from the mess that is her family.
She’s here to play music and delight the streams of tourists that will pass through the theater where she plays.
There’s a mix of desire and trust taking shape on her face that solidifies my resolve.
No matter what it cost me, I will not be another man in her life using Siobhan Carney for my own ends.
The rest of it?
The way that her hot lips felt on mine?
Those unbelievable noises of pleasure that crossed her lips as she arched against my body?
The sweet scent of honeysuckle on the air?
Well, that’s another thing entirely.
Something I won’t deal with until I have a clear head.
I can’t resist stealing one more kiss.
My next words surprise me. “When can I see you again?”
Her eyes track from my face up to the second story of the house. I am rock hard at just the implication – no, even the passing fantasy – of being invited into this woman’s bed.
It’s not made any easier for the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon and she’s so ready to be swept up in the tide, propriety be damned.
That’s not lost on me either. Not one bit.
Think with the right head, Kieran.
For one improbable minute, every fiber of my body is filled with hope that she’ll invite me up. Would I accept? Should I accept?
Clearly, I shouldn’t and there’s no question that I would.
Thankfully, she doesn’t put me into the awkward position of having to try to make a good decision.
The rocket in my pants and the two lead stones that are my balls can’t be trusted.
She looks uncertain, and then says, “Do you want to come hear me play?”
I do, more than anything.
Well, not more than anything, but a close second for sure.
It’s too easy to forget that I’m a Doyle standing on the doorstep of a Carney woman.
“I could get you tickets to an upcoming performance,” she says. Her face clouds with concern.
“The first few weeks in residence are always a little crazy,” she says, talking a bit too fast. “The first several shows are always sold out. But I can usually get tickets after the first few shows.”
“Good seats,” she adds, as if that’s the thing that will convince me to come.
As if I wouldn’t be buying a ticket to watch her every night that I could.
My mind is already counting the days. Part of me, the wild impulsive part – who am I kidding? That’s every part – wants to see her tomorrow.
Immediately.
But this woman isn’t about instant gratification.
That much is quickly becoming clear. Instead, she’s inviting me to something that matters. And implied with that, is the expectation that there’s enough at play that whatever’s happening between us doesn’t need to be resolved fast.
Doesn’t need to be laid to rest so quickly.
Doesn’t need to be gotten out of the way so the rest of the summer can be enjoyed in peace.
She’s not thinking about how to get me out of her system.
Not an ice princess out for a quick tangle with the Doyle enforcer, never to be heard from again.
That’s the biggest shock of all.
Time is both exactly what I need, and a luxury I don’t have.
Grinning, I say, “I can’t wait to hear your dog scratching.”
The joke catches, and her eyes flash. A man could get addicted to the high of getting a rise out of her. Chasing that passion, that anger, that beautiful indignation for a lifetime.
Taking my leave, I walk the long way back to my uncle’s. Vinny’s not in the small house and I’m glad, because I’m going to get nothing done today if I don’t relieve this tension.
Taco regards me with a certain level of disgust as I pass by his bowl.
Improbably, I find myself saying “What? It’s perfectly natural.”
Now I’m preaching sex positivity to a fish.
Vinny might not be the weird one.
I am not sure which feels more disrespectful, masturbating in Vinny’s guestroom or in the shower I know he’ll use tonight.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I decide defiling the guest room is the lesser of two evils. There’s a large box of tissues on the dresser, a fresh box, that leaves me uncomfortable with the idea that Vinny anticipated this would happen sometime during my stay.
But not even thoughts of Vinny or JB Stacy and his tightest badminton whites are enough to keep desire at bay. Siobhan has me far too stirred up.
I strip off my clothes and lay down on the bed.
I imagine her breasts, small and perfect with pale nipples the same soft shade of rose as her lips. In my mind, my hands trail down the length of her body, and when I remember the firm lines of her flat stomach, dipping down to the wet pussy, it’s almost impossible to contain myself. That’s fine: jerking off has never been something that I regard as a leisurely activity.
Tension is always better released with a little friction between two people.
Yet the fantasy of Siobhan Carney is so enticing, that I find myself drawing things out and when I finally feel the beginning of a climax wrap itself around me, I fight it. Try to hold back, imagining her arms looped around my neck as she rides me to her own pleasure.
It’s too much, and I explode with an intensity that leaves me stunned. But I’m even more surprised to realize that I called her name.
Loud.
And more than once.
Holy shit.
If that’s just the fantasy, where would a night actually spent in her bed leave me?
I put on some pants, and quickly head to the bathroom to clean up and dispose of the evidence.
Exiting the bathroom, I am prepared for Taco’s displeasure.
Instead, Vinny greets me with a bland expression.
“Careful sailor, do that too often and you go blind.”
I don’t get a chance to tell him to fuck off before he changes the subject.
Thank god. Just because I grew up in a house with four brothers doesn’t mean that I haven’t grown accustomed to living on my own.
Privacy is priceless, turns out.
We’re on the same page about next steps with the house.
Vinny and I spec out the rough contours of a plan. A lot of work needs to be done on the house, but Danny stopped by the fish shack and mentions that he’s up for it. The first step is probably calling in a dumpster and doing demolition.
From there, we can clean the place up and decide what gets restored and what needs to be completely overhauled.
Vinny has a sense about the place and make several recommendations that I like.
Keep the floors and refinish them.
Address the peeling paint and wallpaper. In most of the house, we can paint the walls with a bright, fresh color. There are a couple of spaces that he suggests we try a more subtle approach and go for wallpaper.
The thought of hanging wallpaper makes me want to die. I’m Irish and every time an elderly aunt or neighbor wanted her wallpaper rehung, my father was happy to volunteer us.
Thug: The Doyles: A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 7
