“There, right there,” she breathes, almost pleading. She’s tight, hot, and I feel like I’ve come home. Hard concentration keeps me focused and I move the head over and over the spot deep inside her. The spiral of her pleasure builds, circling both of us until it explodes.
As her orgasm unfolds around me, I move rhythmically inside her. Each thrust sends a jolt through me.
Jesus, this is good.
She reaches back, grabbing my hair. She’s grinding into me now, demanding more. Little exultations are becoming more desperate, more pleading.
“Tell me, Ava. Tell me what you want,” I whisper.
“Please, Connor. Please.” There’s an edge, a need in her voice. I can’t hold back anymore.
Everything I am is hers, stroke after determined stroke, never easing up on her clit. Her breathing is ragged, and she’s practically begging for release. Every time I slide in and out, I marvel. My cock throbs, our bodies moving as one. My arms stay around her, my face buried in her neck. I just want her to feel good, held, protected.
Maybe even loved.
The thought just crosses my mind, opening me to a completely unexpected possibility, when her next orgasm hits. She clamps down around me, completely claiming every sense I have. Claiming me. I’m lost, exploding inside her as she screams out my name. Her name’s on my lips, as I plummet into a place that’s so completely distant from anywhere I’ve ever been. So completely wrapped up in her. A salvation, a threat, a promise.
Free-falling straight into her, with a dawning realization that I’m feeling something that goes far beyond attraction. Beyond the desire to protect.
I want to claim this woman. Make her mine, and never let go.
When the last throes have passed, we lie there, entwined, covered in sweat. I close my eyes for a long minute, keeping my face in the cloud of her hair.
“Ava,” I whisper.
But she’s already drifted to sleep, a soft smile shaping her lips.
I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts disquieted, my body already responding again to the gorgeous woman in my arms.
Now what, Doyle? Now what are you going to do?
11
Ava
Connor said I could pick our next date, a week after that unforgettable night in the city. That bone-melting, heart-stopping night in his bed.
I want to see him in his element. Understand what shapes this man that I am coming to care for very much. And so here I am standing outside Intrigue in the frigid cold, spending another hard-won night off that I’d be making up for with early morning shifts next week.
Not regretting it for an instant.
The line of women snaking around the velvet ropes in front of Intrigue takes my breath away. Boston’s most beautiful women, clad in the smallest dresses, waiting for the doors to open.
Huddled in my dark wool coat against the cold, I don’t fit in. How do they not feel the chill?
The girl in front of me tosses her waist-length platinum hair for the third time and dramatically proclaims, “Do they just let anyone in here?” while giving me a pointed look.
Annoyance flares, but I don’t get a chance to respond.
A familiar form moves down the line toward me, burly hulk advancing as if with intent. Sully, looking every inch a Southie fighter, gives me a big grin.
“Evening! May I escort you in?”
The emphasis he puts on escort is so dramatic I can’t help but laugh, and that earns me a wink. Ms. Platinum looks like she’s going to say something but Sully moves us toward the door fast.
“Boss is just overseeing a few things. He’ll be right down,” Sully’s clipped accent carries over the loud music that drifts out through the door as we approach. The guys working security at the front are huge, dressed in dark suits, hard to tell apart.
Every one of them looks me over curiously.
I’m shifting uncomfortably by the time they wave us in.
“Boss doesn’t have guests,” Sully offers quietly.
My face flushes, my chest pulling tight. I feel so out of place. Maybe this was a mistake?
Some part of me realizes that I’m getting in deep with Connor; but another part – the pragmatic part – tells me that there’s still more I need to understand about his life. What he does. Who he is when he’s not walking me home from school or doing those impossibly delicious things to me in his bed.
Just the thought has me growing hot with desire and I quickly look around, wondering if anyone can sense it.
My eyes find Connor in the crowd, halfway up the winding staircase on a landing. He’s talking to a cluster of people. Hands moving, he’s issuing orders confidently as his eyes sweep the dance floor. Then he locks on me, that magnetic force that pulls us together, and he’s by my side in an instant.
All eyes are on him, people already starting to move across the floor toward him. It’s easy to say he manages a club. It’s harder to really understand what that means.
Connor turns me toward him, and looks down into my eyes for a long time. There’s a slow smile, those dimples peeking out and making my heart do a little flip.
Oh, lord, my heart is getting caught up in this. Feelings that melt into something more as he wordlessly leans down, pressing his lips to mine. A fierce kiss, a claiming kiss, marking me in some way for those who are watching.
When he pulls back, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “You are absolutely stunning, sweetheart.”
He’s going to say something more. That’s when it happens. There’s a sharp noise that comes from the other side of the club, and all I can see is a sea of the security guards in dark suits moving toward someone.
It seems like there’s a commotion, and Connor’s full attention is on whatever’s happening. Sully still lingers nearby, but when he starts to move in that direction, Connor gives a commanding shake of his head.
“Ava, I need to handle this. Sully, you stay with Ava until I get back.”
Then he shoulders into the crowd, which parts to let him go and then fills in to swallow up the space he leaves in his wake.
