She moved into position over the water’s hot stream. It felt good, but she spread her labia so she could get more pressure on her clit. She rocked her hips slowly, trying to find the pace that would take her over the top.
The water on her pussy felt sublime.
But she couldn’t quite get there…
In her mind, she heard his voice, steel wrapped in velvet, as he threatened to give her a good hiding.
Those words shouldn’t have excited her or thrilled her, but they had.
His eyes had darkened and there’d been a determined set to his jaw. Despite her bravado, she had no doubt he was man enough for her.
And if that hadn’t turned her inside out, the smile when he’d worked his way onto the stage would have. He was clearly a man accustomed to women giving him anything he wanted.
She was determined not to be one of them.
But with his dark good looks and cool determination—crikey, he’d been a step behind her for six thousand miles without giving up—Jack wasn’t like any other man she’d ever met. It was the kind of resolve that turned her on even as it annoyed the hell out of her.
The image of his eyes, lightning-intense and striking, made her weak. With a soft sigh, she held her labia apart with one hand, fingered the small nub of her clit and tilted her hips forward a little more. The warm water caressed her like a man would. Like he would?
And truthfully was that what she wanted?
Or did she want something more?
When she masturbated, she had fantasies of being tied up, of being helpless as an orgasm was wrung from her.
She told herself that it didn’t matter if Jack Quinn were the man to give her what she craved. She’d never betray her family or herself by sleeping with the enemy, so she’d never know.
Sinead tried to chase thoughts of him from her mind. She kept her labia spread, then moved her other hand to cup her left breast and tease the nipple. The steaming water made her clit swell more and more.
She heard his words repeat in her mind as he told her that when he went home, she’d be by his side.
Ha.
Sinead made her own decisions. Imigh sa diabhal! The devil take him.
Determinedly, she summoned one of her favourite fantasies. She’d place her hands on her hips and face down a larger, taller man who refused to be intimidated by her. Why not? It was her fantasy and that meant the man of her creation wouldn’t care that her T-shirt told him to bugger off. He’d be unimpressed when she told him to take a walk in short, jerky motions.
In her imaginings, she’d be abducted by this stranger and be made to surrender to his darkest desires, desires that matched her own. Sinead knew she was a strong, powerful woman, but the imagery was compelling and seductive. She yearned to have control yanked away, and yank it he would. And because she was helpless in his grasp, she could abdicate responsibility. Nothing but her pleasure would matter.
This man would claim her. Toss her over his shoulder. He’d keep her captive with his artfully tied knots and cleverly devised bonds. He’d torment and tease. He’d see through her sarcasm to her vulnerabilities. He’d cherish her, but tolerate no nonsense. He’d be the strength to the softness he’d bring out in her.
His tongue would caress her clit; he’d suck on it, lick it. He’d keep her pinned beneath him till she screamed her surrender, until she admitted he was not only her equal but her master…
He’d demand her active participation. He’d hold her chin captive, much as Jack had at the pub. Her imaginary man would bluntly inform her he would not settle for anything less than her total commitment, emotionally and physically. He would not tolerate her simply saying the words and going through the motions.
She’d blossom, become aware of her sexuality.
And—
And—
Her fantasy began to unravel as Jack Quinn once again took centre stage. She no longer saw a nameless stranger, but a frightening enemy. Quinn had stormed into her life with his ridiculous ideas, commanding presence and unsettling words.
Didn’t that beat all?
She tried to shut out his image by pretending she’d never set eyes on him.
With her jaw clenched, she fought desperately for a climax, squeezing her clitoris, pinching her nipples, gyrating her hips.
And there was…nothing. Nothing at all. It was as if the building sensations simply vanished.
But then she imagined the feel of Jack’s strong palm on her arse.
She gave up the fight and allowed the new images to unfurl.
Jack would hold her firmly, one hand pressed on the small of her back. He’d stroke her buttocks, and she’d become damp with need. Then, only then, would he deliver a sharp stinging slap to her rear.
She’d beg and plead, she’d wriggle, she’d protest, but he’d be relentless.
He’d torment her until she orgasmed.
Like… Now.
She shouted out as she climaxed. Her entire body trembled with the overwhelming power.
Her hips continued to jerk as aftershocks assailed her.
Finally she drank in several gulps of the mile-high oxygen-depleted air, trying to restore her breathing to normal.
Bastard.
Damn the man and sentence him to half a dozen centuries in purgatory, anyway. Couldn’t she even masturbate in peace? She for sure wouldn’t be lighting a single candle to save his unholy soul.
Her lips curled around a very nasty curse and she yanked the faucet closed. If she ever got her hands on him…
He was Satan incarnate, just like his pesky ancestors.
The water droplets that had fallen from her hair chilled on her shoulders and she climbed back into the bathtub and sank in up to her chin, desperate to wash away thoughts of him.
With her eyes closed, she heard a sound.
A soft wailing came from next door. So much for her rest and relaxation.
