I sit perched on Seamus’s large wooden desk, swinging my legs, while Connor lounges by the door, apparently engrossed in his phone.
I’d be an idiot to think he’s not watching my every move. The silence is starting to get eerie, so I attempt to make conversation to break it.
“Do you speak Irish?”
Connor looks up from his phone, his eyebrows raising as he stares at me.
“Yes.”
“What does lan-awn mean?” It’s what Seamus calls me. I’ve worked out it is Irish, but I have no idea what it means. I can’t even Google it because I still don’t have a phone.
Connor blinks at me, a confused look crossing his face before it disappears, and he smirks.
“Sweetheart,” he grunts, looking back down at his phone. My lips curve up into a smile as I turn my eyes back to stare at the ground. Sweetheart, huh?
After about half an hour, the door swings open, and Seamus stalks in. There are some spots of blood on his right sleeve. Ant’s blood.
Connor disappears immediately, the door slamming shut behind him. Seamus stalks around the desk, his eyes flashing dangerously. His hand closes around my throat, and he roughly tugs me to my feet.
“Who the fuck was that?” he hisses.
Seamus probably got whatever information he wanted out of Ant when he spilled the blood he is now wearing, but he obviously needs to hear it from me.
“Antony Gresham,” I tell him promptly. His eyes signal for me to keep talking. “My ex.”
Seamus’s fingers tighten almost painfully around my neck.
“I broke things off with him two days after my father told me I was marrying you. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I don’t know why he was here tonight.”
Seamus’s eyes search my face, but the pressure on my neck doesn’t lessen. He backs me up against the wall without breaking eye contact, shoving my skirt up and my panties to the side, thrusting roughly into me.
I’m pinned against the wall, held in place by his hips, his hand still collaring my throat, just shy of painfully, his dick stretching me as he holds still.
Seamus leans close, his face inches from mine, his eyes angrily burning.
“I don’t fucking share.”
The lack of Irish brogue in his voice that is always present when he’s buried inside me tells me how serious this situation is right now.
“Any man who touches you is fucking dead, and if you let him, I’ll kill you too. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I choke out. I guess that answers my question. He totally killed Ant.
We stare at each other for a beat longer before Seamus growls, his hips moving as he roughly fucks me. It’s hard and raw and not at all for my pleasure. I don’t even think it is for his. This is to prove something to us both.
His fingers don’t loosen at my throat the entire time, and his eyes never leave mine. I take it silently, knowing this is what I need to do to prove to Seamus that I am his. And I’m willing to do it because things are fucked up between us, but there’s something there. I can’t explain it, and I don’t want to acknowledge it or examine it, but there is something there.
Seamus’s pupils dilate as he comes with a groan. He quickly withdraws, my panties snapping back into place as he drops my skirt, and his fingers finally disappear from my throat as he zips up the fly of his suit pants.
Hesitantly, with a gentleness so far absent in this encounter, he picks up my right wrist.
“You said he hurt you?” He’s carefully examining my wrist, turning it over in his hands.
“I’m fine. His grip was tight, and he wouldn’t let go, but I don’t think I’ll even have a bad bruise,” I assure him.
Seamus’s lips thin for a moment as he drops my hand.
“I have to get back out to the lads. Can you go into the dressing room and send out Natalie and Imelda? I want them working the floor.”