by Henry, Jane
Think on it I will.
“Why does mam seem to think her mother committed suicide? She had no idea her mate had a child.”
Father Finn clears his throat. “It was an unfortunate rumor that was… started… so that no one would find out she was with child.”
He lied then? He, or someone he knew, fabricated that lie. I ask him everything I can, until it’s clear he’s got nothing left to offer. He’s told us everything we need to know.
“I’ll be back, Father,” I warn him. I would never raise a hand to him, and I don’t mean to threaten physical harm. But I will have my questions answered.
At the doorway, he places his hand on my arm and speaks so low, only I will hear. “Take good care, Keenan. The girl will be sheltered and in danger. Take good care.”
“You have my word.”
We leave the rectory, and Boner scoffs a handful of scones on the way. Cormac’s sober, and even Tully and Nolan are quiet. If Caitlin’s existence will bring about trouble for The Clan, we all have to be on the same page.
What would’ve caused war between The Clans?
“What did you get out of that?” I ask my men as we assemble outside the rectory, heading down the cobblestone street that bears right and takes us into the heart of the village. I promised Caitlin we’d get breakfast, and I mean to keep my promise.
“Her mam must’ve been promised to someone powerful, for one,” Boner says. “Her betrothed would’ve killed her if he’d found out she was pregnant with another’s child.”
“No doubt,” I agree.
Christ, it’s a problem. The Martins are our biggest rivals in all of Ballyhock. I’ll have to investigate with my mother and father as well. I’ll need to know the history of The Clans to get to the bottom of this.
“I can’t believe it,” Caitlin says, as we walk hand in hand.
“What’s that?” I want to hear what she got from that.
“That he wasn’t my real father.”
“He raised you as his daughter, and that’s all that matters, Caitlin.”
“It isn’t,” she says. “What if my father’s a monster? What if the man whose blood runs through my veins is a despicable, evil man?”
“Could be, lass,” I tell her, as we approach the main street that brings us into Ballyhock centre. “But most men aren’t pure evil or pure good. Most war with good and evil.”
“I can’t—I can’t stand the thought, though,” she says.
I lace my arm around her shoulders. “Listen to me, Caitlin,” I say. “Men are complicated creatures. Some do evil things, yet their hearts aren’t made of stone, see? They’re loyal and fair to their core.”
“Like your father,” she says.
“Caitlin,” I warn, when Boner’s head whips back to look at us.
“Hush, woman,” I order. “You’ll not speak ill of my father.”
She blinks in confusion. “Speak ill? I was only speaking the truth, though.”
I feel my lips twitch. She’s cute. “Aye,” I say softly, so none of the others would hear. “Like my father.”
She’s quiet for a minute before she continues. “And like you.”
I don’t answer.
I take her into the Cottage Brew, the tiny coffee shack that sits on the adjacent cliff that juts out beyond The Clan estate. I hold the door open for her, and she steps inside, sunlight peeking through a cluster of clouds makes it look like she has a halo.
“You’re looking at me funny,” she says with a smile as we step inside, but before I respond, she takes in a deep, cleansing breath, her shoulders lifting before she releases the breath with a sigh of contentment.
“What is that?” she whispers. “Smells like honey and sunshine and the warmth of a hearth.”
I love how she makes the simplest statement poetry.
“Miss Isobel’s soda bread, and the finest tea this side of the Atlantic.”
“Soda bread,” she breathes. “I’ve been dying to try some.”
“Not had soda bread?” I ask, bewildered.
She shrugs, while the men pile into the shop and head to the counter. Isobel, a petite, round woman with spectacles perched on her nose, ruddy cheeks, and a beaming smile, welcomes us in. We’re neighbors, so we’re her regulars, and like our alliance with the church, we see to it that Isobel is safe and secure.
“Ah, me boys,” she says in her thick brogue. “What brings ye here?”
