by M. C. Cerny
COPYRIGHT AND LICENSE INFORMATION
DECLAN’S DEMAND
Copyright © 2017 M. C. CERNY
2017 Edition
Cover art: Dana Leah at Designs by Dana
Edits by: Amy Jackson
Formatting: Deena Rae —E-BookBuilders
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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2017 Edition License
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First Edition:
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cerny, M.C.
Declan’s Demand/M.C. Cerny – 1st ed.
Table of Contents
Declan's Demand
Stay Connected
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Titles by M.C. Cerny
Declan's Demand
One impulsive decision and she was mine.
I was never letting her go.
Never.
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Declan's Demand
Chapter One
Declan
A lovely buzzing bee hovers annoyingly close in my personal space, forcing the muscles in my shoulders to flex. The voice begs, pleading unsuccessfully. Light floral scents cut through the thick cologne and traces of sex permeate the dark swirling in her wake. Sydney Meadows is a breath of fresh air and wide-eyed innocence pushing through the cynicism and saccharine pretentiousness I’ve grown accustomed to throughout the club. I have no friends here, and no one I trust outside my shrinking inner circle of family and business associates. This is the legacy left to me by my father and a world of old-school mob bosses with deep pockets and big dicks.
I watch her.
I want her.
I can’t have her.
My twisted moral code rebels.
She’s a kitten trying to be a lion, but a kitten is still a kitten, young and naïve. It’s a shame I’m meeting her under these circumstances, forced to step on her delicate petals of pride, bruising them irreparably. I should feel bad. Any normal moral man would feel bad, but I am none of those things. Sydney would be better off with some idealistic college millennial who eats kale and protests on the weekends. Violence is my bread and butter, no matter how much one tries to sugarcoat what I do. The mere fact that my life is intersecting with hers now in any way is sacrilegious.
She approaches me trembling, with sweat-coated skin above the cupid’s bow of her lip that begs for a kiss—a taste. I shut my eyes, jaw clenched, wishing she were anywhere but here.
“Please, you have to understand.” Hands reach out to claw at me in a last-ditch attempt to get my attention. Her short, pale painted nails remind me of kitten claws retracting when my eyes narrow. No one touches me uninvited—least of all some girl I don’t know biblically—and even then I prefer them restrained.
I turn to walk away, my security detail closing ranks around me, blocking her off. Anyone could be a possible threat—even a sweet-looking girl.
I’ve watched dogs in the alley get better scraps than this girl, pitifully crying her overly large blue eyes out, lips trembling and tears spilling over apple-plump cheeks. The full-on blubberfest mottles her milky-white skin into horrid splotches of red while words I only half understand pour from her mouth. Something about debts, her father, and the police are clear enough to make out, giving me a headache. Husking out a breath, I wave her off. My attempt to shoo her away does nothing and I’m forced to wonder if she’s stupid, not knowing who I am.
People always want something from me. A favor. Cash. Drugs—if I still moved those. The man I was five years ago would have shut her up by sticking her mouth on his cock and instructing her to suck him off. Today, my dick turtles back when I think about the tears that soak her pale T-shirt, and her girl-next-door look reminds me of things from my childhood, like pretty schoolteachers and nuns with rulers. It’s not exactly the wet T-shirt contest I used to enjoy on Thursday nights in the club, either.
“Please Mr. Natas.” She licks her lips, starting her fresh round of breathless whines. “You have to listen to me.”
Growling, I turn mid-step, bumping into the girl who has no business being inside my club, let alone bothering me if she knew what was good for her. Waving her out of my way would have caused her to fall down several steps, so I restrain myself from lashing out. She almost, almost shrinks back before grabbing my Brioni suit lapels with balls most men I deal with don’t have. Actually, it’s kind of cute. I find myself a curious mixture of intrigued and irritated as I force her to take a step back, picking her hands off me in a harsh grip. My hands could easily crush the delicate bones, and knowing this I rein in my temper. She’ll already wear my mark of matching bracelets bruising the skin, and that’s good enough for me.
“Pretty girl, I don’t have to do anything. Your father made a deal with my rival. Why should I give a fuck what happens to him and his pound of flesh?” I hate liars, but I hate dirty cops even more. They’re supposed to uphold the law, not abuse it, despite the fact that I take pleasure in breaking it—and often—when the mood suits.
Her throat bobs as her chin trembles. My mind strays, wondering what it would look like watching her full, pale lips extend around my cock as I pumped cum down her throat.
“B-because you’re a better man. A merciful one.”
She’s adorable, playing the heartbroken daughter. It’s a shame I don’t feel like taking on a new submissive. Breaking her would be joyous, and if I’m honest, a real good stick-it-to-Dad moment. No man liked thinking about his daughter getting dick from a well-known criminal, dirty cop or not. I wonder if he knows that his precious baby girl is here begging for his worthless life.
