His Captive

by Zahra Girard

  “If you’ve heard of the MacCailins, you know who I am. Go find us a good table,” Connor says.

  The maitre d’ nods and leads us through the restaurant.

  It’s a beautiful place, decorated with stone and with artwork on the walls. The whole restaurant is made up to look like a vineyard. It’s palatial, but restrained in a way that makes it seem even more expensive than if it had just been decorated with gold everything.

  We sit.

  I’m still in awe.

  The maitre d’ departs and our waiter shows up right on his footsteps.

  “Good evening, and thank you so much for joining us tonight. My name is Tyler and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Would you like to order some wine to start?” He says.

  Connor looks over his menu, then looks to me. He looks confused, and a little bit unsure. This might not be his scene.

  I decide to step in before he decides it would be a good idea to just order a bottle of whiskey for dinner.

  “We’ll have a bottle of red wine. Whatever the sommelier recommends. Thank you,” I say.

  Our waiter, Tyler, nods. “Excellent choice, madam. I’ll be back shortly with your wine.”

  Connor watches till he’s out of earshot. “Thanks for bailing me out there,” he says. “You can probably tell this isn’t my type of place.”

  “So, why would you take me here?”

  “Because you deserve it. Other gals in my life, I’d be lucky if they made me want to share take-out with ‘em. But the way you make me feel is so much more than that. The least I can do is put on a monkey suit and show you a proper night out.”

  The waiter brings our wine to the table and pours for us, and the whole time I hope he doesn’t notice the giant, downright dopey grin I have on my face.

  It takes a few generous sips of wine before I have my silly smile under control.

  Tyler folds his hands behind his back and looks at the two of us expectantly, first me, then Connor. “Have you decided what you would like to order, sir?”

  Connor glances through his menu, eyes squinting. “This is all in French.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter says, politely.

  “Even the descriptions?”

  The waiter nods.

  Connor closes the menu and looks up at our waiter. “That’s just fucking ridiculous. I’ll have a steak. Rare.”

  I don’t blame him for being perturbed. The menu is written entirely in French, and each dish has almost a paragraph’s worth of a description.

  “And you, madam?”

  “The grilled lobster with beurre blanc and winter vegetables,” I say, holding up the menu and pointing to the entry so the waiter can see it. Also, so he can confirm that’s what I’m actually ordering, since I don’t really speak French either.

  He nods, then leaves.

  I wait for Tyler to be out of sight before picking up the wine list and looking up our bottle. The price alone is enough to make me cringe. Connor just dropped half my rent payment on wine that I ordered.

  I can’t help but feel guilty. As much as I love the attention, and to see him happy and know that at least some of his happiness is coming from being good to me, it still feels like too much.

  It must be written all over my face, because he leans in and his voice drops to a whisper.

  “Something wrong? Do I need to get that somm-whatever guy?”

  “No, it’s not that,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Then, what is it?”

  One of the reasons I took so well to being a journalist is that I can’t stop asking questions. I can’t leave things well enough alone. For work, it’s great. But right now? I’m uncomfortable with how much he’s spending for hardly knowing me. And it gets me thinking about where his money comes from.

  I’m being pampered with blood money.

  “How did you get into doing what you do?” I say.

  It’s hard keeping it vague, even though I know I have to because someone could overhear.

  What I want to say is: why are you a killer? Or why do I feel so drawn to you when I know how bad you are?

  Connor instantly sits up straighter. His jaw set tight, clenched.

  “Is this an interview?” he says, his voice just as on guard as he looks.

  I can’t keep it in.

  “I’m living with you, Connor. I’ve seen you… do things. I’ve slept with you. I just want to know a little bit about who you are.”

  A crooked, cocky smile lights up his face. “Technically, lass, there was no sleeping involved. And we weren’t even in a bed.”

  When I’m on a story, I don’t let my interview subjects dance around questions. I’m sure as hell not about to start with Connor.

  I look him in the eye.

  “You’ve told me how important trust is to you. Well, honesty is a big part of that. So don’t mess around with me when I want to know more about the man I’m sleeping with.”

  He sighs and almost looks… petulant.

  “Ok, lass, we can do this, but it’s going to be a two way street. I give a little, I get a little, got it?”

  “Fine.”

  He drains his wine glass and then stares into it for a moment.

  “I’ll go first,” I start, then stop, because it’s obvious Connor’s not paying attention. “Connor?”

  He ignores me. He stands up and walks across the room to find our waiter, Tyler. The two men chat for a moment, Connor with his arm slipped over Tyler’s shoulders and the waiter looking as confused and taken-aback as someone who spends their day serving high society can possibly look.

  They’re over there for a good minute, before Connor shoves a handful of bills into the waiter’s hand. Tyler leaves for a minute, disappearing into the kitchen, before returning with a can of Irish stout.

  Connor sits back down, looking pleased with himself, and I flip through the menu. Beer isn’t on it.

  “It’s from the cook’s stash,” he says. “If you’re going to go digging around to find out who I am, I’m damn well having a fucking beer while we do it.”

  He takes a drink, and right away looks more relaxed.

