Cormac: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Dangerous Doms)

by Jane Henry

  It was painful and humiliating. So even though Cormac’s fucking me right now hurt, I’m almost grateful. I told him to make me bleed for a reason. And he did.

  I only wish I hadn’t climaxed. I don’t like that he had that control over me, that I didn’t have that control over myself. But he’s hot, the damn prick. Muscled and powerful, his body sculpted as if from an artist’s hand. And when he licked my pussy, I had no more control over coming than I do over my heartbeat.

  I watch as he wipes every drop of blood from my thighs, my pussy, and his cock. My stomach coils with nausea, and I turn away, but he won’t let me hide. He yanks the flat, bloodstained sheet to the side, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it to the floor.

  I close my eyes. I want to sleep. I want to forget this ever happened. But my eyes flutter open when I feel him step toward me. He’s dressed himself in boxers. What is he doing? His lips set in a thin line of determination, he bends to me and lifts me in his arms. Wordlessly, he carries me to the bathroom.

  “I’m tired,” I tell him. “I want to sleep.”

  It surprises me that when he speaks, his voice is softer now, tender. “You’ll be able to sleep shortly, lass. They’ll change the sheets while you wash.”

  Still holding me in his arms, he leans into the large shower and cranks the handle. In seconds, hot clouds of steam fill the room.

  “In you go.”

  Does he think I need a shower? A pang hits my chest. He thinks I… I don’t know, smell or something? Why does he think I need to shower? Is he that disgusted with me?

  To my surprise, he strips his boxers off and joins me.

  “Earlier it felt good to wash the Martin filth off me,” he says. “I want the same for you.”

  I laugh without mirth, the sound hollow and troubling. “It doesn’t matter how hot your water is, how powerful your soap. You’ll never wash the Martin filth from me. Don’t you know that?”

  “Hush.” His voice is so low it’s almost a suggestion. But by now, I know better. I hush.

  He’s reaching for my hair, tugging it back, and I have to admit it does feel good when the warm water massages my scalp. He lathers my hair in a fragrant, lavender-scented soap, then rinses me off. Foaming up a washcloth, he rubs it over my back, my tender arse, between my legs. I let him.

  “Good girl,” he says approvingly, when I turn to let the water wash me. “You did well, lass.”

  It’s almost like this is an apology. A silent act of service that means I’m sorry.

  I stand and let him do this. He shuts the water off, steps out of the shower, and grabs another towel before he reaches for me.

  “Come here,” he says.

  “Again, come here,” I say with a sigh, but I’m tired and there’s little bite in my tone. “Why don’t you snap your fingers.”

  Nonplussed, he nods. “We’ll get there.”

  The hell we will.

  He towels me off and wraps me up, then lifts me up and over the broken glass on the floor. There’s a glass of wine on the bedside table I didn’t notice before, the bed’s made, and there’s a little nightie waiting on one side of the bed.

  “That’s to be your side,” he says.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “It’s furthest from the door. I sleep on the side nearest the door.”

  “Really? Why?”

  He gives me an exasperated look, as if the answer’s obvious.

  “In case of intruders, lass. Don’t tell me your brother and father didn’t teach you that?”

  “Teach me what?”

  “That your husband sleeps by the door. That if we go out, my position will be in view of an entrance. That when we walk on a sidewalk, I’ll be the one facing the street. The very basics.”

  I look away from him while I process this. I shake my head. “Well, no. They didn’t. But they weren’t… the protective sort.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  I turn to face him. “Why would someone who wants to protect me give me away to the enemy? Hmm?”

  “Duty,” he says.

  I shake my head and change the subject.

  “Did you call someone?” I ask, while I tug on the nightie. It’s short but soft, and comfortable.

  “Aye. They brought us drinks, and made the bed. I’ll clean up the bathroom, as well. Now drink,” he orders. “Then sleep.”

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and swig the wine. It’s cool, fruity, and sweet, and warms my insides like a hot toddy. I drink until the glass is empty.

