His Captive

by Zahra Girard

  He holds it there, his fingers lightly stroking me.

  “Fuck, you’re wet, lass. I like it,” he murmurs.

  My sex is pulsing with need just feeling him against me. I want more. I know he wants more. His hips are moving back and forth as he touches me, his cock grinding against my leg through his slacks.

  For the shortest second, he moves my panties aside, his fingers brushing against my bare pussy, making my knees weak and my face flush with need. Then, he draws his finger back and slides it between his lips.

  “I love how you taste, lass,” he whispers.

  I moan. “Here? Please?”

  I’m begging. I want him.

  Connor shakes his head, then puts his fingers to his lips, telling me to be quiet. He takes my hand and leads me further down the hallway. Bistro de Medici is a fancy place, and each bathroom is an individual room.

  There’s an attendant sitting out front, and he stares suspiciously as Connor and I approach. Connor looks at him, sizes him up, then pulls some cash out of his pocket, and hands it over.

  “Take a break,” he says.

  The man’s hardly ten steps down the hallway before Connor pulls me into one of the dark, granite and marble decorated rooms.

  “Here. Now,” Connor growls, taking hold of me, his hands finding the zipper on the back of my dress. Roughly, forcefully, he strips me down and his hungry lips are on my bare chest.

  I gasp.

  This is what I want.

  I slide my hands between his legs, grabbing his thickness through the fabric of his slacks. I stroke him, luxuriating in every growl and moan I draw out of his hard body.

  “We don’t have much time,” he says.

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re both ready,” I reply.

  Putting both hands on his chest, I push hard, sending him backwards into the tiled wall of the restroom. I walk towards him and my fingers make short work of the buttons on his shirt. My fingers trace lines down his powerful chest, loving every hard muscle, every scar, every tattoo that. His body tells a story of sex and power that thrills me in ways I’ve never known before.

  My fingers drift down his six-pack abs and, with two quick pulls, his belt is open. He watches me the whole time, a grin on his face and desire burning in his eyes.

  I pull his cock free.

  It’s thick and pulsing and hard, throbbing to the rhythm of his heart. I ache to feel it inside me, to feel close to him, to hear every bit of gasping pleasure I can squeeze out of him while he fucks me.

  “I don’t want to play around, Connor. No games. I want you to fuck me, right now.”

  “Whatever you say, lass. We are celebrating you tonight, after all.”

  His voice burns with heat and he doesn’t hesitate to rip my panties off my body. Firm hands take me by my shoulders, turn me around, and push me to my knees.

  I settle on all fours and he gets behind me.

  Kneeling down, he comes right up to my ear. I feel his lips against me, his hot breath on my ear, and the head of his cock at the entrance to my ready pussy.

  “Don’t worry about being quiet,” he says. “I don’t give a fuck who can hear us, and I’m sure as hell not going to be gentle.”

  I don’t respond.

  I can’t do anything but moan, because as soon as the words leave his lips, he takes me.

  Pain. Heat. Bliss.

  My sex clenches around his, and moans spill from our lips in unison. His cock is so hard inside me, so warm, and every part of me, from my head to my toes, is tingling. Connor’s fingers tighten on my hips, and the next thrust pushes me forward, my face inches from the floor.

  “Fuck, Connor, that feels so good,” I moan.

  Dirty, hot, and loud, he fucks me. Slow and first, then faster, and I can’t think about anything but how good it feels to have him fill me; how much my body needs every inch of him inside me, how good it feels to surrender to his insatiable desire.

  “Damn, Evelyn, your ass is incredible,” he says, then delivers a hard crack across my ass. “Truly fucking incredible.”

  I yelp.

  “Again,” I say. Loud.

  To hell with being quiet.

  My body shakes, rocking forward and back with each time he takes me. I can barely keep myself upright.

  He spanks me again, and I yell for him to do it again.

  “That’s a nice set of pipes on ya, Whiskey Gal,” Connor says, approvingly.

  I pause for a second, closing my mouth. Connor’s remark has made me realize just how loud we’re being.

  I listen.

  I think I hear whispers in the hallway.

  I look back over my shoulder, at Connor.

  He’s more than just a man; every muscle in his powerful chest rippling and flexing, pure, untamed heat in his eyes, and a grin on his face that tells me he knows that I’m all his and loves it.

  He cranes his neck, listening. “Seems like we have an audience. Want to give ‘em a real show?”

  Heat burns through my body and anticipation builds between my legs. I want more. I want everything he can give. I want him.

  “Yes,” I moan. “Yes, yes.”

  He pulls his tie from around his neck, then lifts me to my feet. In one smooth motion, he jerks my hands behind my back and binds them with his necktie.

  He leads me to the door. Pushes me right against it.

  My face meets the cool wood.

  Pressing hard, holding me in just the right place, he takes me again, and I can not hold back the ragged sound of pleasure that bursts from my lips.

  He owns me.

  Every bit of me.

  And he is not shy about letting the people listening in the hallway know exactly how much I’m his. Every time I cry out, every moan I make, every time the door shakes from our wanton fucking, is just another affirmation of Connor’s ownership of my body and my heart.

