Chapter Eight
Finn
With a cup of coffee in my hand, I leaned against the doorjamb of my bedroom.
As expected, the mice that were Aidan’s clean-up crew had infiltrated my home and the evidence that had sullied my salon had disappeared while we’d slept.
The hall-long blood stain had been cleansed away, even the stains on my upholstered dining chair.
Even though the architect had gone, even though traces of his ‘excretions’ had, too, I’d still been pissed at the necessity.
I couldn’t even say that it was the first time Aidan had pulled such a dick move before, just never in my goddamn home.
That was the trouble with my line of work, though. Nowhere was sacred.
As I took a deep sip from my mug, I kept my gaze focused on the woman currently dressing herself.
She didn’t know I was there. Hadn’t for the past ten minutes.
Her lack of environmental awareness concerned me, even if I knew that I’d been purposely clandestine with my movements. I was standing on the outer side of the bedroom door, not the inner, and I hadn’t announced my presence.
With Aidan bouncing around like a demented basketball, the last thing I needed was Aoife being totally unaware of her surroundings.
Still, even as I groused, I didn’t make a move to announce the fact I was there.
Why would I?
I’d loved watching her dress.
Normally, I liked watching a woman undress, but with Aoife? The tiny moves she made were almost as sensual as a strip tease.
I loved that she’d asked for a pair of my briefs to wear under her jeans. Loved it. Fuck. She wasn’t coy. Hadn’t made a joke about going bare. But my underwear rubbed against her cunt and would do so until I took her home. . . .
That got my cock way more excited than it should have been after last night.
I swear, I hadn’t climaxed as hard and as often as that since I was a kid.
I wasn’t exactly old, but you aged fast in this business. The stress levels weren’t exactly easy to monitor, and when you were feeling overwhelmed, it wasn’t like you could take a six-month sabbatical and go away to drown your sorrows on some Caribbean beach.
I’d never been on vacation.
Ever.
I guess if I’d asked Aidan, he’d have granted me some time, but in his defense, he never stopped working, either. None of us did.
It was that kind of fast-paced lifestyle.
While I was only thirty-seven, I still had thirty-seven years’ worth of experience, and in those many years, I’d never had a night like I had last night.
Aoife was so earthy, so goddamn sensual that it seemed to flow from her to me.
Anything I’d wanted, it hadn’t been too much. She hadn’t been coy then, either. She’d thrown herself into everything we’d done with a passion I’d never felt before.
It made me wonder how many women who’d writhed under me had gotten off like she had. Had they faked it? The thought should be a bruise to my ego, but it wasn’t. Not when Aoife had responded to me like a duck took to water.
Just watching her drag my briefs over the curve of her ass, seeing the fabric tauten around her butt and hips, pull tight around her thighs, had my eyes narrowing. I could see from her cheeks she was flushed. She tutted at how small the briefs were on her, and I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she wasn’t happy about that.
Aoife wasn’t a small woman.
And I adored her like that.
She was curvy and round, her body perfect for my tastes, my needs. She was, I guessed, thick. Solid. Every inch of her made for me.
When she twisted, bending down for her pants, I got a view of her slit, making my mouth water and my cock harden. Again. The folds of her sex were clearly visible through the briefs, and I clenched my teeth against the sight.
Jesus Christ, I could take her now.
Bend her over the bed and fuck her like there was no tomorrow, as though last night hadn’t happened. As though my cock wasn’t well-sated.
When she was dressed, I murmured, “Do you want breakfast?”
She released a low shriek and spun around to face me. Her cheeks, already pink, grew brighter, but she didn’t chide me for sneaking up on her, even though from her furrowed brow and the fire in her eyes, I could see she wanted to.
My lips curved at the sight.
Fight me, sweetheart. Go on. Do it.
My words were internal, but they were encouraging. I wanted to see the true redhead temper, wanted to feel its burn. But she didn’t give it to me.
I was semi-disappointed when she swallowed, gulping it down to murmur, “I-I should get back.”
“No, you should eat breakfast first,” I countered. I wasn’t going to be able to see her for a few days. Not with the clusterfuck of yesterday to deal with—our architect wouldn’t go to the cops, but Aidan had still shot him in the thigh, and Eoghan had to dig around in the wound to not only get the bullet out, but to make it look as though the guy had been slashed with a knife.
By that point, the poor bastard had been passed out dead cold. Still, I needed to make sure this wouldn’t come back on us, and that the man was being taken care of—I needed him back on site as soon as possible.
Hey, less of the fucking judgment. He shouldn’t have gotten into bed with us if he didn’t want to risk dancing with the devil.
The man was paid well for his services, and I had no doubt I’d be authorizing a bonus as an apology from Aidan very shortly.
Some hands took and others gave.
It was the way of it.
With that to deal with, as well as the fact she was going to be sore for a few days, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing her soon. Just being around her made me want to be inside her, and not only did I not need the break in focus, but she also needed some rest.
She wasn’t a cheap slut that I didn’t want to take care of, one whose state of being I didn’t give a fuck about.
She was mine.
I cared for what belonged to me.
“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze from mine.
