Now my potential husband is offering me more freedom than I’d ever thought I’d have. He’s offering me essentially a life apart from him when our interests of children and family don’t need to align. I could do anything I wanted. I could have a lover in some other country. I could fuck the pool boy. I could—
Good lord, Saoirse, when did you go from having no libido to making a list of potential conquests?
It’s not even the other men that really spark my interest, though. It’s thefreedom.The freedom to say yes or no, to choose what I want to do. To have a life of my own apart from my duties to my husband and family.
“I want to speak to your father again before making a decision.” Connor pushes away from the wall, taking a step back, and I acutely feel the space between us. Iwanthim to touch me, want him to kiss me again, but I tell myself that it’s for the best, that if Connor is going to withhold things from me, it’s best if I learn to cool my desire for him.
“Let’s go, then.” It’s not theyesthat I’d hoped to return to my father with, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Connor doesn’t touch me, striding ahead as he leads me to the back of the warehouse. “Towncar or bike?” he asks, his tone almost condescending, as if he expects me to be afraid of the bike, or disgusted by it, now that I’m not playing the part that I was that first night. “You’ll need to tell your driver to come around if you want to take the car.”
I tilt my chin up, meeting his blue gaze evenly. “I’ll get on the bike,” I tell him, savoring the flash of surprise that I see on his face. “I even wore boots.”
“So you did.” Connor shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe me. He shrugs out of his jacket, holding it out to me. I have half a mind to refuse it, but it’s raining still, and though I’m still dry for now under the awning behind the warehouse, I won’t be for long if I get on the bike without it.
I take it mutely from him, trying to ignore the scent of tobacco and cologne that seems permanently embedded in the leather, the pulse of heat between my thighs as I shrug into it.
“Hop on then, princess,” he says, swinging his leg over the bike and firing up the engine. “It’s rainy out, so hold on tight.”
Holding onto Connor is the last thing I want to do right now. I instantly regret my pride in saying I’d get on the bike as I wrap my arms around him, my breasts pressed against his back and my knees squeezing his hips as he starts to turn out onto the road. The heat of his body is burning into me, a stark contrast to the chilly wind and rain, and as I lean against him, I know this was a mistake.
Butgod, it feels good.
I’d never thought I would enjoy riding a motorcycle. A few days ago, I would have said I was terrified at the idea of riding one. Butthis—it’s only my second time on the back of the bike, and I already wish I could ask Connor to take me out on it every day.Maybe I will, if we go back to Boston together.
I push the thought away as soon as it enters my mind. He won’t go for it, and I know that, just as sure as I know anything else. He wants to keep us separate, a business arrangement, not do things that could bring us closer. Going out on intimate motorcycle rides, our bodies pressed close together, definitely counts as something that would do just that.
So instead, I soak it up now, as Connor speeds towards the hotel. The damp cotton of his shirt against my hands, the rain-soaked scent of him in my nostrils, the leather and hot metal, andoh god, the vibration of the seat between my legs. The speed and the adrenaline terrifying me and thrilling me all at once, the way Connor so effortlessly controls the powerful machine.
I’m sad when the ride ends and Connor hands the bike over to the valet. He takes his jacket back without a word, tugging it off my shoulders without asking. As we step into the elevator, I glance at him, wondering if he’s thinking what I am. If he’s thinking about the first time we were here, and me up against the glass-paneled wall, his hands in my jeans and—
He doesn’t make a move toward me. He stays on the other side of the elevator, his jaw stubbornly set. When the bell sounds for our floor and the doors open, he strides out without a word towards the room where he knows my father will be waiting.
Except for this time, he’s wrong.
“He’ll be in his room,” I blurt out. “This way.”
Connor sighs with annoyance, but follows me. We walk to the room a few doors down, and Connor pushes in front of me, banging on the door with two heavy knocks before stepping back.
My father answers the door, irritation plain on his face. I don’t understand it at first—and then I see who’s standing behind him, and my stomach drops.
For some fucking reason, Niall Flanagan is in London.