Chapter 13
California did in fact fuck me six ways to Sunday after our drinks in the bar on Monday night.
And Tuesday night.
And Wednesday night, too.
Since James’s phone call, we’ve been joined at the hip—literally—for a lot of that time.
It turns out, multiple orgasms are the quickest way to forget that there’s a crazy bastard on the loose, hell bent on murdering my entire family.
The O’Connors have been our family’s biggest rivals for decades. Not that I remember much of it. I was just a kid when things were at their worst. I wouldn’t know an O’Connor if he was right in front of me. But I do know that their whiskey empire was in direct competition with ours until Jack O’Connor lost the plot completely. He was always a psycho, but he took things to the next level when he set fire to his own distillery—with his second wife in it. He burned her alive.
Jack’s stepdaughter, Scarlett, testified against him to put him behind bars years ago. Which is why James is convinced Scarlett will be his first target. When Jack was arrested, Killian put two of his sons behind bars with their father, and the other three have been on the missing list ever since. The O’Connors’ assets were all seized, and the distillery never reopened.
Just to really complicate the situation, Scarlett is now married to my brother, James. They have two gorgeous daughters, Harper and Halle, and a tyrannical tornado of a son, James Junior. If I had maternal notions, James Junior is enough to put me off having kids for life. Cute and tiny as he looks, he has one hell of a set of lungs on him, and he is not afraid to use them.
News of Jack’s escape is all over the Irish news. His picture’s ten years old and grainy, but I commit it to memory anyway—just in case. Thankfully, it didn’t make the international news, because it wouldn’t take California long to put two and two together. By rights, Killian and his men should have hunted Jack O’Connor down by now, but somehow he’s evaded them so far—no mean feat.
It’s worrying.
Tate is right.
I’m better off this side of the world.
‘Stop worrying, sweetheart,’ California says softly from the daybed beside me. He hired a private cabana in a quiet cove on the beach, complete with our very own butler.
I’m not stupid. He said he wants to spoil me, but I’m pretty sure he’s also doing his part in trying to keep me safe. His gaze permanently lingers on me, which also reinforces my theory that he’s doubling up as extra security, as well as being my primary distraction. Instead of glaring at Tate, he’s started working with him.
I’m not complaining. This four-poster sanctuary is built right into the sand, draped in long, gauzy linen curtains that billow in the breeze like sails. The two side panels are drawn shut, tied loosely to the posts to give us privacy without feeling enclosed, while the front is left open, framing the Caribbean Sea like a living photograph. The turquoise water twinkles before me. White foam lines the beach as the waves crash lazily against the shore. Our butler has already delivered chilled towels, slices of fresh mango on crushed ice, and a silver bucket holding a bottle of something French and extortionate.
It’s intimate. A world within a world. One that belongs to us and us alone.
Yet, I can’t completely shake the guilt for being at home when my family need me. My brothers are in constant contact. They sent their wives, girlfriends, kids and our parents to the Wicklow mansion with an army of Killian’s men.
According to Scarlett, Avery is working her way through our father’s wine cellar. Being away from them feels wrong, but they all insisted I stay. That I’m better off halfway across the world until Jack O’Connor is locked down.
I turn to the man beside me. Over the past few days, we’ve gotten closer. I might not know his true identity or occupation, but I do know he’s a decent man.
And strong too, both mentally and physically. If he was alarmed by my outburst about some crazed lunatic wanting to murder my entire family, he’s hiding it well. Which makes me wonder what skeletons linger in his own closet.
Tate was right, there’s a ruthlessness in his eyes.
He scans every room we enter like he’s waiting for someone to call him out on something. What though?
I twist my head to meet his piercing stare. ‘I’m not worrying p>
‘Are you sure?’ He prowls over the plush daybed until he’s hovering over me.
I must frown, because his voice softens further. ‘Irish.’ He cups my face in his hands and forces me to meet his stare. Concern creases the corners of his eyes.
And he does something I absolutely do not expect.
He reaches out… and gently brushes a thumb over the centre of my forehead, smoothing the tension line I hadn’t realised I was wearing. The touch is so light, so instinctive, so tender—it knocks the air from my lungs.
‘There,’ he murmurs. ‘That’s better p>
Something warm and stupid pools in my chest. This man—this arrogant, sexy American who barely shares anything real about himself—looks at me like he actually sees me.
‘You don’t have to worry here,’ he adds, his voice low and protective. ‘Not today. Not while you’re with me p>
A blush crawls up my neck completely uninvited. God help me—he’s hot when he’s threatening to run after me and fuck me, but this version? The one that makes me feel safe and secure and precious could legitimately melt me.
I pride myself on being independent, permanently trying to prove to my brothers that I don’t need to be babied, but right here, right now, it feels phenomenal knowing he’s got me.
I swallow. ‘I’m not worrying,’ I repeat.
He cocks his head to the side and fires me a look that says he knows I’m lying, then trails his fingers down my arm. His hand covers mine and squeezes. ‘I know we said no names, no deep and meaningfuls but if you want to talk to me, you can,’ he says quietly, ‘you can tell me anything. I won’t judge. And if I can help, I will p>
And for one wild moment, I almost do.
