by Emma Chase
Tommy dips his head and takes my mouth—harsh and ravenous—devouring my lips. I grip his sides and angle my hips for his pounding thrusts. I press my knees against his rib cage and lock my legs around his lower back—pulling him in—needing more and more and all of him.
With a final push, he plants himself in deep and the dam breaks. Waves of wet, white pleasure crash over us, through us. I go limp, drowning in the ecstasy, letting the current take me. Tommy tilts his head back, his perfect face twisting with carnal rapture, rasping my name like a hallowed prayer.
“Abby, Abby, Abby . . .”
* * *
The next morning, after the deepest, deadest sleep I’ve had in three months, I open my eyes to the sight of Tommy Sullivan gazing down at me. His smile is tender—making him look young and handsome and boyish, like a lad who got exactly what he was wishing for all year for Christmas.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I reach up, scratching my palm against the morning bristles on his jaw. Then I tell him the truth, and nothing but the truth.
“My grandmother’s going to try and ruin you. That’s what she said—why I kicked you out that day.”
I cover my face with my hands. “God, saying it out loud makes it sound like some bad reinterpretation of a Shakespearean tragedy.”
I relay the whole conversation to him, how she came to my flat, how I tried to sway her but couldn’t manage it.
Tommy stares down at me, processing all I’ve told him.
“So you ended things between us . . . because you were trying to protect me?”
“Yes, I did. Are you angry?”
He snorts. “No—I think it’s sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“Adorable.”
“Tommy—you’re not taking this seriously.”
He rolls over onto me, nudging my legs apart and settling his hips between my thighs—rubbing that thick, relentless hardness against me.
“You feel that? I told you before, I take my hard-ons very seriously.”
“But—”
“Abby, look at me.”
I lift my eyes to his as he strokes my hair with the pads of his fingers. “Except for my sisters, no one’s ever wanted to protect me before. That’s usually my job. And it means something that you did—it means a whole lot.”
He kisses me softly, slow and sweet.
Then he shifts us to our sides . . . and smacks my arse. Hard.
Whack.
“Ow!”
“But you should have told me. Instead of leaving me marinating in misery for the last three fucking months.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t think you were all that miserable.”
“You’d think wrong.”
“I saw you . . . through the window at Paddy’s. You were with your partner and his wife. But there was another girl there—blond and pretty—you had your arm around her.”
Tommy maneuvers to his back, pushing a hand through his hair. Then he holds up a finger to me and reaches for his mobile. He puts it on speaker as he makes the call, and a moment later an energetic, chirpy voice answers.
“Hey, Tommy-Tommy.”
“Hey, Ellie. Sorry to call so early.”
There’s a laugh in her voice. “Early does not exist in the house anymore—time is an infinite loop. Logan’s already wrestling with Finn in the den and it’s not like baby St. James #2 is letting me sleep. What’s up?”
“Do you remember when you and Lo and Marlow and me went to eat at Paddy’s when she was here visiting from the States?”
“Yep, I remember.”
Tommy glances towards me as he speaks. “In all the time we’ve known each other—how often have Marlow and I hooked up?”
“Ha! Like, in reality or in Marlow’s dreams?”
“Reality.”
“Ah . . . never. When you first met, Marlow and I were still in high school and by the time she was a legal-beagle, you were thinking of her like one of your sisters.”
Tommy nods. “Exactly.”
“You want to tell me why you’re asking?”
“I’ll fill you in another time. Thanks, Ellie.”
They end the call and Tommy tosses his phone to the floor. Then he turns my way, tugging the sheet down. He traces a tickling, taunting line with his finger down the center of my breasts, across my stomach, circling my navel and back up again.
“Like I said—fucking misery.”
I nod, my breath hitching as Tommy rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger—before leaning his head down to bring his lips and tongue into the mix.
“What are we going to do about my grandmother?” I ask.
Though she’s the last damn thing I want to be discussing. Because Tommy’s mouth is magical—and I’d rather be focused on that.
“I can handle your granny, Apple Blossom.” He kisses around my breast, my neck, shifting back on top of me, enveloping my mouth in consuming openmouthed kisses. “Don’t worry your pretty head—or any of your other pretty parts—about it.”
And when he says it like that and surrounds me like this—every inch of him strong and protective and certain—it’s impossible not to believe him.
Because Tommy Sullivan can handle anything.
Everything.
I can’t remember now why I ever doubted it.
* * *
The first step in Tommy’s plan to “handle” my grandmother involves bringing him to the Bumblebridge estate for brunch so I can officially introduce him to the rest of the family.
And so the Dowager Countess can get to know him better. He’s under the impression that since he can charm me out of my knickers anytime he likes, he’ll be able to charm the nastiness out of her just as easily.
I have my doubts about that part, but I trust him, so I follow his lead.
We’re the first to arrive that Saturday—me in my simple beige sheath dress and sweater and Tommy looking devastatingly handsome in his dark gray suit and sharp black tie. As I gaze at our reflection in the gilded mirror while we wait in the grand foyer . . . I realize something.
