Page 37 of Bloody Knuckles

"Strike one," I murmur against her sensitive flesh. "Two more and we wait until home."

The threat spurs her compliance. She bites her knuckle as I resume my assault, circling her clit with deliberate precision before sucking the sensitive bud between my lips. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, muscles straining with the effort to remain silent.

I slide two fingers into her slick heat, curving upward to find that spot that makes her wild. The wet velvet of her inner walls grips my fingers as I pump them in and out, establishing a rhythm that has her writhing against the leather seat. My cock throbs painfully against my trousers, desperate for relief as her scent and taste overwhelm my senses.

Her back arches off the seat, silk rustling as she writhes beneath my touch. The power of reducing her to this state—desperate, silent, completely at my mercy—fuels my own arousal to unbearable levels.

I feel the first flutters of her impending orgasm around my fingers—subtle contractions signaling her approach to the edge. I increase the pressure on her clit, flicking my tongue faster as I curl my fingers more firmly against that swollen spot inside her.

Her hand tangles in my hair, pulling almost painfully as she approaches climax. Her thigh muscles quiver with the effort to contain her reaction, her entire body coiled tight like a spring about to release.

I lift my head momentarily. "Come for me," I command. "Silently."

The permission triggers her release. She convulses around my fingers, thighs clamping around my head as waves of pleasure wash through her. Her inner walls pulse rhythmically, gripping and releasing as I continue working her through each wave. True to command, she remains nearly silent, only the slightest whimper escaping as she bites down on her own forearm.

The knowledge that my uncle, my family, my business associates—none of them know that Patrick Gallagher's daughter is coming apart at my command mere minutes after leaving their presence—sends a surge of dark satisfaction through me.

I work her through the aftershocks before sliding back onto the seat beside her. She collapses against me, body boneless with satisfaction.

"That was..." she breathes, voice still trembling.

"Just the beginning," I promise, guiding her hand to the bulge in my trousers. "Consider it an appetizer."

She squeezes me through expensive fabric, the pressure both relief and torment. "And the main course?"

"Requires more space than this backseat allows." I capture her wrist, bringing her fingers to my mouth to taste her essence upon them. "And fewer witnesses."

Her pupils dilate further at the implied promise. "How much longer until we’re home?"

"Twenty minutes." I straighten her dress, covering the evidence of our activities. "Unless you'd prefer, I tell Declan to drive around the city while I bend you over this seat?"

"Tempting." She adjusts her position, wincing slightly. "But I prefer a bed for what I have planned for you."

The tease in her words sends fresh heat coursing through me. Three days of exploring her body, and still, she surprises me with her boldness, and a hunger that matches my own.

"And what exactly do you have planned?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.

"Proving that your uncle was right about one thing." She leans closer, lips brushing my ear. "I am indeed compromising your judgment. Because tonight, Cormac Donovan, I intend to makeyoubeg."

The declaration, so at odds with her position as my captive, should anger me. Instead, it ignites something darker, more ferral. The shifting power between us—captor and captive, enemy and lover—creates a dynamic unlike anything I've experienced.

"Ambitious," I note, sliding my arm around her shoulders. "Considering who holds the keys."

"Keys only lock doors," she counters, hand resting possessively on my thigh. "They don't control desires."

Her fingers trace higher, deliberately brushing against my erection. I catch her wrist, squeezing just hard enough to remind her who holds the physical advantage between us.

"I've never begged for anything in my life," I tell her.

"First time for everything." Her confidence borders on arrogance. "Unless you're afraid of what I might make you do."

The car turns onto the private road leading to my home. Soon, business will be set aside for pleasure—a temporary reprieve from the complications her presence cause in my world.

Tonight, proved Aoife Gallagher fits seamlessly into Donovan life when it serves her purpose. The question remains whether that purpose aligns with mine or only appears to while serving her own agenda.

As we exit the car, her hand linked with mine in a parody of normal couples, I think about the variables: Seamus's challenge, Aoife's information about Liam's betrayal, the shifting alliances among our associates.

Beneath it all runs a current of uncomfortable truth, bringing Aoife tonight wasn't purely strategic. Showcasing her served my interests, yes, but also satisfied something deeper—a primal desire to claim her publicly, to show my possession not just to my family but to myself.

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