I almost blurt out that I’m the youngest sibling of Dublin’s most powerful family, and the knowledge that someone with a death wish for all of us has escaped from a maximum security prison by murdering six guards is weighing on my chest like an elephant.
‘Distract me,’ I beg, tracing a finger over his abs, watching as they ripple and bunch beneath my touch. His face lights at my invitation, and he inches closer. ‘We’ll have to be quiet, though. Tate is right outside the cabana,’ I remind him.
He hisses out a raspy breath. ‘Once you make a statement like that, I don’t care if the fucking president is outside listening.’ His face dips and his lips brush over mine. He parts my mouth with his tongue, and I melt into his kiss. ‘But you’re wearing too many clothes,’ he murmurs, as his palm roams over my breasts.
‘Hardly,’ I glance down at the tiny white bikini I’m wearing.
He reaches around to finger the string at the back, tugging it slowly as a grin tugs his lips.
‘You’re so bad p>
‘I never claimed to be anything else.’ He tosses my bikini top to the sand. ‘That’s better.’ His eyes linger on my chest. My treacherous nipples peak, preening for his attention. His mouth is on one in seconds. The man is a fucking mind reader. He pushes me flat on my back, licking and teasing my breasts until I’m writhing beneath him, on the verge of begging him to take me there and then.
I’ve never had so much sex in my life.
I’m going to miss it when I go home.
Home.
I push the thought away for later.
‘Tell me what you want.’ His pupils darken. My pussy pulses in my bikini bottoms. I glance at the open curtain. Anyone could walk by.
‘I want you,’ I answer honestly. No matter how much sex we’ve had over the past few days, it’s still nowhere near enough.
Torrid flames light his cool blue eyes as he slips his fingers inside the waistband of my bikini bottoms. My thighs fall open for him. His fingers slip over my seam. I’m soaked for him already.
‘So wet.’ His voice is thick with arousal, and there’s no missing the tent forming in his aqua blue swimming shorts.
I reach for him, and he swats my hand away. Every time we’re together, he gets me off at least once before we have sex. Looks like today is going to be no different.
His fingers slip inside my core, and he stares intensely as he works me. ‘I could watch you come all day, Irish,’ he rasps. ‘Your body is so fucking responsive. I’d almost swear it was made for mine.’ He slips his fingers out of my bikini and yanks the white Lycra down my thighs, over my calves and ankles, then tosses them onto the sand with my top. I’m completely naked for him, and that knowledge only serves to soak me further.
‘Turn over,’ he demands. Yes, my sexy American friend certainly likes to be in control, and this is probably the only area of my life where I don’t mind surrendering it. He wouldn’t like to meet me in my boardroom. I flip over onto my front, and he hauls me up onto my knees like I’m weightless. I squeal before I can stop myself.
‘And you told me to be quiet.’ His palm slaps my ass playfully, and I bite my lip to stop myself crying out again.
His hands roam over my hips as he rocks onto his knees behind me, and lowers his face between my legs. He offers my slit one slow lick and, fuck me, I’ve never been eaten out from behind before. It feels so utterly depraved.
‘Stay quiet now, Irish, and I’ll make you come so hard they’ll hear you at home.’ His promise sets fire tearing through every nerve ending in my body.
‘Your filthy mouth might be the death of me,’ I whisper, bucking back onto his face as he fucks me with his tongue, deep and slow, every flick a depraved demonstration of his experience. Heat builds low in my stomach, spreading like wildfire throughout my entire body.
My legs shake so hard it’s a battle to hold myself upright. Seeming to sense my struggle, California grips my hips tightly and plunges his tongue deep inside of me and suddenly I’m spiralling into the most decadent oblivion known. A violent orgasm tears through me, erupting like a volcano. I can’t not cry out as he laps at me like a man dying of thirst.
When he’s wrung out every drop of pleasure, he rolls me onto my back, those big blue eyes sparkling. ‘At least you’ve given up trying to play it cool,’ he smirks.
I huff out a ragged breath. ‘I am cool, I’ll have you know p>
‘No, sweetheart.’ He shakes his head and reaches into the pocket of his swim shorts for a condom. ‘You are fucking fire personified.’ He rips open the silver foil and wraps himself, lies down and pulls me onto his lap. Our eyes lock as I slide down onto him. I don’t kiss him. I’m too busy studying every fine line of his face. We stare at each other, silently savouring every second as we rut against each other, like both of us are committing this to memory.
A second climax builds deep in my core. He’s so big, and he’s so talented at hitting that sweet spot deep inside. His pupils darken and dilate. My core contracts. He feels it. It’s written all over his face. I’ve never climaxed at the same time as a partner before. In fact, they rarely made me climax at all.
But this?
The way his fingers tighten their grip on my ass cheeks, the way his eyes silently command me to come for him—I can’t not.
‘Fuck,’ his hips jerk furiously into me at the exact same second my orgasm detonates.
It’s official. He made good on his promise. He’s ruined me for anyone who comes after him.