  I reach across the table and put my hand on his. “Go ahead,” I say.

  He smiles at me, takes another drink, and settles back into his chair.

  “I got into this business when I was fourteen. I was working in some shit pub in Roxbury, bussing tables and doing dishes, that kind of fucking work, when Lochlan found me.”

  It’s mine turn to lean forward. “Fourteen? You were fourteen when you started…”

  He laughs. “No, no, no. I wasn’t doing that at first. I was working at the pub because, when you grow up poor, you gotta help out your family as soon as you’re able. Lochlan stopped in to grab a pint, and a couple of shit teenagers who were there thought they could pull a dine and dash. I caught up to them right outside the building, used my fists to convince them to pay their fucking bills. Must’ve impressed the old man, cause afterward, Lochlan offered me a job.”

  “What sort of job?” I say.

  Connor shakes his head. “Nope. It’s my turn, now.”

  He looks at me for a moment, then breaks into a grin that makes me nervous. “First kiss.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “It’s not your turn to ask questions. Tell me: who was your first kiss?”

  I shift in my chair.

  I’m not used to being the interviewee, and I certainly wasn’t expecting a question like that. I take a long drink of wine. “Jake Nelson. I was fifteen. He was seventeen and on the varsity basketball team.”

  Connor’s eyes sparkle at me. He’s enjoying this. “Your turn.”

  “What was your first job for the MacCailin’s?” I say.

  “Raising money for NORAID and ‘Project Children’ — they gave kids in Northern Ireland a proper summer vacation, away from all the Troubles. Lochlan would send me around to collect donations. I was the best fundraiser he had,” he says. There’s more than a bit of pride i
n his voice.

  “The best?” I say.

  Connor nods. “I won’t count that as one of your questions. I’m proud of what I did; I was the best by a long shot. I knew which families were feuding — with us Irish, it isn’t hard to tell — and I’d use that to my advantage. I’d print up fake donation sheets, showing that their enemies donated a load of cash. When I’d go to that family’s house to collect, I’d make sure the fake sheets were on the top. They’d always try to outdo each other.”

  “Isn’t that fraud?” I say.

  “Nuh-uh. And it’s my turn, lass,” Connor says. “Tell me: when did you first have sex?”

  I blush and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  He’s not shy in asking it — he’s loud enough that I’m positive people in the tables near us can hear.

  They look at us.

  I’m blushing.

  But Connor just grins. He loves watching me squirm. He’s going to make me pay for every question.

  This is about to get dirty.

  “What’s the matter, Whiskey Gal? I know you’ve done it before. You sure as hell don’t fuck the way you do without having a bit of practice.”

  “Connor!” I exclaim, my voice an urgent whisper.

  People are staring. Talking.

  “Question for question, lass. That was the agreement.”

  There is not enough wine at the table to prepare me for where I know this interview is headed.

  Connor seems to sense it. He raises one hand and flags down our waiter. “Another bottle for my blushing date, here,” he says.

  As soon as the bottle shows up, he fills my glass to the brim.

  Then, he looks right at me. “Go ahead. First time.”

  “Also with Jake Nelson. After the spring dance,” I clear my throat. I put my head practically drowning myself in my wine glass. “He’d borrowed his mom’s Toyota Camry to take me to the dance. We did it in the back seat.”

  Maybe I can go hide in the bathroom. I just know someone heard.

  “Naughty lass,” he practically purrs, his vibrato of an accent stirring me up between the legs. There’s all sorts of dirty suggestions glinting in his eyes. “Ok, Whiskey Gal, your turn.”

  “When did your job turn into killing people?”

  I keep my voice down, and I can’t help but look over my shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

  Connor just shrugs. “I was eighteen. Lochlan felt that, since I’d grown up, it was time I had a man’s job. He sent me after some guy who was trying to cheat him on some land deal. I did my job and I found out I was good at it.”

  Connor’s not quiet talking about it. He has no shame in who he is or what he does for a living. It’s like he knows that there’s not a man in this room who can touch him. No one who can stand eye to eye with him.

  “My turn,” he says. He leans in close, and this time his voice is quiet. It burns with heat and lust and his eyes taunt me. He wants to see me blush. “When was the last time you touched yourself and what were you thinking about?”

  “That’s two questions,” I blurt out, indignant, and loud enough that several people stop their conversations to stare at me.

  He shakes his head. “No, I combined them with ‘and’. It’s just one question.”

  “That’s not how it works. I went to college for this sort of thing, Connor. You used a conjunction, “and”, to connect two separate questions.”

  “And I’ve watched Jeopardy a time or two, so I know all about questions. Just answer it, Whiskey Gal,” he says. “Tell me about the last time you touched yourself.”

  What would happen if I just got up and ran away right now? Connor would probably catch me, wrap his arms around me, and say something that would make me sit right back down at the table.

  I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to get me so embarrassed I’ll stop asking him questions.

  Of course, I know he’s going to love my answer.

  “It was today. While you were out,” I start.

  It’s the truth.

  “Dirty lass, tell me more,” Connor growls at me. Naked hunger burning in his eyes.