We order our food, and I observe the reactions of the customers in the shop. Many avert their eyes, for our reputation precedes us. We own most of this town, and keep the peace, but though our darker dealings aren’t broadcast afar or widely spread, they know who we are.
Though some look at Caitlin with mild curiosity, none react with shock. None with even the faintest bit of recognition. Isobel’s newer to this part of the country, so I don’t expect her to show any. Still, the regulars here who knew Caitlin might’ve.
Caitlin takes a bite of the dense, mildly sweet bread, slathered with Isobel’s creamy butter, and her eyes widen. She chews, swallows, and sighs. “That’s delicious, Keenan. My, it’s better than I even expected.” She turns to Isobel and grins. “My compliments to the chef!”
Jesus, this girl’s adorable.
When we’re finished, her shoulders droop, and I can tell she’s exhausted. She isn’t used to socializing, and it drains her.
“Time to go home,” I announce. I ask my men briefly if they’ve seen anything, but all concur. No one shows any signs of recognizing Caitlin. She asks what the other shops are, so I show her. I point out the other places along the street. There’s the fish shop across from Cottage Brew, D’Agostino’s down the road, The Blimey Pub, and Lickety Split Ice Cream Shoppe. The Cheeky Mackerel on the shore, Ballyhock library, and the Village Seamstress.
I want to take her everywhere. I want to sit beside her when she drinks her first pint, give her the first golden chip she’s ever eaten, feed her the flaky, steaming hot fish straight from the fry basket at the Mackerel. I want to show her what the sunset looks like from the very top of Cold Stone Castle. I want to sneak her away to the highest of the mountain peaks in Dublin. I want to sit beside her when she dips her toes in the Irish Sea for the first time. I want to give her her first taste of champagne, her first moonlit walk, and so much more.
So much more.
She’s so tired when we head back, I send her upstairs to rest with half a dozen men guarding her, Tully at the lead.
“Come with me?” she asks me.
“Can’t, lass. I’ve got to work today. Wait for me, and rest. Spend some time looking over my bookshelves and entertaining yourself, and I’ll take you to dinner tonight.”
Taking her out to dinner will bring her in contact with a larger group of people and will give me a broader spectrum of people to observe.
“You take your captives to dinner?” she asks, her pretty, intelligent blue eyes teasing me. “Or just the pretty ones?”
“None of your cheek, lass,” I say, wagging a finger at her.
She giggles when I swat my hand at her arse and miss by a mile. I’m smiling when I shut the door behind her and leave my men to guard her. Tully raises a brow to me.
“Captive indeed,” he mutters, giving me a wink.
“Shut your pie hole,” I mutter, but I’m still smiling when I get to my office. I finish my work in record time, and stand, ready to go home.
My first thought is of Caitlin. How is she feeling after what she learned today? How did she entertain herself? Is she waiting for me?
How will she respond when I give her more than the slightest hint of a kiss?
When I weigh her perfect breasts in my hand, and brush my thumbs across her nipples?
When I make her climax for the first time?
“You’re a mile away.”
I blink, turning to see mam by the door.
“Yeah,” I say, with a shrug. “Thinking of work’s all.”
“The hell you are,” she says
with a laugh. “I know the look of a man who’s got a pretty girl on his mind. Mind you, I learned how to put that look on a man’s face when I was a lass myself.”
I only grunt in reply, and don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s right.
“I need to talk with you,” I tell her. “But not now. Tonight?”
“Tonight,” she agrees.
I skip the steps two at a time, ignoring mam’s laughter and teasing behind me, and make it to my room in short time. My men are still standing out front, standing guard. I open the door, but when I enter, I don’t see her.
“Caitlin?” I call. “Where are you?” My room is large, with several nooks and crannies, but the only place she could be is the jacks. Panic wells in my chest when I don’t hear her.
“Caitlin?”
Did someone find their way in here? Is she alright?