  “Aren’t you going to drink as well?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I’ve got work to do.”

  I push the wine glass back on the table and lay down in the bed.

  “Now?” I yawn. Is he talking about cleaning up the broken glass? Seems odd to refer to that as “work to do.” My entire body sinks into the mattress. I’m so tired. So bloody tired.

  I listen for his response, my eyelids already closing.

  He doesn’t answer my question. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  And then I remember. The sheets.

  “You want to deliver the sheets yourself,” I say on a yawn.

  “Aye. I want to deliver a few things.”

  I wonder what he means.

  I ask my questions, my eyes still closed. “Aren’t you… are you going to join me?” Isn’t that his job as a married man? A part of me is sad this is how my wedding night’s going to end. Alone. In pain.

  “Later,” he says. I open my eyes a little, and from the corner of my eye, I see him open a drawer and remove a pair of jeans.

  “When will you be back?”

  He doesn’t respond. I close my eyes, so tired I can’t keep them open anymore, and he flicks the light off on the bedside table. He bends down and whispers in my ear. “You’re safe here, now, Aileen.”

  But I’m not, and he knows it. I’m not safe from him.

  My eyes are closed, and sleep beckons.

  Why did I bait him? I yawn, when I feel the sheets and blankets tucked in around me. I hear a rustling and want to open my eyes, but they seem too heavy. Maybe Cormac does have a tender side.

  I drift off to sleep, assaulted by memories of what happened today. But the wine mutes my memories, and soon I’m in a dreamless sleep.

  I wake what must be hours later to the sound of movement in the other room. Moonlight illuminates the room from the window, the shade not yet drawn. The door to the bedroom opens, and he enters. He tiptoes into the room as if not to wake me. If he wasn’t an arsehole, it’d be cute.

  “You’re back?”

  “Do I look like a ghost?”

  “Absolutely not.” I roll over to watch him undress. It’s a fair good sight.

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “Aye.” I don’t, though. I just watch. It’s too dark in here to see his eyes, and I may be imagining it, but I swear I see his lips twitch.

  He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the door. He’s tidy, I’ll give him that. Next comes his shoes, and then his t-shirt, each neatly put away. Soon he’s standing in front of me in nothing but his boxers. He stalks over to the bed, lifts a corner of the blanket, and slides in. I roll over toward him.

  “Now can I ask where you went?” I ask, folding my hands under my cheek.

  “You can ask me anything you want,” he replies. He fluffs the pillow, then lays his head back. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer. Hell, most of the time I won’t.”

  “For my own good,” I say, unable to keep the bitter tone out of my response.

  If he hears the sarcasm, he doesn’t react. “Aye.”

  A beat of silence passes.

  “So where did you go, then? Did you take the sheets to my father?”

  “Aye. Your brother was kind enough to take them,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  My stomach clenches. God, I hate my brother.

  “Oh?”

  He opens one eye and looks at me. “Oh. I knew where your bro
ther would be tonight. I met him there.”

  “It took you that long just to hand him sheets?”

  He shakes his head and turns back away from me, facing the ceiling before closing his eyes. “No. I told you I had more than one thing to deliver.”

  “Aye? What was the other thing?”

  “Thorough beating to your brother,” he says with a satisfied nod. “Owed him a black eye.”

  I sit up in bed. “Wait, what? You gave my brother a black eye?”

  He yawns again. “Two of ‘em.”

  “But why?”

  “He hit my wife. Bastard’s lucky I let him live.”

  “But he… but you… he hit me before we were married. I wasn’t your wife then.”

  I might fall in love with a man who defends me.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Again, another beat of silence passes while I process what he’s just told me. “Did you… Cormac, please look at me?”

  He obliges. “Yes?”

  “Did you… defend my honor?”

  He smiles for real this time. Hell, I wish he’d do it more. His eyes light up like jade-flecked crystal, and up close like this, I note a dimple in his cheek I didn’t notice before.

