Her cheeks bloomed with heat again, and she whispered, “Mr. O’Grady, what can I do for you?”
You can get on your fucking knees and sort out the hard-on you just caused.
That’s what she could fucking do.
I almost growled at the thought because the image of her on her knees, my cock in her small fist, her dainty mouth opening to take the tip. . . .
Shit.
That had to happen.
Here, too.
In this fancy, frilly, feminine place, I wanted to defile her.
Fuck, I wanted that so goddamn much, it was enough to make me reconsider my demolition plans.
I wanted to screw her against all this goddamn lace, which suited her perfectly. She was made for lace. And silk. Hell, silk would look like heaven against her skin. I wouldn’t know where she ended and it began.
When her brow puckered, she dipped her chin, and that gorgeous wave of auburn hair slipped over her shoulder.
If we’d been alone, if that brassy bitch—who was staring at me like I could fuck her over the counter with her friend watching if I was game—wasn’t here, I’d have grabbed that rope of hair, twisted it around my fingers, and forced her gaze up.
Some guys liked their women demure. And I was one of them. I wasn’t about to lie. I liked that in her, but I wanted her eyes on me. Always.
It was enough to prompt me to bite out, “Can we speak privately?”
She jerked at my words, then as she licked her bottom lip, turned to look at the waitress. “Jenny, it’s okay. I can handle the rest by myself. You get home.”
Jenny, her gaze drifting between me and her boss, nodded. She retreated to a door that swung as she moved through the opening, and within seconds, she had her coat and purse over her arm.
As she sashayed past—for my benefit, I was sure—she murmured, “See you tomorrow, Aoife.”
Aoife nodded and shot her friend a smile, but I wasn’t smiling. There were dishes on every table. Plates and saucers and tea pots. Those fancy stands that made any man wonder if he could touch it without snapping it.
Aoife was going to clear all that herself? Not on my fucking watch.
When the bell rang as the waitress opened the door, I didn’t take my eyes off her until it rang once more upon closing.
Aoife swallowed, and I watched her throat work, watched it with a hunger that felt alien to me, because, God, I wanted to see my bites on her. Wanted to see my marks on that pale column of skin and her tits.
Barely withholding a groan, I asked, “Do you often let your staff go when you still have a lot of work to do, so you can speak to a stranger?”
Her cheeks flushed again, and she took a step back. “I-I, you’re not—” Flustered once more, she fell silent.
“I’m not what?” Curiosity had me asking the question. Whatever I’d expected her to say, it hadn’t been that.
She cleared her throat. “N-Nothing. You wished to speak with me, Mr. O’Grady?”
My other hand tightened around my briefcase, and though seeing her had made my reason for being here all that more necessary, I was almost disappointed. There was a gentle warmth to those bright-green eyes that would die out when I told her my purpose for being here. And her innocent attraction to me would change, morph into something else.
But I could only handle something else.
Some men were made for forever.
But those men weren’t in my line of business.
I moved away from her, pressing my briefcase to one of the few empty tables. I wasn’t happy about her having to do all the clearing up later on, and wondered if Paul, my PA, would know who to call to get her some help.
There was no way I was spending the rest of the night alone in my bed, my only companion my fist wrapped around my cock.
No way, no fucking how.
I paid Paul enough for him to come and clear the fucking place on his own if he couldn’t find someone else.
I wanted Aoife on her knees, bent over my goddamn bed, and I was a man who always got what he wanted.
In this jungle, I was the lion, and Aoife? She was my prey.
I keyed in the code and opened my briefcase. The manila envelope was large and thick, well-padded with my documentation of Aoife’s every move for the past few months.
It had started off as a legitimate move.
I’d wanted to know her weaknesses, so I could put pressure on her and make her cave to my demands.
Now, my demands had changed. I didn’t just want her to sell the tea room we were standing in, I wanted her in my bed.
Fuck, I wanted that more than I wanted to make Aidan Sr. a fucking profit, and Aidan’s profit and my balls still being attached to my body ran hand in hand.
Aidan was an evil cunt.
If I failed to deliver, he’d take it out on me. Whether I was his idea of an adopted son or not, he’d have done the same to his blood sons.
Well, he wouldn’t have taken their balls. The man, for all his psychotic flaws, was obsessed with the idea of grandchildren, of passing it all on to the next generation. He’d cut his boys though. Without a doubt.
I knew Conor had marks on his back from a beating he refused to speak about. Then there was Brennan. He had a weak wrist because his father had a habit of breaking that wrist.
Without speaking, I grabbed the envelope and passed it to her.
She frowned down at it and asked, “For me?”
I smiled at her. “Open it.”
“What is it?”
“Leverage.”
That had her eyes flaring wide as she pulled out some of the photos. A gasp fell from her lips as she grabbed the photos when she spotted herself in them, jerking so hard the envelope tore. Some of the pictures spilled to the ground, but I didn’t care about that.
Leaning back against one of the dainty tables once I was satisfied it would take my weight, I watched her cheeks blanch, all that delicious color dissipating as she took in everything the photos revealed.
“Y-You’ve been stalking me. Why?”
The question was high-pitched, loaded down with panic. I’d heard it often enough to recognize it easily.
I didn’t get involved in wet work anymore. That wasn’t my style, but along the way, to reach this point, I’d had no choice but to get my hands dirty. Panic was part of the job when you were collecting debts for the Irish Mob. And the Five Points were notorious for Aidan Sr.’s temper.
He wasn’t the first patriarch. If anything, his grandfather was the founder. But Aidan Sr. was the type of guy that if you didn’t pay him back, he didn’t give a fuck about the money, he cared about the lack of respect.
See, you owed the mob and didn’t pay? They’d send heavies around, beat the shit out of you, and threaten to do the same to your family, and usually, that did the trick. You didn’t kill the cash cow.
Aidan Sr.?
He didn’t give a fuck about the cash cow.
Only the truly desperate thought about borrowing money from Aidan, because if you didn’t pay it back, he’d take your teeth, and your fingers and toes as a first warning. Then, if you still didn’t pay—and most did—it was death.
Respect meant a lot to Aidan.
And fuck, if it wasn’t starting to mean a lot to me. The panic in her voice made my cock throb.
I wanted this woman weak and willing.
I wanted it more than I wanted my next breath.
Ignoring her, I reached for my phone and tapped out a message to Paul.