Sully clears his throat and when I look at him, he gives me an exaggerated eyebrow waggle that makes me laugh. “Not often an old bogtrotter like me gets to buy a beautiful woman like you a drink. Ah, don’t tell the boss I said that or he’ll be rearranging my face. What can I get you, Miss Ava?”
I ask for a seltzer. He proposes whiskey straight. There’s a negotiation and he comes back with a wine spritzer. I’m a complete lightweight, and don’t like to get drunk. My eyes are riveted to the place where Connor was.
Sully’s back in an instant, the fizzy drink in his hand. “Would you like to hit the dance floor?” He sounds almost hopeful.
There’s a sound from the back of the club. Just one, you wouldn’t hear it if you weren’t listening for it. Fist driving into flesh and muscle. Fear screams through me. Connor.
Sully heard it too, because his eyes are locked on some spot in the club. I touch his arm and when he meets my eyes, I realize that he too has those vivid blue Irish eyes.
“Go on, Sully. It’s okay.” He plunges into the crowd and I follow close behind him. What the hell am I going to do in a fight? I don’t know. But maybe something.
Sully’s already throwing back a door that I didn’t see until I was right on top of it, and moving into the space. A familiar voice – Connor’s voice – is raised in anger.
“You come into my club, onto Doyle property, selling drugs,” his voice is tight with fury.
As we round the corner, I see Connor standing over a man that’s been pushed into a chair in the middle of the room. Blood runs down his face, and his nose looks broken. A wave of nausea rolls over me as I take it in.
Connor stands above him, the dark jacket off and the sleeves on his shirt rolled up. He doesn’t look angry, just resigned, but his voice has that cold edge to it that brings me back to the first time we met. When he sent Sully after Brooks.
It seemed so different then. B
ut under the naked light of the bulb in this back room, there’s a whole different feel.
“Answer me, or this is going to get a lot worse fast. Who sent you?” Connor barks. “The Carneys? You moving in on our turf? We don’t fucking do drugs here, asshole. Not here, not anywhere. You hear me?”
The man flinches, and Connor continues bearing down, “Or maybe the Stacys? Is that what this is, a goddamned setup?”
The man finally responds. “Fuck you, Doyle. Stacy is going to get you, take you down. Take every piece of shit thing your family’s got and leave you fighting over the scraps when your old man kicks it.”
Then I understand. That animosity. The Stacys have something against the Doyles, and they’re not above using that corruption to get their point across. I feel dizzy, as the thought that I’ve made whatever that old history is a thousand times worse.
Bile’s rising in my throat, a mixture of horror at the Stacys’ reach. The man’s awful words. The twist of rage, resolute power, and pain that flashes across Connor’s face.
“Answer me,” Connor’s fist is drawing back, his shoulder moving. I can’t bear it. Can’t bear to see him strike this guy, no matter how much it’s deserved.
“Connor,” my voice is loud, high-pitched, raw with terror.
His whole body freezes, his eyes going to mine. The mask comes into place, and he looks like the Connor I know. Trust. Could love.
Love?
Oh my god. Am I falling in love with Connor Doyle? It’s all too much. I have to get out of here. Need air. My hand’s moving toward my pocket, grabbing my inhaler and I’m moving frantically toward the door at the same time Connor’s saying, “Sully, get her the fuck out of here.”
And then, his voice more alarmed, “Ava. Ava, wait. Fuck. Sully, handle this.”
His feet pound behind me, and I remember the last time I was near this club. Pursued. Afraid. I push through the undulating bodies, hitting people, not even bothering to apologize. The cold air on my face when I push out into the street is like heaven, and I take a panicked puff of my inhaler.
“Ava,” Connor’s voice comes softly behind me.
I turn, and my first instinct is to throw myself into his arms. But then I see it. The bruising on his knuckles. The blood spattered across his shirt. I just can’t.
He takes a step toward me, and I jerk back.
“Fuck.”
There’s so much fury, frustration, fear in that voice.
Everything I’m feeling in my chest.
“Ava, it’s not what it looks like,” he tries again. But his features have already started to register defeat.
I don’t like violence. I’ve spent too much of the last year on the receiving end of it. That’s the thing. Connor’s better than this. At least, I thought he was.
“You were beating that man,” I say finally, my voice sounding exhausted.
He looks at me, runs a hand over his face. “He works for the Stacys. Trying to do a setup at the club. Look, Ava, you know what the Stacy hold is here in the city. Every cop in their pocket, more or less. Normal justice isn’t going to take care of this guy, and I’ve got to make a point so it doesn’t happen again.”
Justice isn’t always black and white. Business isn’t always black and white.
I know the Stacys’ subvert the law. Are untouchable, even when you are getting a fucking law degree.
But I just can’t square this man, covered in blood, with the man that gave of himself so selflessly in bed. The man that walks me home. The man that I think I might be falling for.
What he’s saying makes sense, and somehow that’s making everything harder. I need to get out of here. “Connor, please. I need to go home. ”
For long seconds he looks at my face and then he says, “I could drive you.” But when I shake my head, he nods.
