Page 58 of Claiming Genevieve

She presses her lips together. “I still think it means something.”

“You can think that if you like.” I’m aware of how curt I sound, but I can’t help it. My adrenaline is high, pumping through my veins, my pulse beating hard in my throat. Genevieve was almost killed tonight. I almost lost her. And that realization is making it more plain than ever to me that I’m not prepared to lose her at all, in any way.

Ever.

But that’s not up to me, and it’s not our agreement. My jaw tightens, and I look away, trying not to think about that just now. I need to be calm. Collected. I need to think about what we do next, and how best to keep her safe.

The memory of seeing her fall on the stage flashes into my mind suddenly. The way she landed and crumpled, like an origami bird crushed in someone’s hand. Not long after I went to her dressing room, after I distracted her, after Chris saw me leaving and went to see her right afterward. An accident that I think she still partially blames me for—and that I know I blame myself for, too.

I have to protect her this time. I have to keep her safe.

If I can’t even do that, then what the fuck am I good for?

I run my hand through my hair, tugging anxiously as the car reaches the hangar. I check to make sure I have the weapon Rory gave me, then wait for him to step out and make sure all is clear before I go around to open Genevieve’s door. Rory grabs our luggage, and the three of us hurry toward the jet.

The night feels warm and heavy, midsummer approaching, and the darkness feels particularly thick. I want to linger—to pull Genevieve into my arms and tell her everything I’m feeling right now—that Iwillprotect her. That she can trust me. But there’s no time. Instead, I lead us both onto the jet, stepping aside so Genevieve can find where she wants to sit.

I see her eyes widen as she looks around, and for the first time tonight, I can’t help but chuckle. “Never been on a private jet before, lass?”

She shakes her head. “Hell no,” she says softly, her eyes darting around as if she can’t figure out where to look first. “I’ve never dated someone withthiskind of money.”

“Well, now you’re married to them.” I wait for Rory to stow our luggage and take up a spot toward the back of the jet, before leading Genevieve to a pair of seats near the middle of the plane. The jet is all dark woods and deep red plush carpet, the seats a buttery soft black leather, and Genevieve lets out a small sigh as she sinks down into one of them.

“I think I’d like traveling by plane a lot more if this was always how I flew somewhere.”

“Well, now it will be.”

She looks up, startled, and I realize what I’ve just said. It slipped out without my meaning for it to, and of course… it’s not true. She won’t always fly this way. We won’t always be married. That was the deal from the start, and it’s still the deal now.

Genevieve bites her lip. “Well, for a while,” she amends, and I nod.

“That’s what I meant.”

An awkward silence descends between us as the plane prepares to take off. I look at her—at mywife—sitting across from me, and something in my chest aches… that feeling that I never had before I met her.

I’m getting what I wanted. I’m going back to Ireland. But for the worst fucking reason I could imagine.

And this isn’t how I would have wanted to bring Genevieve to see the place I love, the place that really feels like home to me. But none of that matters now.

I have to keep her safe.

The flight attendant comes to check on us a few minutes later, a pretty brunette in a dark red uniform with her hair in a prim bun that makes me think of how Genevieve always wore hers when she danced. How she still always wears it when she puts it up, as if she can’t bring herself to have a hair out of place even away from the stage. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, handing Genevieve a red cashmere throw blanket and a set of packaged earplugs in case she needs them. “Drinks, food?—”

“Jameson, neat,” I tell her in an exhausted voice.

“I’ll take a glass of wine,” Genevieve says, and then hesitates. “Actually—” she looks at me. “I’ll take the whiskey.”

I raise an eyebrow as the flight attendant walks away. “Have you ever had whiskey before, lass?”

Genevieve tugs one of her lips between her teeth. My gaze instantly drops to her mouth, and despite the fear and chaos of the night, desire instantly floods through me. My cock twitches in my jeans, lengthening along my thigh, and it takes everything in me not to reach for her. “Maybe in a mixed drink,” she says. “I can’t remember.”

“We’ll see how you like it.” I chuckle. “It can be an acquired taste.”

“Just like you?” She raises an eyebrow in a mirror of the expression on my face, and I have to stifle a laugh.

“You’ve never tasted me, lass. You’d never get enough if you did.”

The retort comes out easily, the kind of thing that I say without thinking, but I see her face instantly heat, a flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. My cock stiffens at the thought of hertasting me, of those plush lips wrapped around my cock, a fantasy that I’ve had for what feels like an eternity now and will probably never see realized. In that particular moment, I can’t help but think I’d go to fucking hell and back if it meant I got to find out what it felt like to have Genevieve’s mouth wrapped around my cock.

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