  “Do you like the way I fuck you?” he says, loud.

  “Yes,” I moan.

  “Say it again. Louder,” he says.

  Thrusting deep, hard. Bright colors flash in my vision.

  My sex clenches around his cock. I’m overwhelmed, overpowered, by lust, by his dominating sexuality.

  “Yes,” I say again, louder.

  “Tell me exactly what you like,” he says, bringing his hand cracking down on my ass.

  I yelp.

  My head is spinning.

  I’m so close.

  It feels like I can hardly breathe.

  “I love how you fuck me. I love how you smack my ass. I love to feel you come inside me,” I say, loud enough that I know everyone can hear me.

  “Good lass,” he whispers in my ear. “Do you want it?”

  I want to say yes. I want to feel him fill me, I want to feel his cock quiver and shake inside me as he climaxes.

  But he shifts his hips.

  He hits just the right spot.

  Again and again, his cock presses against my g-spot and glistening lights fill my vision with a thousand bursting colors.

  Connor fucks me like he owns me.

  My knees give out.

  Oh.

  He presses me hard against the door.

  My lips part and his name is the one thing I say. Over and over as I ride the wave of my climax. Every part of me shakes in ecstasy, my body clenching and releasing and clenching again as every nerve and synapse fires in peaking pleasure.

  I’m a writhing, shaking mess held upright by the force of Connor’s fucking. Every ripped, corded muscle in his arms flexes, holding me standing, pressing me against the door, as he fills me and overwhelms me.

  A groan comes from behind me.

  He’s close.

  Please. I want every drop.

  Connor tightens his grips on my hips, fucking me deeper, harder, holding me still as my body fires in ecstasy.

  “I’m going to give it to you, lass,” he says, his voice deep, echoing in his powerful chest. Then, with one final thrust, he takes me deep, all the w
ay to the base of his cock.

  Sweet pain fills me.

  He holds me still.

  I feel him let go. Every bit of him flows into me. Bodies pressed together, we’re joined in our surging climax.

  I savor the moment. The moment he pulses and twitches inside me, as I feel even closer to this man who has such an effect on me.

  Fingers tease my back, brushing me lightly, sending shivers flashing throughout me.

  “Good lass,” he says. “Ready for dinner?”

  I moan and try to shake some alertness back into my head. I’m in no condition right now to do anything but stay here in his arms.

  Somehow, I take a few deep breaths and pull some life into my body.

  “I will be. Just give me a sec, ok?”

  He leaves me, and cleans himself up as best he can and I do the same. Which is to say, not that well. It’s obvious we’ve been fucking.

  We open the door to a small group of three gawking couples. They part for us, staring open-mouthed, as I follow Connor. I don’t feel the least bit of shame or embarrassment. In fact, I feel a bit of pride, knowing that he and I just did something that people will be whispering about for months.

  I feel closer to this man who has such a powerful, undeniable effect one me. He makes me feel alive.

  I forget about those questions I asked him earlier — about his business, about the things he does and the pain he causes — because right now, I just want to enjoy this moment.

  I just want to enjoy my time with this man.

  Connor Halloran. A man unlike any other.

  I think I might have feelings for him. Feelings beyond lust. I know it’s not right. He’s dangerous. But I keep getting glimpses of the good man inside him and I want to see more.

  There is something about Connor that keeps drawing me in, that has me thinking I might feel more for him that just simple lust. And there’s something about him that holds me back form thinking about how close we might be to it all crashing down.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Connor

  I never expected dinner to go like that.

  Well, that’s not totally true. I might’ve had a stray fantasy or two that turned out similar.

  But honestly, I just expected it to be a nice dinner, a reward, a way to show her that — even if she doesn’t care much for what she writes about now — I do care.

  Yeah, I know it’s fucking nuts.

  I know this whole situation is fucking nuts — me, with a reporter, who might have information that could put me and a lot of other people in jail.

  But that’s part of the thrill.

  Whether she admits it or not, Evelyn Thomson is dangerous.

  And when we sat at that table in that fancy restaurant, when she kept going when I tried to challenge her questions with ones of my own — ones I thought would embarrass her — and she kept going. When she challenged me, even when it was something I didn’t want to talk about, it was fucking hot.

  I’m in love with danger; it’s why I’m so good at what I do. The rush I get from taking down someone who threatens my family is unlike anything else I’ve ever felt.

  And now I just might be in love with her. With the woman who could put my family away for life with just a few words.

  These thoughts roll through my head as we eat our dinner, surrounded by rich, uptight assholes who can only stare as Evelyn and I eye-fuck each other.

  I throw a wad of cash on the table as soon as we’re done.

  Our waiter’s going to have a great night once he checks our table. But the guy deserves it — he’s going to get an earful from anyone who sat around us. Bunch of uptight pricks.

  I lead Evelyn back to my car.

  I can’t wait to get her home.

  Tonight’s just cemented one thing in my head: I want to get closer to her. And to do that, I want to show her a part of me that she hasn’t seen. I want to build a bit of that trust I’m always talking about.

  What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

  Even Riley would give me shit if he knew half the stuff I felt for Evelyn.

