Page 29 of Mine
‘I want to.’ I insist. ‘When it’s safe to.’ I wouldn’t put it past Rory to burn the building down with me and the kids inside. I shudder.
He inclines his head. ‘Why?’ Either he wants to be exceptionally well prepared before introducing me to his family, or he’s a brilliant actor.
‘I believe in education. I want to help girls like me, trying to do better for themselves,’ I say simply. ‘Plus, short of joining the Guards, teaching is one of the most wholesome, respectable professions I could think of.’
He lets out a low, bitter laugh, then. ‘Sweetheart, the Gardai are either on my payroll… or Rory’s—most of them anyway.’ He studies me for a long beat. ‘Why is wholesome and respectable so important to you?’
‘Seriously?’ I exhale a small, humourless laugh. ‘I come from the shittiest estate in the country. It’s riddled with crime, prostitution, drugs.’ Our eyes meet again. ‘I don’t want to spend my life dodging discarded needles on the street or looking over my shoulder, wondering who’s coming for us next—or how we’re going to pay them off.’ I trail off.
I’ve said too much. Dominic Kincaid is categorically not interested in my life, even though he’s doing a spectacular job of convincing me otherwise.
He watches me with his usual intensity. ‘I get that,’ he says contemplatively. ‘More than you probably think.’ Silence settles between us for a long beat. ‘I grew up in poverty. Someone was always owed. If the money wasn’t there, the debt was claimed in other ways. I endured pain. Loss. Uncertainty.’ His jaw tenses. ‘The difference is… instead of trying to escape that life, I decided to preside over it. Limit the damage that others could do to the people I love. To those others love. And even to themselves.’
A sharp stabbing sensation slices my chest. Jason’s face springs to the forefront of my mind. His floppy blond hair falling into his blue eyes. The lopsided smile he’d flash as he’d ruffle my hair and laugh.
How the hell is Dominic limiting the damage that people do to others or themselves? He pushes the poison that took the only light left in my life after my mother died.
Miraculously, I manage not to blurt it out loud.
‘So you ensure the entire city fears you.’ It’s barely more than a whisper, but he hears me loud and clear.
‘I ensure they respect me and I make damn sure no one ever dares to question me again.’
Yep. I’ve heard exactly how he harnesses respect. My fiancé has shown nothing but kindness to me, but I know who he is.
What he is.
What he’s capable of.
And I’d do well to remember it instead of stupidly obsessing about every masculine inch of his body.
13
DOMINIC
I’ve been trying to give Aoife a head start at bedtime so that’s she’s asleep by the time I creep up to our room. For the first five nights, it worked. Tonight, however, when I gently nudge our bedroom door open, she’s wide awake, staring at the ceiling, her book face down beside her.
The covers are hitched around her waist, her arms slung above her head. The urge to crawl up the bed, pin them there, and take her slams into me like a train.
That’s my favourite way to fuck—on top—with my submissive restrained.
My cock stirs in my suit pants. ‘Sorry,’ I raise my hand, backing away. ‘I’ll come back up later.’
‘It’s okay,’ she says, rocking into a sitting position. ‘Don’t let me stop you from getting some sleep. It’s bad enough you’re taking the sofa every night.’ Her tank top clings to her curves, and I can see the clear outline of her peaked nipples. Not fucking helpful.
I force my eyes closed. It’s only been a few days and my back is in bits. What I wouldn’t give to sleep in a bed, but Sheila’s probably already checking the sheets every damnday, and I can’t give her, or anyone else, a reason to believe this isn’t real. When it comes out that Aoife was betrothed to Rory Kavanagh, it will raise too many questions to take the risk.
‘It’s fine.’ I stride towards the couch, unbuttoning my shirt as I cross the room. I shrug it off and toss it in the laundry basket.
When I turn around, my fiancée is staring at me with a mixture of horror and pure, primal longing.
If we had sex, would it take the edge off the raw, animalistic attraction that permanently pulses between us?
Would it stop her staring at me like she’s not sure if she wants to fight me or fuck me?
I’d give my right arm to find out.She radiates a rare sexuality that draws me, begs me to defile her, and drives me to the brink of damned distraction.
Our eyes meet. Electricity crackles through the moonlight. Her head whips towards the window hard enough to cause whiplash. She blows out a big breath, her fingers toying with the edge of the covers.