“It’s clean out there,” I informed her briskly. If she was going to be around me, she’d have to get used to violence. It was an integral part of my world.
After swallowing again, she looked at me, and I knew she must have seen my inexorable stance. I wasn’t about to let her weasel out of stepping deeper into my home than this bedroom. She’d have to get used to the place—I was ripping off the Band-Aid instead of letting her concerns fester.
I straightened from my position at the door and held out my free hand. When she eyed it like it was a cobra, irritation rattled through me, and I had to force myself to calm down. I wanted to be gentle with her.
As far as yesterday’s plan was concerned, I’d gotten what I wanted. Her, in my bed, for a night. Usually that was enough, but now? It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
I’d flung my weight about knowing it would pressure her to sleep with me, but if I wanted her to keep coming back, I couldn’t be a bastard to her.
Trouble was, bastard was my usual state of being.
So, while I wanted to stride forward, grab her hand, and drag her down the hall, I didn’t.
I composed myself, waiting a good forty seconds with her nibbling her bottom lip as she finally crossed the short distance between us.
When her fingers slipped into my hand, I squeezed them. Not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough for her to feel that I wasn’t letting go.
She should get used to that feeling.
Tension strummed through her as we stepped out into the hall, but as we moved down the corridor and toward the salon, she released a soundless breath.
Relief was its principle source.
Rolling my eyes, I told her, “I’m many things, Aoife, but I’m not a liar. I won’t, and will not, lie to you.”
That had her head whipping to the side to gape at me—a move that I sho
uld have taken great offense over, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. In my line of work, whether it was the legit property development side of things or the shit I pulled for the Points, it could be said that we all needed the gift of the gab to get out of trouble.
Not me, though.
I didn’t lie.
In the Five Points, lying merely had someone above you in the ranks coming at you with a knife to slice out your tongue.
Aidan hated liars.
“Lying is a serious offence in the Five Points,” I told her gruffly, not sure why I was explaining but explaining nonetheless.
From the way her gaze was glued to the side of my face, I figured she was surprised, too.
“It is?”
“You know our reputation. Aidan Donnelly is a Catholic. Lying is a sin.”
A shaky breath soughed from her lungs. “I’m not him, though. You don’t have to tell me the truth.”
I snorted at that. “You’d be surprised how much easier life is when you don’t bullshit and you don’t lie. I tell you true—I will not lie to you.
“Last night, Aidan’s clean-up crew came and cleansed the place. It’s spic and span again.”
She didn’t reply, but I could sense she was curious now—not that she answered its call. She remained silent as I guided her into the kitchen. A small gasp escaped her when we entered the room.
“My God, it’s beautiful,” she whispered, and I was reminded that she was the baker who had powered her small tea room from a run-of-the-mill cafe to something people spoke about on social media.
Did I feel guilty about taking away her business and the rep she’d worked so hard to grow?
Yesterday? No. I could say that you’d win some and you’d lose some. Today? Yeah. I felt bad.
Because of that, I wriggled my shoulders as she took in the expansive room.
I didn’t cook. Ever. It just wasn’t something I’d ever been encouraged to do. I’d been raised in a male dominant household, and even though my old man had been a cunt, his teachings had continued when I’d moved in with Aidan and his sons.
Magdalena cooked.
If Aidan entered her domain, her kitchen, she’d have whipped his butt with a towel and told him to get out of there. Even if he’d wanted to cook, which he wouldn’t, ever, she’d never have allowed him to.
Because I didn’t cook, the kitchen shouldn’t have been important to me, but I had good memories of watching Lena cook, of even watching my bitch mother prepare evening meals while I did my homework.
It might sound like bullshit coming from a man like me, but the kitchen was the heart of every home. How appropriate was it that I was bringing someone into that very heart, someone who loved cooking.
“Seriously, this is absolutely stunning,” she whispered, spinning around like some women might if I’d taken them to Harry Winston’s or Tiffany’s. I could almost see the drool longing to fall from the corners of her mouth.
The kitchen had a central island that was the size of a large dining table. Down the back side of it, there were red leather counter seats, and I released her hand to take my place there. She ran her hand down the length of the gleaming black marble, took in the central stove and sink that was in the island, then looked around the rest of the counters that were empty of gadgets. Cream cupboards lined the upper and lower walls on two sides, hiding some of the appliances from view. A large, humming fridge purred at one side, and she moved over to it, running a hand down to the handle like she’d touched my cock last night—reverently.
My lips twitched at that comparison, and I murmured, “If you don’t mind cooking . . . you can make whatever you want for breakfast, or I can call in for some take out.”
Her shoulders stiffened at that as she shot an outraged look at me. “I’ll cook,” was all she said, though, and once again, I was left amused by her stance.
Watching her maneuver around my kitchen made my chest pang with new and unusual feelings. There’d never been any woman in here. Not cooking anyway. One might have gone to the fridge for some water or beer, but they’d never cooked, and somehow, that felt right.
Like this space was hers.
My thoughts were enough to make me want to bash my head into the marble counter, but instead, I just accepted them. I was fucked over this woman, and I had no idea why.