  “Course I did.” He leans over and tweaks my nose.

  “Hey!” My cheeks flush.

  “Hey what?”

  “Don’t pinch my nose like I’m a cute little girl.”

  “Ah, but you are a cute little girl. And sweetheart, have you forgotten I’ll do whatever I like?”

  How could I forget?

  I hmph in indignation, but know better than to fight this.

  “Well. Thank you,” I finally say.

  “For what?” he asks, yawning again.

  “For beating up my brother. I hope you gave it to him good. He’s a class-A arsehole.”

  He chuckles, the sound so sexy my heart beats a little faster.

  “He absolutely is, and I absolutely did. Now sleep, Aileen.”

  I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come right away.

  My brother is hardly one to take a beating without recourse.

  I go over what happened today. What happened tonight. My husband is a demanding man, but he’s a protective one. He’s jealous, too.

  “Cormac?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Will there be blowback? Will he retaliate?”

  “He could, but I think I made it clear that would be a mistake.”

  I lay in silence, wondering what he means by that. Wondering what magic he possesses.

  “I can almost hear your brain spinning,” he says. “I said sleep. Now do you need me to force the issue?”

  I yawn. “How would you do that? You can’t exactly spank someone to sleep.”

  “You can try.”

  I surprise even myself by laughing, then shaking my head and rolling over onto my side, away from him. He moves closer to me, slaps my arse teasingly over the thick blankets, and drapes one of his heavy arms over me. It feels nice, somehow. Soothing. I close my eyes, and for the second time that night, fall asleep.

  My dreams are dark and troubled. In one, I’m being held prisoner by my father, locked in my room with no windows or light. I wrestle through it, only to find the harder I fight, the tighter the restraints. I wake in a cold sweat, panting. Cormac’s arm’s still tight around me.

  “Y’alright?” he asks from behind me.

  “Aye. Just a bad dream.”

  He holds me tighter, and I finally drift back to sleep. I almost wish he wasn’t like this, that he wouldn’t hold me and do things like defend my honor. It’s hard to hate someone who treats you with momentary kindness. But hell, if I’m to be married to this man, I might as well make the most of it.

  I wake the next morning to the sound of running water in the bathroom. I open my eyes, and look about the room, and feel a bit lighter this time. Seems I slept off some of the heaviness of the night before.

  He was mean yesterday. Hell, he was even cruel at times. Then he dragged himself out to punish my brother on my behalf… to avenge me, like the knights of old. And maybe somehow, as I slept, my subconscious worked that one out.

  I look about the large room, past the massive bed. The walls are bare save one small framed print near the closet, but I can’t see what it says. I yawn widely. Looks like it might be the knot tattooed on Cormac’s arm, or some seal or something.

  There’s a table and chairs, but the furniture in here is otherwise sparse. Still, it’s dust-free and clean, and I can see faint trail marks in the carpet that indicate someone took a Hoover to it the day before. The fragrance of the flowers still permeates the air. I take in a deep breath, then let it out again.

  I wonder how much freedom my new husband will give me. Just outside this window, I can see the edge of a beautiful garden in front of the house. Around the bend is the front of the house, with the stunning trellis and greenery, the blooming flowers, and roughly-hewn bench.

  Will he let me roam these grounds? Will he let me go to the kitchen, or to the library? Will I be allowed the freedom to shop? To have a job? I look around the room, wondering where my phone is. Will I be allowed to call my friends? To see them again?

  Thankfully, he opens the door and steps into the room. I want to ask him these questions.

  “Will I be given any freedom?”

  I look straight in his eyes when I ask the question, then realize he’s wearing a towel slung around his waist, and Mother of God, even though he angers me, the man’s a walking god.

  “Well, good morning to you, too,” he says, walking over to the chest of drawers nearest the bathroom.

  “Good morning,” I say impatiently, waving aside his greeting. “I have questions, Cormac.”