“Okay, Ava,” and he puts a hand on the small of my back to guide me toward a bank of waiting town cars. He speaks a few words to one of the drivers, and then I’m ensconced in the back of a car that’s so fancy that under other circumstances I’d be giddy to ride in it.
Tonight, I feel hollow and as it drives away, my eyes stay riveted to Connor. He looks upset, staring after us until I can’t see him anymore.
The desire to get some space wars with an even stronger desire to go back and comfort him. I’m getting a much clearer sense of who Connor is, how those pieces fit together.
I just don’t know if I can accept him as he is.
12
Ava
“Did you have a good time on your date, honey?”
Rhonda’s shit-eating grin is contagious, and I try not to think about the club last night. The date before that, a week ago, had been almost idyllic.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “I had a good time.”
“Told you that you needed a real good fuck.” She swats me on the butt with a menu. “You’re too young to be celibate.”
Even though I’m not feeling lightness today, it’s good to laugh. I love Rhonda’s sense of humor.
“Happy to see me, princess?”
That voice shoots icy chills straight down my spine, driving out any warmth I felt just a moment before. Brooks drapes himself over the hostess stand. No one can drain the joy from a room like Brooks. Fear claws at my throat, but slowly it’s overtaken by rage. How dare this asshole continue to harass me. To harass Connor. Does he know we’re together? Are we together anymore?
“Brooks, you need to leave.”
“Or what?” he taunts, flicking a pen from the stand onto the floor. “You’ll have your mobster boyfriend beat me up?” He straightens up. “I thought you were going to be an anti-corruption lawyer, princess. Won’t do to be fucking one of Boston’s biggest mob bosses.”
He leers at me.
Of course Brooks would know. And I don’t know what to make of Connor, the man, and Connor Doyle, the son of a family that might be mostly clean – but is still willing to skirt the law.
But having it all thrown in my face like this, when it’s raw, by this piece of shit? I don’t know whether to weep or to launch myself at him to claw his eyes out.
“I said you should leave, Brooks.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Brooks advances, knocking menus to the dirty linoleum. “What’s the matter, princess? Willing to do anything for money?”
He reaches to touch me, and I knock his hand away.
“Connor Doyle’s up to some seriously bad shit and rumor has it he’ll be indicted before long.”
Just those words make me want to retch. I don’t know if they’re true – what I saw wasn’t good, but it wasn’t exactly systematic organized crime. But having this thrown at me like dirty laundry, contemplating the possibility that it could be true and that my worst fears about Connor, for Connor, might come to fruition causes bile to raise to the back of my throat.
“Don’t,” I hiss, my teeth pressing together. “Get out.”
Rhonda flies into the back to get help. I stare defiantly up at Brooks. I don’t have time process my feelings about Connor. Brooks’s leer turns into a look of pure anger.
“Don’t tell me what to do, you fucking slut,” he rages, grabbing me by the throat. “I’m going to kill you. You seem to have forgotten you’re mine until I’m done with you.”
His grip is too goddamn strong. Wrapping my hands around his wrist, I dig my nails in, trying to get him to let go. “You think you can just dump me? You’re nothing, Ava. You have no family, no money, and no fucking sense.”
My vision grays at the corners. I punch at his arm, disgusted by the weak sounds coming out of my throat.
“Pathetic,” he sneers. “Convenient that I can blame this on the Doyles, though.”
Then his eyes widen in surprise as an arm wraps around his neck. He releases me and I hit the floor. To him, I’m just another object to treat carelessly. Numb, I pull my inhaler out of my apron pocket. I should be stunned by the spectacle in front of me. Connor.
“You son of a bitch,” Connor snaps, tightening his grip on Brooks. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s wrong to hit women?” The rage in his eyes terrifies me. He leans in closer, his voice stone cold against the anger radiating off him.
“Big fucking man beating on a tiny woman. How does it feel?” he shouts.
Brooks’s eyes are rolling back in his head, his lips turning blue. Puffing on my inhaler, I fight to keep from closing my eyes. Don’t want to see this, don’t want more images of Connor hurting people. Not even Brooks, who deserves it more than most.
“Connor,” I whisper. “Stop.”
Brooks sags to the floor, but Connor isn’t relenting. “Don’t you ever fucking touch her. She’s mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice unsettles me, especially given what I have seen from him in the last couple of days. Still, I don’t want him to get in trouble because he’s protecting me.
“Connor!” I say, more forcefully this time. Rhonda comes through the swinging doors to the back with Gus.
Something in Connor breaks, and he drops Brooks, pushing him aside with a look of disgust. He rushes over to me, kneeling down and pulling me against his solid body. He’s warm, and I let myself lean against him, knowing the safety I feel in his arms can’t last.
“Ava.” His voice is heavy.
“Are you all right? I’m so sorry.” He strokes my hair gently. It’s easy – and impossible - to forget that he just choked a man out seconds before.
“Connor.” Tears burn my eyes. “You have to go.” Police sirens wail in the distance, and I imagine Rhonda called them here.
“I’m not leaving you,” he says, his fingers gliding over my neck. “You need to get this checked out.”
Grind: The Doyles, A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 8