Watching her move around this space was like watching a ballerina dance, and before I knew it, before my very eyes, she’d managed to find everything she needed—which was a miracle as the cupboards might as well have been empty for all I knew, not just of staples but of the appropriate kitchen tools—and had whipped up a stack of pancakes and served it with bacon.
I hadn’t expected that.
Most women I dated ate salad around me, and like I said, they’d never cooked around me, either. Still, I wasn’t about to fucking complain.
I’d half expected some miserly egg white omelet, especially when she’d started whisking a shit ton of egg whites, but instead, I was faced with the fluffiest motherfucking flapjacks I’d ever had.
As she cooked, I didn’t say much. Just let her work and kept an eye on my emails and messages as I sat there. Normally, I was in the office by now. Fuck, sometimes I was in there at four in the morning.
Today?
No chance.
When she served up a large stack for myself and a small portion for her, I smiled at her in thanks. “I didn’t expect this. Thank you.”
Her cheeks bloomed with heat. “I-I thought after a workout, you might like something that will fill you all day. I-I guess I didn’t have to use the bacon, but I use more eggs in my recipe, so the two sources of protein should—”
I reached for her chin and forced her to look at me. “I wasn’t asking for a nutritional breakdown. Thank you. I can’t wait to dive in.”
She shot me a wary smile, and I cursed at a society that made a woman who was just fucking curvy question every bite she ate.
Jesus, what were we doing to the kids of today?
And even as the thought crossed my mind, I asked myself when I’d even started thinking gobshite like that.
Drenching my pancakes with syrup, I tucked in, and moaned after I got my first taste. “Fuck. These are good,” I told her, half moaning the words, too. “Christ almighty.”
Her lips curved. “Blasphemy.”
“Worth any and all the repentance Father Doyle asks of me. Fuck, Aoife, fuck!” Seriously, this shit? It was fucking good. “Did you serve these at the tea room?”
Her mouth pinched as she shook her head and daintily forked up some of her own meal. “No. It wasn’t that kind of place. I baked mostly cakes and made a lot of amuse bouches. Tiny little canapés, you know? I was getting a name for my scones, though. They’re like the English sweet version of our biscuits. And my cookies and bread were popular, too.”
My mouth watered. “Would you bake me some bread?”
The question startled her, and she reared back in surprise—shit, it more than surprised her. She almost fell off the counter seat. I grabbed her and steadied her, relieved she didn’t flinch from my touch. I’d half expected her to, but she didn’t.
Because it felt right, I didn’t move my hand away. I pressed it to her lap and kept it there, letting my fingers dip into the seam of her thighs. I felt her press her legs together and wondered if I’d caused an ache to stir inside her also.
“You’d want me to?” she asked, sounding dumbstruck.
“Please?” There was a hoarseness to my voice that stunned me. The last time someone had properly baked anything for me was when I’d been back home.
Yeah, even though I hated my parents, I still considered the place where hell had been dished out to me, home.
Only fuck knew what a shrink would make of that.
“Now?” she questioned, her words a whisper.
“After breakfast?” I forked up some food, then after I’d swallowed, stated, “I have to leave soon. Business. But feel free to use the kitchen. It’s yours to p
lay with.”
She gaped at me. “You’re okay with me just hanging out here?”
“I’m more than okay with it if I get some fresh bread out of it.” As she licked her lips and went to speak, I told her, “Samuel, my driver, will return here after he takes me to my office. I’ll give him your number, and you can arrange with him when you’d like Sam to take you home. Okay?”
There were a million questions in her eyes, but she just nodded. “O-Okay.”
She didn’t eat much else, and I frowned down at her half full plate and my empty one. “Not hungry?” I inquired.
She shot me a tight smile. “Not really.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I murmured, “Was that a lie, Aoife?”
Her shoulders stiffened, and I wasn’t sure if that was because she’d been caught out or if it was in umbrage. When I leaned over, cut off a piece of flapjack with my fork, speared it on the tines then pressed it to her mouth, she parted her lips and accepted the offering.
“Never underfeed yourself around me, Aoife,” I ground out, not sure why I was so mad, just aware that I was.
She licked a drop of syrup that quivered along her bottom lip, and I almost groaned at the sight. “All right, Finn. I won’t.”
I fed her a few more bites, loving how she accepted them, how she didn’t question this weird need I had to feed her.
“Honestly, I’m full,” she told me after I’d given her several mouthfuls, and this time, I believed her.
“Good,” I stated as I climbed to my feet. When she made to move, I asked, “Aoife? Who’s the Senator to you?”
That her tension immediately reappeared at that question had irritation battering me, but I forced my temper back. I’d gentled her so far this morning, and I didn’t intend on wrecking my advance.
“Does it matter?” she squeaked.
I clenched my jaw. Did it matter? The man wasn’t fucking her. I’d had the proof of that around my cock last night. Whoever he was, though, he had to mean a lot to her for them to visit as often and as clandestinely as they did.
I had my suspicions, but I could wait to have them answered.
As I’d fed her, her cheeks had grown rosy with pleasure. Her eyelids had been drooping lazily. Now? After my question? She was tense again.
Screw You: A Screwed Duet (Five Points, Hell's Kitchen Book 1) Page 10