“Caitlin!” I shout, trying to open the door, but it’s shut fast, the lock secured. “Caitlin! Open the damn door,” I say, pounding my fist on it. If she doesn’t answer in five fucking seconds, I’m knocking this goddamn door down. I kick the door and shout again, hearing the door behind me open and my guards come in the room when I hear something clatter to the floor. A moment later, the door opens. She’s got a towel wrapped around her, and behind her, a broken phone and headphones lie on the tile.
Christ, my heart’s coming out of my throat. I shield her with my body. No other fucking bloke’ll see her dressed—or not dressed, more like.
“Get out,” I growl to the guards over my shoulder. They fairly run and slam the door before I kill them.
I turn to her, ready to spit fucking fire. “What the hell?” I ask her.
She’s white as a sheet.
“What is it?” she asks. “Why are you so angry? What did I do?”
I gather her to me, my heart still thumping erratically in my chest. “Sweet girl,” I whisper, caught between wanting to hold her to me and turn her over my knee for scaring me. “Good God, you scared me. Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I couldn’t hear you,” she says. “Your mom taught me how to listen to music on headphones, and it’s been one of the most amazing things I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long and never even known what that sounded like. I… I had it turned up very loudly. It felt like I was there.” She sighs, looking at the floor. “It’s broken now, though.”
“I’ll replace it.”
“Why’d you panic so?”
How do I tell her? How do I explain that when you’ve seen death like me, both at your hands and before you, that when you’ve seen people you love and people you care about taken from your grasp before your very eyes, you don’t take anything for granted?
Nothing.
“Glad you’re alright,” I tell her, not answering. I realize the towel she’s got draped over her damp body is sliding down her body to the floor. She bites her lip and looks down but doesn’t try to stop the slithering towel from sliding down her body.
Jesus.
I reach for the towel and tug the rest of it to the floor. She doesn’t stop me.
“Come here,” I murmur. “You scared me, lass.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
I swallow hard. “You ought to be punished for frightening me like that.”
Her eyes go from confusion to curiosity, then she freezes, and I watch her transformation, her look now lust-filled and curious.
“I did, didn’t I?” she says.
“Yes, and I should punish you,” I repeat. Christ, what I want to introduce her to. What I want to do to her. How I’d love to see her bucking beneath the onslaught of orgasm after orgasm I wring from her beautiful body. Moaning while I bring her to climax on my tongue. Writhing in restraints I keep tied about her body or squealing in pain before I bring her to utter bliss.
She bows her head, and her hair, still dry at the top but damp and curly at the bottom, all the way down her back. I sit on the edge of the large, circular tub, and take her hand.
“Why am I to punish you?” I ask, my voice thickening with lust. “What did you do?”
“I scared you.” I hope she knows that this time, though I want to punish her, I’m so eager to feel her skin beneath my palm, that this punishment will bring her to the edge of climax. And yet, I’ll expect her obedience and submission on every level. Her allowing me to protect her, instruct her, and yes, discipline her, will give me utter satisfaction.
“I don’t know anything about this, Keenan,” she says in a soft voice. “I don’t understand it. I should fear you, but I only want to be near you.”
I guide her over my knee, and run my hand over her beautiful, perfect backside.
“I feel it too, lass,” I admit. “I do, too.”
I position her so her naked body hangs over my lap, her hair like a veil that falls all around her. This moment is sacred, this togetherness hallowed. Somehow, I’ve been given the precious gift of this moment with her. I’ve been with women who fought this side of me. They said I was mental, perverted, and somehow equated my need to control sexual intimacy as part of my fucked-up nature. And hell. Maybe they aren’t wrong.
I lift my hand and slam it against her upturned arse, watching my handprint bloom like pink lilies.
But I don’t strike her again, not yet. I glide my hand along the pink prints until I get to her thighs, and gently part them. Without a word, I trail my hand up to the heated vee at the apex of her thighs. I want her to crave my touch. I want her panting with readiness, so eager for me to bring pleasure to her that she can’t think of anything else.