I don’t want Tommy to simply entice my grandmother into changing her mind about our relationship. I want her to understand clearly that we would be together regardless of her approval, that it’s not her decision to make. I want her to know that her thoughts and threats don’t matter—that I am not a puppet on a string. At least . . . not anymore.
It’s like osmosis, like Tommy’s surety and boldness have seeped into me. And here, now, with him in my life again, I’m strong enough to tell my grandmother exactly what I should have said from the very start.
And I don’t just want to do it, I need to.
For him and me—and very much for myself.
“I’m going to have a private word with my grandmother before things gets started.”
Tommy glances hesitantly in the direction of the library. “You’re certain? I could come with you.”
“No, I’ll just be a moment. It’ll be fine.”
He nods and kisses me sweetly on the cheek.
I enter the library without knocking, closing the door behind me.
“Grandmother.”
“Abigail,” she says from behind her rosewood desk. “How nice that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence. I wondered how long you’d carry on with your temper tantrum.”
I see she’s as pleasant as always.
“Yes, about that—Tommy is here with me.”
One sharp, damning brow reaches for the sky.
“Excuse me?”
“He wanted to meet the family and it seems fitting to introduce him . . . with him being my boyfriend.”
The brow inches even higher, paired with an appalled drop of her jaw.
“Boyfriend?”
“It’s not as juvenile as it sounds,” I explain curtly. “It’s serious between us. The term ‘lover’ is a better fit, but I was trying to be mindful of your delicate sensibilities.”
&n
bsp; Her lips press into a thin line of irritation as she stands.
“Abigail—”
But she’s already had her say—it’s my turn now.
“I’m not you, Grandmother. My choices belong to me and me alone. No one gets to take them away.”
There are no raving dramatics, no shouts of hysteria—I’m perfectly composed—my words are simple because they’re sincere and weighted with finality.
“If you try to harm him in any way, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll never come back here. I’ll never speak to you or think of you or admire you ever again. I honestly don’t know if that matters to you, but if you care about me—even just a little—you will let him be. Let us be.”
She looks into my eyes for several beats and I stare right back, refusing to be cowed this time. Because this family means everything to her, there is nothing she wouldn’t do for it; that’s what she said. And that’s what I’m counting on.
The Dowager Countess releases a long, vexed sigh, then she lowers her dark green eyes. And she nods—it’s stiff and begrudging, but I’ll take it.
* * *
Tommy
Brunch with Abby’s family explains so fucking much.
I’d read up on each of them, from the report Amos and Stella compiled all those months ago. But seeing them together in one posh dining room really drives home the idea that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—and the Haddocks are an orchard of straitlaced oddness.
They’re formal when Abby introduces me and when they greet each other—reserved and as bland as the walls in Abby’s flat. Even the two young nieces are strangely subdued.
Possibly medicated.
I don’t have much experience with the whole bringing-me-home-to-mum-and-dad thing. The women I dated before Abby veered towards the wild side and tended to have issues with their families. Or the relationship crashed and burned before we ever got to that point. But I’ve been dealing with the peculiarities of the wealthy and titled my whole adult life—so I’m dead-on sure I can win these crusty crumbs over.
As we move to take our seats, I offer my hand to Abby’s father and mother, giving them my best gentlemanly smile. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”
Abby’s dad is tall—studious and bow-tied—the type who’s more of a thinker and contemplater before he considers being a doer.
Abby’s mum is strikingly similar to her. Not just because they share the same porcelain skin and exquisite features—but because of the silent, observant way she looks at me when she shakes my hand. Like she’s dicing me up into slide-sized pieces in her mind to be analyzed later.
I intercept the Dowager Countess on her way to the table, dipping my head respectfully.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Your Ladyship.” Then I give her a wink. “And don’t worry about that whole trying-to-strong-arm-Abby-into-kicking-me-to-the-curb thing . . . you were only looking out for her. I can respect that.”
Abby’s father pauses midway to his seat.
“What’s this now? I didn’t catch that.”
I wave my hand. “Nothing worth repeating. Water under the bridge.” My look to the Dowager Countess is heavy with meaning. “Isn’t that right, madam?”
Her lips pucker, like a lemon is stuck in her mouth.
“Yes. Nothing of consequence.”
Once we’re settled, brunch is served.
And even the way they eat is bizarre. As if they’re bird–human hybrids—pecking and nibbling like they’re trying to make each bite last as long as possible.
If I’d tried eating like that growing up, I would’ve bloody starved to death before age five.
The butler places a butter dish in front of Abby’s grandmother.
“Thank you, Grogg.”
A laugh barks from my throat. “Grogg—that’s a good one.”
Because I figure it’s a joke—only a twisted bastard would stick a moniker like Grogg on a boy. It’d be like naming him Beer.
Then I get a look at his face.
“Oh, shit, that’s you’re real name? Sorry, mate.”
“Mummy,” the twin niece on the left whispers, “Auntie Abigail’s friend said the naughty poopy word.”
I grin at her across the table and try to redeem myself.