Probably not.
“Merciful?” She must be joking, and holding back my laugh in the face of her tears is a struggle. “I’m sorry, doll. You must have gotten your saints messed up. I’m after less honorable pursuits.”
Those small breakable hands hold tight again.
“Declan, please.” She makes my hackles rise with her persistence. My recollection of the word please typically centers on hookers begging for my cock, not sweet girls who lack brains.
I get in her personal space and run my hands down her silky soft arms, feeling the goose bumps pepper her skin.
“Sydney, I would want you for one thing only, and I would forget your name before
the orgasm was even over.”
She gasps.
“No one is that cruel.” Her eyes flood with unshed tears and I drive my point home further. She has no idea how cruel I can be–must be.
“I don’t make love. I don’t cuddle, and I definitely don’t call the morning after. I would fuck you just to defile you.”
Biting back my grin, I watch her shudder. If I had her, would her whole body convulse like that? From my dirty talk alone? I shake it off, reminding myself she’s not worth the trouble.
I lean in and whisper, “Be a good girl, Sydney. Get the hell out of my club before I have the boys bring you back to Dad a little less wholesome.”
Sydney stumbles back when I release her. I brush past her, grabbing a glass of Dair Ghaelach on my way to the lounge area.
I’m pointlessly hoping my favorite whiskey will drown out her face and whimpers. She collects herself, maybe bracing the rod of steel in her spine, before stalking out. Good. I don’t need more complications in the form of a barely five-foot churchgoing mouse.
Sipping my drink, I watch her reflection in the mirror, light brown hair bouncing behind her thin shoulders as she leaves in a hurry, scurrying past regulars who don’t give her a wide enough berth and bump into her, some even groping. Funny how my drink curdles in the back of my throat as it goes down while I watch the men steal touches they don’t deserve. I wouldn’t allow myself to touch her, but I don’t like them thinking they can either. My club isn’t a free-for-all.
Eyes narrow, I nod to Stevens and Rhodes, my bodyguard detail, to follow her. I hate surprises, but I hate not having answers even more. My nod tells them to tail her and find out what they can down to every last detail of her garbage. It’s a necessary precaution in my work. Know thy enemy better than oneself.
Neil speaks, interrupting my thoughts.
“You’re a real dick sometimes, Dec. She’s just a girl.” My brother chuckles, free to grab a seat next to me. He’s a smoother version of me. Whereas I’m all hard angles and coarse language, Neil is the peacemaker, softer, and the second born.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
And I didn’t care, except for the niggling doubt that maybe I’d missed something in Sydney’s desperation—something I didn’t give her time to convey in my rush to wash my hands of it. Too little too late, I suppose. I wasn’t about to have a do-over or call her back to torture me with her blue eyes.
I shake off any guilt I might feel, mumbling, “Besides, what kind of man sends his daughter, even a beautiful one, to do his dirty work? How can I respect a chap whoring out his kid just so I can take on his gambling debts?” The drink slow burns down my throat as I finish and pour another. There isn’t enough alcohol to drown away the sins I collect thinking about Sydney Meadows groveling at my feet and the fantasy of my cum dripping from her honey-sweet lips.
“I’m guessing the boys are on it,” he says, and I grunt, nodding to where Stevens and Rhodes once stood flanking the doorway.
“Doubtful he’d ever pay up those debts—especially a hundred grand—if he thought his daughter could work them off. And, hey what’s she got that I want in exchange besides a tight pussy?”
“Her soul maybe?” Neil quips.
My hands had wanted to circle her waist, pull her flush against me, and ravish her mouth to shut her up. I bet her tears would have tasted briny and bitter as she realized the depths she had sunk in coming here to bargain with me. I always take the coarsest payment possible. I wouldn’t have made it easy for her just because she was a girl.
Barking, I laugh. “I’m not the devil, Neil. I’m just a man trying to run a legit business with these stupid cops making deals to line their pockets. Takes a lot more energy to do things by the books these days, since I took over for Dad.”
And wasn’t that the honest truth?
“He certainly left a mess of things.” Neil and I toast to new beginnings. Thinking about dear old Dad leaves an aftertaste too vile for good Irish whiskey to obliterate. He’s lucky he’s dead—a bullet to the back by our rival—otherwise I would have shot him twice myself for the disaster I’m left with.
“Might as well find out what Officer Meadows got himself into.” I like surprises even less than fuckups.
“Right, and who needs a cop’s brat sniffing around to fuck that up?” Another drink appears on the table courtesy of my liquor therapist.
I tap the bar, winking at my sister. She’s a miniature identical version of Neil. She favors my women and business interests even less, which make her a good bartender as my eyes and ears.
“There’s my Tabitha. Shield your claws, Tabby-Cat. Ms. Meadows won’t be returning.”
