I’m not a needy girl and never have been, so the sudden, uncontrollable need to have him, to be owned by him, to be well and truly loved by him, consumes me like an insatiable hunger.
He reaches me and pins me against the sink. His fingers rake through my hair, and instant pain erupts on my scalp, but for some reason it’s only a taste of what I need. I lean into him, craving more of his velvet-laden brutality.
Both of his hands are woven in my hair, when his forehead meets mine. His body’s taut with anger and conviction, both feet planted on either side of me so firmly I’m trapped within his heat and stare.
“It isn’t enough,” he whispers.
“What?” I whisper back.
“The marks I’ve given you. It isn’t enough. I need to mark you further.”
I shiver involuntarily. I fear what marking me further might mean.
“How?” I whisper. My neck throbs from where he marked me, my skin still feels the heat of his seed he marked me with.
“What I’d do to you if we were back home…” I have no idea of what he’s actually referring to, but honest to God I want to know.
“I need a chain,” he whispers in my ear, the vibration of his voice on my skin sending a thrill of pleasure and fear down my spine. In my mind’s eye, I immediately conjure up thick metal chains like a prisoner might wear, and that doesn’t seem to quite jive. I shiver.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have at my disposal what I need, lass,” he says. “But I’ll make do.”
I can see when he gets an idea, the way a glimmer of creativity shimmers in his eyes. I swallow hard when he nods and holds up a finger for me to stay where I am. I couldn’t move if I tried. My eyes follow him as he leaves, and he returns a moment later with his wallet, a chain dangling from it. Normally he’d hook the end of the chain on his trousers, but clearly he has different ideas.
“Give me your locket,” he says. Wordlessly, I obey and hand it to him. He takes it, reaches for my wrist, and wraps the chain around it. Then he clicks the hook from his wallet chain on my newly-fashioned bracelet and slides the other end into his pocket, clipping it back on the wallet.
He kisses my cheek, my temple, down my nose to my mouth, and when he finally pulls away from me, I’m panting with need for him all over again.
“Lachlan,” I say on a whisper. “I want… I need…” How does someone graciously say Take my goddamn V-card?
He shakes his head. “All you need right now is to do exactly what I tell you.” The note of steel in his voice sends a shiver straight down my spine. “I’ve always demanded your obedience, Fiona.” He sighs. “But it’s never been more crucial than it is tonight. Do you understand me?”
I nod. “I think so.”
He shakes his head, dissatisfied with my answer. “You think so?” he repeats, tossing the words out as if they’re distasteful to him. “Tonight, we walk among men who see women as commodities. These women are stolen and auctioned like cattle.” My stomach clenches at the thought.
“What?” I whisper.
“They have no identity. No family. Life as you know it doesn’t exist for them. These men make millions of dollars a year doing their work.”
“Why are you—why are we—why would Keenan…”
“Because we’re in a desperate situation,” he explains with a sigh. “These men are affiliated with the Boston Irish, and we need those connections tonight. We need someone who can help us against the enemies we face.”
I mull this over, unsure of what this really means. How? Why?
“How do you know these aren’t the very men who are after us?”
He scrubs a hand across his brow. “We don’t. All I have is Keenan’s word for it, and since I trust Keenan with my life, it’s all we’ve got.”
I think this over, then nod. “Alright, then. I trust you, you know that, Lachlan. Let’s do what we have to and find out what we need to.”
A part of me wants to get on the next plane back to Ballyhock.
But only if he’s with me.
The idea of classes and frat parties, and all the frivolity of a year at college in Boston seems so out of the ordinary now. Child’s play from what we face.
“What’s on your mind, Fiona?”
He’s buttoning his cuffs, and I take a minute to admire how hot he is all dressed up like this. “Well don’t you shine up nice,” I mutter. A corner of his lips quirks up in that signature boyish way of his.
“Could say that about you, too,” he says. “Now tell me, what’s on your mind? I can tell you’re upset about something.”