  His back’s to me now, as he takes folded clothing out of his drawers, and my, what a back it is. Broad. Muscled. Dotted with tats in intricate swirls, knots, and tribal markings. I bet they have meanings. I long to know them.

  “And lucky for you, lass, I have answers. Now, you want to know how much freedom you’ll have?”

  He lets his towel drop to the floor and I get a full view of his magnificent arse. I stop lamenting the fact that my husband’s so built. Being married to an arsehole who let his body go to seed would be infinitely worse.

  “The answer is, you’ll have some freedom, but you’re under my protection now. So you won’t be allowed to do things that will endanger you.”

  My heart sinks. “Like what?” I’m aware my voice sounds like a petulant child’s.

  “Shopping, for instance. I’ll allow it, in moderation, and money isn’t the concern. You’ll be given a credit card, cash, whatever it is you need. But you won’t be traipsing around the shops with your mates, and putting yourself in harm’s way.”

  I frown. “Then how will I shop?”

  “I’ll clear the stores and give you leave or go with you myself.” He grimaces, as if the very thought is painful.

  I blink. “You’ll… clear the stores?”

  “If I can’t go myself, aye.”

  He turns to face me as he yanks a clean white t-shirt over his chest. For the first time, I notice he’s got a cut across his chin and nose, and a bruise on his cheek.

  “You’re hurt! Did my brother hit you?”

  He looks puzzled at first, then raises a hand to his cheek, as if just remembering the cuts and bruises. “Ah. He did, before I throttled him.”

  “I’d have paid to see that,” I muse. And I would have. Watching my brother get his arse kicked by Cormac would’ve been worth it. “Now back to the shops. What were you saying?”

  “We’ll set it up ahead of time. You’ll have the shops to yourself, and you’ll have either me with you or my men.”

  Is he that much more powerful than my father that he’ll give me a private shopping day? It’s hard to imagine.

  “Well. Okay, then. What about these grounds?”

  “You live here, now, Aileen,” he says, his green eyes holding my gaze.
“You’re my wife. That grants you freedom and privileges unlike most here, save Caitlin. She’s wife to the Chief. But you’ll like her, lass. Behave yourself and you might get along.”

  I huff out in indignation. “I typically behave myself,” I tell him. “For goodness sakes, I’m not a child.”

  “You only play one on the telly?” His eyes twinkle, but I’m not amused.

  “Oh, shut it.”

  He wags a finger in my direction. “Careful, lass. Watch that smart mouth.”

  “Or what?” I throw back. I know damn well or what but I feel like pushing him. I want to make him say it. Maybe if he says it out loud he’ll realize what an overbearing ogre he is.

  “Really, now,” he says. He lifts his leather belt from the dresser, but doesn’t thread it through the loops on his trousers quite yet. He forms a loop with it, tugs the folded end, and snaps it. “Do you need me to say?”

  I swallow hard and sigh. “Yes.”

  He smiles, but it’s condescending, not amused. “If you mouth off to me, sweetheart, your arse meets my palm. Or my belt, as it were. As mine, you’ll do as I say and show respect. And in time, you’ll learn what’s expected of you.”

  I don’t like this one bit, but I suppose it’s fruitless arguing the point.

  “Does Caitlin have the same rules, or is it just me because I’m new?”

  “It doesn’t interest me what rules my brother has for his wife, but I’ll tell you this. All the men of The Clan are heads of their own houses. It’s how things have always been and always will be.”

  “That’s backwards.”

  He shrugs. “Call it what you will, it’s part of our code. We protect and care for our own. And in turn, we ask you grant us that privilege.”

  Well, that’s fucked up. I’m wise enough to keep that to myself, though.

  “Am I allowed my cell phone?”

  “Yes, but there’s tracking on it so I know where you are.” I expected as much. “And we’ll meet with my men shortly, to go over expectations. As a member of our Clan, you’re never to discuss business matters with those outside The Clan.”