I lower my voice. “Do you like being punished, lass?”
“No, sir,” she whispers, shaking her head side to side so the silky sheet of her hair brushes my legs. I wrap the strands around my fist and hold her in position, then slam my palm on her arse again.
“Ow!” she squeaks. I respond with another measured spank.
Then another.
And another.
I spank her with leisurely, purposeful strokes, covering the sensual swell of her backside until she throbs in hues of pink.
I part her legs further, but don’t touch where she aches for me.
I want her throbbing. Swollen. Ready to fly.
“I don’t… Keenan…”
“When you’re being punished, you’ll never call me by name,” I say sharply, punctuating my words with another firm smack.
“Yes, sir.”
The perfume of her arousal permeates the intimate setting, intoxicating me.
I can’t help but edge her just a bit more. I smack her upper thighs, just enough to bring the heat of a sting to the surface, before I skate my hand between her legs again, the top of my hand grazing the soft curlicues. My mouth is dry, my cock so hard it’s throbbing and painful. I want her virgin cunt wrapped around my cock so badly I’m shaking.
With a sigh, I gently push her off my legs, then pull her in front of me so she’s between my thighs. Motherfucker. Her full breasts are swollen, her nipples hard and erect. Before I know what I’m doing, I lean forward and grasp one of the firm buds between my lips and suck.
“Ohh,” she sighs, her eyelids fluttering shut. “I… I don’t… you thrill me,” she finishes in a throaty whisper.
My lips tug upward.
You thrill me.
The single most erotic line a woman ever said to me. She speaks from her heart, overcome with desire.
I want her.
I need her.
I crave her.
My hand wraps around her slender waist as I suckle one nipple, then release it before I lave the second one. Her hands travel to my shoulders, bracing herself, and she trembles like shimmering starlight.
I sit back and let her breasts swing free. I hold her gaze with mine.
“Come here,” I whisper, tracing her jaw with the tip of my finger.
“I’m here, sir.”
“No. Closer,” I order. “I don’t want any distance between us.”
<
br /> In silence, she steps closer until she’s flush against my legs and I can hear her soft breathing.
“What will you have me do, sir?”
I could demand she do anything in that moment. Fall to her knees and suck me off. Fondle the swollen, damp folds between her legs until she brings herself to climax between my knees. Kneel and present before me, ready for the kiss of pain and promise of pleasure.
I swallow hard, drunk on the power she gives me with those simple words, her freely given submission.
“Kiss me.”
Chapter Twelve
Caitlin
I wondered what he’d have me do. What he’d ask of me. I wondered what he’d demand, but never imagined it would be a task so simple yet so hard to do.
Kiss me.
My body’s on fire, and I don’t know how I feel about this. You’d think being consumed by flames and heat and molten lava would be a bad thing. But it isn’t. I crave more. I don’t want to be quenched.
I’m tingling and shaking while I stand in front of him, my hands placed to steady myself on his shoulders.
“Kiss me.”
But what if I don’t know how? What if I don’t know what I’m doing? Okay, there’s no “what if.” I definitely don’t know what I’m doing.
“Why are you hesitating, lass?” Keenan says, his green eyes darkening, a note of correction in his voice I feel straight between my legs. He just put me over his lap and spanked me, heightened my awareness and arousal with expert strokes of his hand, made me starving for more without even touching where I need him to. There’s something about the stern look he gives me and the promise of punishment, when laced with his masterful manipulation of my body, that heightens my body’s response. He’s like a magician or an expert hypnotist. One wave of his hand, one word from his mouth, and I respond.
“Because I don’t know how, sir,” I say as honestly as I can. For I do want to kiss him. I’ve felt his lips once before, and the idea of feeling them again sends shivers through me.
“You don’t need to,” he says simply. “All you need to do is what I ask.” His voice deepens. “And I’m not going to ask you again.”