After pulling the plug to drain the tub, she got out and slipped into a big, fluffy robe the hotel had thoughtfully provided. A few sips of whisky from the minibar might help take off the edge so she could sleep.
In the living room, Sinead stubbed her toe.
Could the day get any worse?
She knelt to grab the object, probably one of her own shoes, carelessly strewn about.
Her heart stopped. Then her pulse slammed into her throat.
A comb.
Sinead wiped a trembling hand across her mouth as she stared.
She couldn’t make herself bend to pick it up. Just like the one he had, this was silver, probably sterling, with an ornate inscription that resembled her family crest.
The Banshee myth had many variations. In some she was an old woman, in some, a young one. She combed her hair in some. A silver comb was a herald of death, and so was a weeping, keening or wailing…
Dear God.
The wailing from next door!
Sinead shivered. She wasn’t superstitious, but damn…
The Banshee only followed certain families. Including hers.
Standing, she backed away from the comb.
Breaths short, she dashed across the room for her mobile phone. She scrolled to the call log and pressed redial on her mother’s number. When there was no answer, again, Sinead redialled. “Pick up,” she ordered. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” The phone rang without answer. She swore, ended the call and determinedly pressed redial.
Finally, finally, her mother picked up, sounding tired, groggy, and a wee bit annoyed.
“Sinead?”
“I found a silver comb, Ma.”
She knew her ma would remember that all combs had been banned from their lives. This was serious.
“I was sleeping like the dead, if that counts,” her mother said.
She scowled. “That’s not funny, Ma.”
“I was sleeping,” Bridget repeated. “Until you woke me up.”
Realising how ridiculous it all seemed, she apologised.
“We’re all fine here,
dear.”
She remembered all the times in her childhood when her mother had told her to pull her head out of the clouds and stop dreaming.
“Enjoy your time in America. Have fun on your tour. It does you a world of good to get away.”
“But—”
“Stop your worrying, love. Now unless you’re going to have a handsome young man brew me a cup of tea, I’m going back to bed.”
Sinead was quiet, not sure what to say next.
“Anything else, Sinead?”
She hadn’t told her mother about Jack Quinn chasing her halfway around the world. She’d kept the entire situation private from her family, not seeing the sense in worrying them. Now she wished she’d have said something.
Explaining that his grandmother had found a comb and that the man himself was insisting on marriage would be a lot for her family to accept.
“Sleep well, Ma.” After a final apology, Sinead rang off. She’d thought that talking to her mother would help, but she was still unsettled.
Ignoring the comb, she continued to the minifridge and pulled out a small bottle of alcohol, priced about four times more expensive than it would have been in the shops. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
She decided right then that she would install these tiny well-stocked fridges in her family’s cottages. They were a heck of a way to make money.
She twisted off the cap and drank straight from the bottle. Tonight, more than any time in her life, she was in need of the fortification from a belt of good—or even bad—Irish distillate.
Unsure of what to do, she rested her hips against the windowsill and stared at the silver comb. It seemed to wink menacingly in the overhead lights.
She couldn’t go back into the bathroom to brush her teeth without stepping over the damn thing.
She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she didn’t want to touch it.
And how was she supposed to sleep knowing it was there?
Calling housekeeping to come and remove it seemed absurd, but maybe…
She was barely surprised when there was a knock on her door.
If it had been anyone from the hotel, housekeeping or the front desk with a message, they would have announced themselves.
For about thirty seconds she debated what to do.
She was on the fifth floor, so going out of a window wasn’t an option. She could call hotel security and have him removed, but she knew he’d wait her out.
And damn it, the fact she’d found a comb upset her and he was likely the only person in the United States who would understand her agitation.
After that sensual fantasy, part of her wanted him, every bit as much as she wanted not to want him. Her shoulders slumped.
He knocked again, a determined, forceful sound. “I know you’re in there, Sinead. Open the goddamn door.”
She didn’t ask how he’d found her. He hadn’t travelled six thousand miles and traipsed across two continents to turn around and go back home when she ducked out the backdoor of a lower downtown Denver pub.
She should just be glad it had taken him this long.
Temporarily beaten, she exhaled a shaky breath and placed the small bottle of liquor on the windowsill. She pulled the belt tighter around her waist and checked to be sure no cleavage showed.
She should stall him while she dressed, but she doubted even a suit of armour would offer protection against the man.
She opened the door, and he took her breath away.
Damn but she wished she didn’t have to hate him.
His arms were folded across his chest. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket and he leaned against the jamb as if the room were his own. Just like the man of her fantasies, he had that rakishly long, dark hair and his was a bit tousled from the wind.
Despite her best intentions, Jack Quinn’s devastating good looks and piercing blue eyes weakened Sinead’s knees. Oh, aye, not everyone would find him handsome, she supposed.
Beaten by the wind and weather, he was as rugged as a gale off the north Atlantic. His nose looked as if it had been broken in a rugby match. And it would be rugby. This one wasn’t as lean as footballers. He was broad as a ship’s bow, hewn by the elements.
His eyes, though, unnerved her.