  I finish my wine and barely set the cup down before Connor has it refilled. I’m flush, drunk, and probably about to embarrass myself in the most exclusive restaurant in Boston.

  But I don’t care about any of that.

  I’m going to tell Connor every dirty detail.

  I lick my lips, and can’t help but smile as I see Connor lean forward in his seat even more. He shifts his legs a little and there’s a glint in his eye that practically screams out that he’s rock hard underneath the table.

  “I was writing the article, and I was sitting on the couch and I just kept thinking about what we did last night. And it made it hard to focus, so I got comfortable. I laid back on the couch, right in the same spot where you fucked me last night, and then, well, I got off. Thinking of you. Remembering how you felt inside me.”

  I shift in my chair, rubbing my legs together, noticing the heat and the wet between them. I’m now blatantly aware of how I’m both not embarrassed and very turned on.

  Connor’s looking at me like there isn’t a single other person in this restaurant. There’s just me and him.

  His eyes tell me what he’d like to do. How quickly he’d be inside me, dominating me, owning me.

  I’m starting to feel that way, too.

  I want him.

  “You are just full of surprises, Whiskey Gal,” he says, his voice heated, breathless. God, it turns me on. “Your turn.”

  I feel like I’ve earned the right to ask Connor the kind of hard questions I’ve been thinking about since I’ve known him. Especially since I know a few people have overheard our conversation. There’s an older guy at the table next to ours that just will not stop staring at me. He must’ve heard everything.

  “Does your real family know what you do?”

  There’s the briefest of moments where something angry and pained flickers through Connor’s eyes. He shakes his head, just once. “No.”

  Then, the smile returns just like it it never left.

  Connor stands up and comes to stand right next to my chair. He walks like he owns this fucking place.

  I barely suppress a gasp.

  He’s hard, and anyone in the restaurant who isn’t blind and took one glance in our direction could see his cock straining against his slacks.

  He doesn’t give a damn who might see.

  Hell, knowing Connor, he probably wants other people in this restaurant to see. It’d be just another way for him to show everyone how much he owns this room.

  Cocksure doesn’t even begin to describe him.

  But I hardly think about any of that.

  My mind flashes back to our time in the elevator. On his couch.

  My body remembers the way he made me climax harder than I ever thought possible.

  I want that. Again. Now.

  He leans down, his lips brushing my ear.

  “I promised you a night that would make you blush, Whiskey Gal. You interested?”

  That’s not even a fair question.

  I nod, staring straight ahead. Heat suffuses my face, floods between my legs. My breath catches.

  I’m more turned on by just the idea that he might fuck me than I have been while actually fucking any other man I’ve been with.

  Connor’s got a hold on me.

  “What do you have in mind?” I manage to choke out.

  He slides his hand down my back, his fingertips searing lines down my spine.

  “Follow me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Evelyn

  Connor won.

  He didn’t embarrass me out of my interview back there.

  Instead, he’s flipped everything on it’s head and turned away any thoughts I even have about digging into his life.

  All I can think about is where he’s leading me.

  All I can think about is how much I want him. To feel his body ne
xt to mine, skin on skin, with him inside me.

  I don’t do this. I know this is risky, wrong, and dirty. I’m supposed to be a good girl. But I want this.

  We’re halfway across the room when I glance behind us and see our waiter bring our plates to our table.

  He gives me a questioning look.

  I shrug, then wave.

  Connor gives him a thumbs up.

  Our waiter looks so confused.

  We get into a dark hallway leading towards the bathrooms, lit only by a few small lights done up to look like candles.

  The second we’re alone, Connor presses me up against a wall. His lips find mine, his body presses up against me, and I can feel his cock against my leg. He kisses me with an all-consuming hunger.

  I’m so wound up, so overwhelmed, I’d fuck him right here if he wanted it.

  I slide my hands down his back while we kiss, feeling every hard, perfectly-sculpted muscle, until my hands reach his lower back and I feel the cold steel of a gun. Even that excites me.

  He’s danger.

  He’s passion.

  Unrepentant, naked desire. Connor takes what he wants. And he wants me.

  I go lower, tightening my grip on his ass. Firm, perfect, he flexes it as I grab him and I feel the muscles tighten and release. His hips flex forward, pressing his hard cock against me.

  I hear footsteps approach in the hallway, coming right towards us.

  But we don’t stop.

  His lips drift from mine to my neck, kissing, nipping, until I can’t think – I can only moan.

  “Excuse me,” a man’s voice says.

  We stop kissing for just a moment, just long enough for both of us to stare a blatant get the fuck away at this guy who thought it would be a good idea to interrupt us.

  He gets the point. And I get Connor’s lips back on mine, but kissing isn’t enough for me.

  “Right here?” I breathe into his ear. “I’ll do it, if you want to.”

  He chuckles. “I don’t want to share even the sight of your body with another man. You’re all mine, Whiskey Gal, and that’s just how I like it.”

  One firm hand settles on my leg, slowly drifting higher, lifting my dress, until it’s pressing right against my sex. The only thing separating my bare flesh from his is a thin layer of lace.