Page 6 of Stolen Mafia Vows
“You’ll haveto introduce me to your new friend, Eoghan.” Dad places his hand on the back of my neck as we leave the airport, keeping me on track, like he needs to keep me focused.
“Maybe I will.”
It’s something he has always done. When I was younger, I saw it as a sign of love, a kind of bear hug or a pat on the shoulder.Well done, lad, keep up the good work. But now… Now I see it, and feel it, for what it is. A form of control.
He isn’t a tactile man. I can’t remember the last time he hugged me or Ruairi.
Even when our mom died when I was eight years old, and Ruairi was ten, he sat us down on the leather sofa in our living room, crouched opposite us on the floor, his eyes puffy with unshed tears, and told us that she was gone. From a distance. He must’ve offered words of comfort although I can’t remember what they were through the blurry-eyed memories of that period of my life.
But he didn’t hug us. Either of us.
The difference is, Ruairi never seemed to need hugs as affirmations of love.
Ruairi drives home from the airport, my dad in the front passenger seat, me in the back. Dad never discusses business on the move. He’s always made it a rule that he kicks off his shoes in the car, pops a classical music CD into the stereo system and turns up the volume, forming a clearly defined barrier between one meeting and the next. It gives him time to think and breathe. Like he’s some kind of Zen Buddhist.
So, I tune them out of my mind and rub my fingertip over Emily’s cell phone number on the slip of paper she pressed into my hand.
She has no idea how fucking gorgeous she is. I could see it in her eyes when she approached us in the Arrivals lounge that she didn’t know how it was going to go, as if I might take one look at her and pass.
It blows my mind that no one has ever told her that she could literally ignite flames with those emerald-green eyes. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep my hands to myself and when she crushed her nipples against my legs… Fuck! I could’ve ripped her clothes apart with my bare hands, spread her ass cheeks wide, and fucked her from behind until her knees were raw.
Emily deserves better than that though.
She deserves better than me.
She should be treated like a princess, worshipped, adored, fanned by giant fucking palm leaves all summer while she sips strawberry daiquiris through golden straws if that’s what makes her happy.
One thing I am absolutely certain of though is that my brother will not get his filthy hands on her. Even if it means that I walk away now and forget I ever met her.
While music from Puccini’sLa bohemefills the car, I add Emily’s number to my list of contacts and type a message.
When can I fuck you?
Then I sit back and close my eyes.
She’ll either smile when she reads it or she’ll block my number and erase today from her memory. I didn’t ask how long she’ll be staying in Ireland. She said that her family was flying in for the wedding; perhaps she’ll fly back with them once it’s over.
But I can’t let the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen go without at least trying to get her to notice me.
My phone vibrates on my lap sending signals directly to my cock.
I open the message, my pulse gathering speed.
After the wedding?
My brother’s wedding, I mean. Not ours.
Not that you were ever going to propose to me.
Shit! Dropped my phone and my sister-in-law’s seven-year-old niece read my last message and now she’s eyeing me up like one of those batshit-crazy seagulls that stalk the beaches here.
Does that answer the question, or do you want me to repeat everything I just said?
I smile. Five messages for the price of one.
That won’t be necessary. The wedding is in two days, so I get to taste you on day three?
The thought of spreading her legs wide and eating her sweet pussy sends my cock into a thrumming tailspin. I swear I can already taste her and, once tasted, Emily will never be forgotten.