Deep, dark blue, the colour of the sky as the moon rose. He stared at her unblinkingly, as if seeing into her soul. Despite how warm she was from her bath, she shivered.
“I told you we weren’t finished yet.”
Chapter Three
She sighed. At times she might be reckless, but she was never stupid, and she knew when she was beaten. And truthfully, despite the fact she didn’t believe in fairies and fae and getting luck from kissing a rock, the discovery of the damn fecking comb bothered her.
“Invite me in.”
She took a reluctant step back. Then she squared her shoulders. He might be here, but this was her room, and she was in control. “You’ll make a racket otherwise, I suppose.”
“Your hospitality is charming.” He crossed the threshold then hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. He closed the door behind him and slid the safety bolt into place, locking them in the room together.
In the small area near the door, he dominated the space. With his broad shoulders emphasised by the leather jacket he seemed so much more overpowering than he had at the pub.
“Truth be known, you gave in far more easily than I thought you would. I wasn’t sure if I was going to have to bribe the manager or sleep in the lobby.”
“I—” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat before trying again. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Surprise, that.”
“I, er…over there.” She pointed. “Silver comb.” She hadn’t meant to tell him that. She’d meant to be cool, competent, dismissive, maybe even abrasive.
She waited, braced, for his sarcasm. She’d deserve it, too. She was overreacting to something that likely had a logical explanation. Although he said nothing, his brows knitted together in concern.
Why the hell did he have to be so nice? “It might not mean anything.” Who was she trying to convince? The one he found might not mean anything, but this one surely did. “The cleaning people could have dropped it. That might not be my family’s crest on the back.” She hadn’t looked at it close enough to be sure.
Then she heard it again. A soft, keening cry.
His brows rose. She shuddered.
“You’ve telephoned your family?”
“Everyone’s safe.” She exhaled. “My ma says I should enjoy my time in America and finish the tour with the band. Honestly we need the money. Ma’s not superstitious at all. In fact, generally, neither am I. There’s honestly no need for me to go home, but…”
“You’re concerned.” His voice was soft, sympathetic. In contrast, he was large with shoulders broad enough for both their worries.
If she were a lesser woman, she might be tempted to lean on him. And he was broad enough, strong enough, to carry her burdens. “I’ve been on the road constantly over the last few months.”
“I know. I had a hard time keeping up with you.”
She wasn’t sorry to have put him through a lot of effort. If he’d left her alone, he could have been at home relaxing. “I’m probably tired and overwrought.”
“Is that how you are, Sinead?”
She exhaled. When she answered, she was truthful. “No.”
“Maybe there’s something to all this bad blood between our families. And you and I have a chance to do something about it.”
She should have known he’d take the opportunity to try to convince her to do what he wanted. “Thanks. No. I have enough responsibilities to the future without worrying about the past.”
“I’ve got an aeroplane waiting.”
His own damn plane? While her family scrimped and saved? “Don’t keep it waiting,” she said. “Feel free to put your miserable soul back on it and jump back across the pond. I’m certain the world is waiting for
you to resume control.”
“Stop fighting it.” He lowered his voice a few octaves, and the deep richness of the sound made a sensual thrill slide straight to her female bits.
“Stop fighting me.” His voice was an odd combination of encouraging and demanding. “You’re coming with me, Sinead. By fair means or foul.”
She was suddenly glad he’d shown up. She’d gone from frightened to furious in less than two minutes. She feathered back her damp hair and glared. “Listen, Mr—”
“No, Ms O’Malley, it’s you who will listen.” He took a step towards her. “Two continents, six thousand miles, dozens of telephone calls and e-mails. You, woman, will be going home, with me.”
“Bugger off.”
“Sharp-tongued wench, I meant it when I said I was done listening to you. You’re coming home with me. Will you do it willingly, or no?” He unfolded his arms and took another step towards her.
She backed up instinctively. But she had enough wits about her not to move towards the bed that so thoroughly dominated the room.
“And when I get you to Eire, if not before, I’m going to fuck you senseless.”
He moved so quickly then that she didn’t have time to react.
He took her by the upper arms and moved her back three full steps. “And I’ll make you call my name as you come, screaming.”
He let go of her but shock immobilised her. When she found her voice, she looked up at him and laughed, with more confidence than she truly felt. “I’ll call you many names, diabhal. But it won’t be from anything intimate, I promise. The likes of you isn’t getting anywhere near me.”
Jack’s nostrils flared. “The likes of me?”
“Descendent of murdering bastards,” she clarified recklessly. “The Quinns weren’t good enough for the O’Malleys eight centuries ago. You’re nowhere near good enough now.”
The cold fury in his eyes shocked her. She recognised she’d overstepped the bounds of his good nature, but she stood her ground, even when he took a large stride in her direction. She kept her head tilted back, unsure whether she was being brave or just stupid.
On one hand, if she made him angry enough, he might decide she and the O’Malleys weren’t worth the effort and he’d leave them the hell alone. On the other, antagonising a lion was rarely a good idea.
Bound and Determined Page 3