“I’ll watch my mouth more carefully, sweetheart.” I slip a coin from my pocket and dance it across my fingers. “Do you want to see a magic trick?”
What child doesn’t enjoy a good magic trick?
This one, apparently.
Her face scrunches into a mighty frown . . . it must be genetic.
“Magic isn’t real.”
“Of course magic is real. “
I bet they don’t believe in Father Christmas either. What kind of nightmare house is this?
“Mummy,” the niece whispers again, “Auntie Abigail’s friend is telling lies.”
Wow. Tough room.
I toss the coin up, snatch it from the air and move to slip it back into my pocket. Before I do, Abby’s sharp-eyed older brother, who’s built like a tank, takes notice of the bruising scabs across my knuckles.
“What happened to your hand, Mr. Sullivan? Some sort of accident?”
The thing about lying is, if you’re going to do it, it’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible. That may not have made it into the Bible, but it’s still a golden rule.
“It had a run-in with a man’s face. In my line of work, physical altercations are an occupational hazard.”
“What is it you do?” Abby’s mother asks.
And I get the distinct impression this is the most conversation these walls have heard in years. Maybe decades.
“Tommy owns a personal protection firm—the same firm that guarded us last year when Father was at trial. It’s how we met the second time,” Abby says. Gazing my way with this soft, adoring kind of expression that makes my cock stand up and take notice.
And I can’t help but think how delectable she would look stripped bare and bent over this lovely antique dining table.
“The second time?” the Dowager Countess inquires.
Abby sips her juice. “Yes. We met in the hospital the first time when Tommy was recovering from an injury. He woke up, just sort of grabbed me and kissed the daylights out of me.”
“Grabbed you?” the waifish sister asks, wide-mouthed and appalled.
When you’re not used to talking, you forget that some things sound better in your head than they do out loud.
“It was a good grab. Just like a fairy tale,” Abby jokes.
They don’t get it.
The funny bone seems to have skipped a Haddock generation. Or all of them.
So I elaborate—might as well put it all out there now. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“She grabbed me back, of course. Then she smacked me across the face.” I give Abby a warm look. “It was a nice shot—knocked the hell out of me.”
“Mummy, Auntie Abigail assaulted her friend.”
Well, that one’s just a little tattletale, now, isn’t she?
“That reminds me,” Abby’s father says, removing his glasses and cleaning them with his cloth napkin. “My partner’s son was in an altercation several nights ago.”
My voice is loose and steady. “You don’t say?”
“It seems he was attacked at a private affair. A random sort of thing.”
“What are the odds?” I click my tongue regretfully. Sorry I didn’t have time to break every bone in the bastard’s body.
“The world is a dangerous place.” I shrug. “More dangerous for some than others.”
And with that, the Haddocks appear all conversationed out. They resume their reading and planner-writing, food-pecking and phone-scrolling—as if they’re in the same room, but separated into solitary worlds by invisible cubicles.
It’s hard to hold on to the anger I’ve been carrying around for them. These people who planted seeds of unworthiness and insignificance in Abby’s perfect beautiful head
. It’s clear that they don’t mean to be malicious or indifferent.
Well . . . perhaps the grandmother does.
But the rest of them—they’re just fucking clueless.
They care for her, I suspect they care a lot . . . they just have no damn idea how to show it.
* * *
Showing has never been a problem for the Sullivans.
If anything, life would go smoother if they managed to keep a few things to themselves once in a while. Abby gets a front-row seat to the showing when I take her to my parents’ place for supper the following Sunday.
She stands on the pavement, looking like an angel in a cream floral dress and heels, staring up at the house like it’s going to reach out and bite her.
“I’m not certain this is a good idea.”
I walk around the car and take her hand.
“It’s going to be fine.”
A ruckus of laughing voices comes from inside, then a crash.
“Perhaps I could meet your parents alone? At a nice quiet dinner, just the four of us. And then the rest of your family afterwards. Slowly.”
I chuckle. “At that pace it’ll take you years to get through them all.” I tug her along the path to the door. “My family is like the deep end of a cold swimming pool. It’s better to jump in with both feet. You try inching it, you’ll just end up freezing your balls off.”
“Tommy, I—”
I pull her in, hands on her hips, and I swallow her worries in a deep, slow kiss. I don’t let up until that little moan is purring from her throat and her nervousness has melted away.
And it’s all going to be all right. The day will be different for Abby—loud and unfamiliar—but she’ll see how it’s supposed to be. What it’s like to belong to a living, breathing family. I already know how they’ll react to her.
My brothers will tease—asking what a nice girl like her is doing with a reprobate like me. Bridget will be chatty, Janey will be standoffish but not for long, Fiona will admire her dress and poise. Mum will test her, then she’ll warm up and put her to work. Dad’s going to adore her on sight.
And once they get to know her . . . they’ll love her. I can’t imagine anyone not loving Abby once they know her.
A blast of loud hits us when we walk in the door. Dogs barking, strings of children weaving between clusters of chatting, chuckling adults with drinks in their hands. The air is filled with the scent of warming food and the sounds of music coming from speakers in the back garden.