Because I knew what he could do to me if I let him.
And god, I wanted to let him.
I struggled to banish all thoughts from my mind as we walked outside. Roman’s motorcycle was parked by the curb and one of his men stood beside it. Roman put on his helmet and I pulled on mine, then climbed onto the back. We rode out into traffic.
I leaned against him again. This time, I didn’t hold back. I touched his stomach, his chest, and even let my hand drift down to his thigh. I wanted to mess with him, tease him—and maybe we’d die in the process.
But what a way to go.
I felt his cock stiffen as he drove faster, almost recklessly fast, weaving in and out of traffic. He dodged a pedestrian as I squeezed his tip then stroked his shaft, and I felt something humming, maybe the bike, maybe his body, I didn’t know.
I had no clue where he was taking me, and I didn’t care.
The bike zipped between cars then rolled to a stop in a quiet neighborhood. He killed the engine and I pulled my hands back, grinning to myself as I hopped off the bike and took off my helmet. I shook my hair out and raised an eyebrow at him.
He stayed seated for several long moments, helmet hiding his expression.
I could only imagine the rage and desire in his eyes.
“Are you coming, husband? Oh, sorry, I meant, are you getting off the bike anytime soon?”
He grunted and stood up, removed the helmet, and shoved the key into his pocket.
“You’ll get us killed doing shit like that.”
“Oh, I have full faith in your driving abilities.”
He moved to walk past me then stopped and cupped my chin, looking into my eyes with that molten stare. “You really shouldn’t.”
His tongue was like heaven, his lips like the pearly gates. I sneered at him, happy to have a little bit of control back.
He let me go then strode toward a small green door with the words The Smuggler’s Bay painted above it.
The interior was dim and smelled like beer. The floors were sticky and everything was covered in wood molding, but it was a decent looking Irish pub, with a long bar and stools on the left and tiny cramped booths on the right and Irish-themed art along the walls. There was nobody else in the place and half the chairs were left upside down on the tables, and I was going to ask if he got the wrong address until we moved further into the back and I saw him.
My father with a pint of Guinness on the table and a scowl on his lips.
I stopped in my tracks. Roman continued on.
Dad looked like he had the day I left. It’d only been three years and I didn’t know what I expected, but something stabbed at me, seeing him like that, as if no time had passed at all. Slick dark hair, graying in the front, a severe, thin face, short nose, pursed lips like the room didn’t quite meet his standards. He was skinny and pale and angry, and I remembered that rage, whip-sharp and unrelenting.
He didn’t hit me. Didn’t beat me. Didn’t shout at me.
But if I stepped a toe out of line, if I got a bad grade or talked back, he punished me, and my punishments could be severe. Three weeks locked in my room for leaving the dishes dirty. A month with nothing but bread and water for calling him too strict.
I worked so hard to get away from this man. I never wanted to feel like this again—so small, so worthless.
But as soon as he looked in my direction, I was a little girl all over again.
Roman realized I wasn’t with him and glanced back. I couldn’t move, couldn’t do this. I wanted to turn and run.
He turned to me, took my hand in his own, and leaned forward. He kissed my cheek. “Be strong,” he whispered, “and breathe.”
I nodded and took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
We approached the table and Dad smiled.
“Cassie. It’s good to see you again.”
“Hi, Dad.”
Roman stepped forward, putting himself between me and my dad. “Thank you for meeting with me, Eamon.”
Dad looked at Roman and there was a hint of fear in his expression. I’d never seen that from him before. “When a man like yourself requests a discussion, a man like me doesn’t say no.”
“That’s good. May we sit?”
“Please.”
Roman pulled a chair out for me. I sat and looked at the floor, avoiding my dad’s gaze. Roman sat and leaned forward on his elbows, commanding my father’s attention.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“I have some guesses, but I’d rather hear from you.”
Roman tapped his finger on the table. “How much do you know about your daughter’s life since she left Boston?”