  We get home. My apartment door shuts behind us and I’m nervous.

  I’m Connor Fucking Halloran, right hand man to the god of Boston’s Underworld. I’ve got a body count that’s almost as high as the number of women I’ve thrown into my bed. I live for the kind of danger that would make most men’s testicles fucking recede into their fucking bodies.

  Yet here I am, nervous over a girl. Over what she’s going to think.

  “I need to show you something,” I say, sounding probably a lot harsher than I intend to.

  She looks at me, confused, probably a bit on edge from how I just barked at her. “Ok… Sure, what is it?”

  I take her hand and lead her to the door that I normally keep locked.

  A turn of the key opens up a part of me.

  It’s not much inside.

  It used to be a bedroom.

  But now, there’s a desk, a book case, and a few chairs.

  “This is my office,” I tell her.

  She steps inside, and the first place she heads to is the bookcase. There’s even a few books in there. Though they’re outnumbered ten-to-one by porno mags and copies of Sports Illustrated’s.

  “Office?” She says, looking over my books. “What does a hitman need an office for?”

  I shuffle my feet.

  Fuck, what am I? Eight?

  I clear my throat.

  “Sometimes I need a place I can sit and think and take care of the things in my life that don’t involve the MacCailins.”

  Evelyn holds up one of the magazines. It’s a five-year-old copy of Breast Aficionado titled “The Busty, Bronze Beauties of the Bahamas”.

  It’s a good one. Reminds me I need to go to the Bahamas sometime. Even if my white Irish ass does not do well in the sun.

  “A place to sit and think, huh?” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “Sometimes thinking makes me tense and that helps relieve the tension. But put that down, and be careful — it’s a limited edition. That’s not why I’m showing you this.”

  I lead her to the desk.

  It’s a simple desk. Old, polished wood that’s so worn it almost glows. Medical bills and half-crumpled papers cover it — letters that I started but could never finish — and at one end, there’s an old framed photograph. The image in that photograph is burned into my memory: me, eight years old and enveloped in an old second-hand coat, holding hands with my mom and dad, all dressed up to go ice skating on the Frog Pond.

  I hand it to her.

  She takes it gently from my hands. I don’t have to tell her how important it is. She knows.

  My voice almost cracks like a fucking teenager when I start to speak.

  “You asked about my parents earlier. That’s them. My mom and my dad,” I say.

  Her eyes are glued to me, and her face is so open, so caring, that even though what I’m going to say next isn’t something I thought I’d say in a million years, it still feels OK.

  “I need your help.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Evelyn

  “Excuse me?”

  Things just got real serious. Going from glancing at his porno collection to talking about his estranged parents? Yeah, that’s jarring.

  I need to take a breath.

  Being around Connor is overwhelming in ways I can hardly comprehend. First I see him kill a man, then he fucks me senseless in the restroom of the most exclusive restaurant in Boston, and now he needs my help… with his parents?

  “I need your help,” Connor says, his voice suddenly ragged and worn. “You asked me if my family, my real family, knew what I do. And they do. Kind of.”

  I sit down at the desk.

  Best to just hold on for the ride.

  “How can I help?” I say.

  Connor pulls up a second chair to the desk and sits down.

  “They weren’t happy when I took to running with the MacCailin
family. I did it at first because it paid better than the pub, and my father was never a healthy man. He was always in and out of jobs. We needed the money. Working for the MacCailins brought me plenty of that and something even better than money: respect.”

  My eyes drift from the photograph to the crumpled papers on the desk. Some are bills from a rest home in Worcester. But most are half-started letters. They’re all addressed to his mother and father. They all start with apologies.

  It’s starting to come together. But I don’t want to say anything or make any assumptions. This is sensitive stuff. I’m worried that if I jump to conclusions or push to hard, I might not see this side of Connor again.

  He’s open, he’s unguarded, he’s trusting.

  It’s the good side of him. The part of him that makes me want to stay by his side after the sexy, dangerous part draws me in.

  “They weren’t happy about it, were they?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  He shakes his head.

  “Dad beat me bloody. Mom took the money — we needed it — but she cried every time I handed it over. I moved out really young. Spent a lot of time at the MacCailin house. I kept sending my parents money, but I couldn’t tell them it came from killing.”

  “I’m sorry, Connor,” I say, and I put my hand over his.

  He nods.

  “Thank you. A couple years ago, they moved into a home out in Worcester. Dad’s health needs more care than just mom can give. I’ve got the admins there sending me the bills direct. Makes my mom and dad feel better. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”

  “What can I do?” I say.

  Picking up one of the letters, he looks at it for a moment, then looks to me. “Last I heard from his doctors, my dad has six months. Last I heard from my dad, he said I was a low-life piece of shit thug and he wished my mother had miscarried. I’ve said it before, Evelyn, but family is important. And I don’t want my dad to go out with things being the way they are between us.”

  I think a second. “You want me to write the letter for you?”

  “I ain’t good with words. But you are. I don’t want to do any confessing — I don’t want to tell him exactly what I’m doing — but I want him to know why. And I want them both to know that I forgive ‘em, and that they’re important to me.”