Although watching her determined gait as she walked away, even I’m not so sure of that.
“I’ve got a grand she’s back within the month.” Neil tosses a bunch of bills on the table.
“Come on, brother, make the bet a little more fun than that,” I egg him on, straightening out his pile of hundreds.
“Jesus, Dec, this isn’t a bet on a rugby game,” he grouses, and I ruffle his hair, making him duck away like we’re teens again.
“Cheapskate. I say she’s back by Friday for ten grand,” Tabby hisses, offering me another drink I wave off as wipes the counter down. My little sister is a tough one to crack. Sympathy was beaten out of her by our father, and later a boyfriend who cut her face, scarring her beauty. That fucker is currently treading water in the bay, courtesy of my relocation program.
Neil hunches over with sudden interest. “What makes you say that? Are you going to interfere like you usually do?” Either way a bet is a bet. It will be bad news for Miss Meadows if Tabby takes to meddling.
Tabby winks. “She’s a girl, she looks resourceful. Besides, Friday night Dec lets the ladies dance on stage.”
I scoff, taking a long drink.
“Ladies…sure.” If you could call the hookers who show up looking for dumb johns ladies, I suppose we have those in spades dancing at the club. I hadn’t taken a club girl home in long time…The occasional quickie in my office, well, that was another story.
“I think I just lost this bet, Dec.” Neil tosses a drink back and I envy how relaxed he seems.
“Of course you did, idiot.” I nod at him.
Neil asks, “What are you going to do about it?”
My brother thinks I will intervene on her behalf, but I won’t. These things always have a way of working themselves out.
“Children, children,” I chide my siblings, finishing the Dair Ghaelach. “If she knows what’s good for her, she won’t be back at all.” I smile through the bullshit because I know she’ll be back. It’s not a question of if…it’s a question of when.
Chapter Two
Sydney
“Ugh, what an ass.” I climb the stairs, lugging each step of my tired legs until I reach the street level from Declan’s basement club. With all the debauchery and excess going on inside, Natas might have been Hell–or at least one of the circles in Dante’s Inferno. I figure Declan is somewhere between lust, gluttony, and greed. I’m torn between wanting to scrub the look he gave me from my mind or falling down the rabbit hole willingly tearing my clothes off as I go.
The pounding headache reminds me that the epic failure tonight is my fault. Sweat makes my shirt cling to my back in the humid night and tears smear down my cheeks. My hair hangs in a tangled mess over my shoulders in varied shades of brown-blond. My stomach knots painfully, forcing me to double over as I walk away from my last hope for saving Dad.
I can’t stop him from pouring the alcohol down his throat any more than I can stop him from entering bets he can’t cover. Mom’s insurance money dried up years ago, with my dreams for college and Dad’s grief drowning in the bottom of a beer bottle. A drunk driver killed her in a hit-and-run, and you would think he would have learned his lesson then, but it only seems to compound the pain and the need to numb everything. His colleagues are of no help covering for one of their own. Guys
I knew all my life are enabling him to drink and gamble. They think it’s a favor letting Dad reach retirement with the force first, but the alcohol and gambling will kill him before he makes twenty-five years.
His addiction is a liquid form of poison they keep feeding him. I no longer recognize the man who used to prop me up on his shoulders every year for Patriot’s Day growing up. The sinking feeling that shit is about to hit the fan and they are setting up my dad to be the fall guy worries me every day this continues. Corruption seems like something that only happens on television, but here it’s going unchecked. I see the stares and whispers and calculated hand-passes. I’m not stupid, even if I haven’t figured out exactly what’s going on.
“Miss.”
I glance over my shoulder and see two thugs from Mr. Natas’ club close behind me. Preoccupied with my worries, I hadn’t even heard them behind me. My nerves are shot with Declan’s warning raising my hackles.
“Go away.” I pick up my pace, avoiding the two men with necks thicker than my leg and the strength to snap me in two, getting far away from there.
“Mr. Natas would like us to escort you home. In the car, please.”
One holds the door open to a dark SUV that’s pulled up to the curb.
“No.” I give them my best glare, but they both smile like I’m a mouse caught between two cats ready to play.
“Our boss wasn’t asking.” The larger of the two takes a step forward. I’m certain outrunning them will be problematic. I’m tired. I’m hungry, and I used the last of my cash for bus fare so I could avoid walking from the T line. A quick glance around the neighborhood tells me that my list of options is dramatically reducing by the second.
Unfortunately, I am all too aware of the reality. Mr. Declan Natas wouldn’t even hear me out or give me the time of day, and yet…he’s having his thugs drive me home. He runs a nightclub in a shitty section of south Boston and owns a brownstone mansion in Back Bay. I live in a small shared walkup apartment off the T line in South End.