Page 38 of Her Irish Savage

“You’ll get a ticket, parked there,” I say.

“Fuck it,” Patrick says. And then he repeats: “Throw down a key.”

“Where’s the one I gave you?”

“I don’t know. I thought I had it when I left this morning. Maybe I lost it. Maybe it’s in my suit pocket, up there. Throw down the feckin’ key, Fiona.”

Patrick Moran. Warlord of the Fishtown Boys. Cujo to the Old Colony Crew. Can’t keep track of a house key.

I end the call and pluck my key from the bowl on the counter.

The window shrieks a protest as I open it. I brace my hands on the sill, displaying the boned bodice of my corset. It was a pain in the ass to lace up the back on my own, but now I know it was worth my time to get the ties even.

“How do I know you won’t lose this one?” I call down.

I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s run his fingers through his hair because it’s standing on end. “Give it a rest,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear.

“What if you don’t catch it?”

“Enough, Fiona.”

“If it falls in the storm drain, we’re in all sorts of trouble.”

“I’ll show you trouble,” he grumbles, and something catches deep beneath my belly.

I dangle the key like I’m teasing a kitten. “I’m not sure I like your tone,” I say. My own tone is surprisingly breathy. I must have laced my corset too tight.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

My brain is suddenly flooded with an image of exactly what I want: Patrick Moran standing at the edge of the bed. One hand tangles in my hair as I’m splayed before him on hands and knees. The other hand grips my hip as he pounds home with enough force to make me scream.

And I know exactly what it would take to get it. There’s only one word I have to say:Daddy.

Ask nicely, Daddy.

Here’s the key, Daddy.

What will you give me if I’m your good girl, Daddy?

But I’m not going to call any of that from the fourth-floor window of a Back Bay townhouse. I’m not going to say any of that ever. Anywhere. To anyone.

“Catch,” I say, and I toss the key before I make a mistake I’ll regret forever.

I’ve closed and locked the window by the time he’s climbed all four flights of stairs. I’m standing in the middle of the living room. The lace pants that match my boned corset have a scalloped hem. I cock my leg to one side, knowing that angle will accentuate my silky black boy shorts.

Patrick closes the door. Locks it. Crosses to the kitchen counter and puts my key in the bowl.

Only then does he look at me. He swallows hard enough for me to hear him, and his hand finds his hair again. “Let it go, Fiona.”

“Let what go?” I add just the right amount of pout to the words.

I know he wants me. I can see it in the tight lines of his throat. I refuse to let my eyes drift south of his belt, but I’m certain if I did, his jeans would prove I’m right.

But he only shakes his head and goes down the hall to the bedroom.

I could follow him. But I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. I’m not chasing after any man. It’s his loss, if he doesn’t follow up on what I’ve offered.

I hear him move things around in there. I’m pretty sure that’s the sound of his duffel bag being tossed on the bed. Yes, those are the zippers being pulled, each of them, slowly, then all of them, more rapidly.

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