Her phone dings on the table, distracting us, as a message flashes. It’s close enough for me to read.
You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.
She slides the phone over beside her, pursing her lips as she reads.
“Is that a boyfriend in Queens?” I ask.
“No. Just a guy who’s on a different wavelength than me.” Annoyance flickers over her face as she studies the message again.
“Is there something you need help with?”
She turns the phone over to hide the screen. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Her expression tells me she doesn’t want to pursue the topic. She jumps up from her seat and starts busying herself at the sink.
I rise from my stool and come to stand close behind her, so close we’re almost touching.
She freezes, plate in hand. I think she may have stopped breathing.
My chest grazes her back as I lean over to open the bin. “Lie to me again, and I will personally put you on the next plane back to Ireland, sweetheart,” I murmur into her ear as I lift the Le Grand Cochon container from the bin and set it on the worktop in front of her.
She goes perfectly still. If I put my fingers on her neck, I’d find her pulse racing.
“Okay,” she croaks, tilting her head to look up at me. “I’ll try better.”
Up close, her emerald eyes sear into mine. I have a vivid thought of what it would look like to have her gazing up at me while she takes my cock into her mouth.
Her eyes widen as I let out a frustrated growl.
What the fuck am I doing?
I step back. “Clock off. You’re done for the night.”
Clodagh
I stare up at the ceiling. What about knowing you have to go to sleep makes your body do the opposite?
Day four of being a professional nanny maid. I won’t win Domestic Assistant of the Year, but for some reason, he hasn’t fired me despite his threats.
Yet.
I hate cleaning. It’s fucking shite. Guest rooms get cleaned every other day. Killian’s and Teagan’s bedrooms are cleaned daily. It’s a never-ending cycle of domesticated torture. Bathrooms must be clean enough to eat dinner from the sink. Mrs. Dalton didn’t say that, but I got the message from all the underlined words.
Still, I can’t complain. I’m cleaning Fifth Avenue toilets.
Then there are the blunt text messages from Quinn. Three yesterday and five today-with ambiguous instructions to run errands for him.
I feel like I’m constantly in trouble.
His voice repeats in my head from Monday night. Lie to me again, and I will personally put you on the next plane back to Ireland, sweetheart.
God, he was threatening deportation, but it sounded so sexual. I felt the heat radiating from his body. It was… terrifying.
Since then, the closest I get to communication is one-word answers or grunts, or he just ignores me entirely. I want to scream at him, ‘can’t you see I’m trying, mister!’ Every time Quinn enters the kitchen, every hair on my body stands on end.
Teagan gives me whiplash. Ninety percent of the time, she is sullen and snarky with me, and the other ten percent, she is delightful. But she thinks she can take me for a fool. Tonight, she tried to convince me that the video of baby goats was related to her homework.
I get more answers from the manual than those two.
I wonder if Quinn is asleep upstairs. What does he think about before he falls asleep? Probably his billions. I can’t imagine him having actual feelings for anyone. Anyone other than Teagan, that is.
God, when he smiles at her like that, I’m at risk of melting into a puddle. I don’t want kids yet, but I know that’s how you want your guy to look at your babies.
I slide my hands down my stomach and into my pants. He doesn’t deserve to be fantasized over, but thinking about my boss before bedtime has become my dirty pleasure.
I close my eyes and part my thighs wider, imagining his fingers circling my clit. Imagining his large hands controlling my pleasure, making me pulse and tingle as he sinks his fingers into me again and again.
Imagining his mouth hungrily replacing his fingers…
Imagining him staring up at me with hooded eyes, those icy-cold blue eyes full of fire… his deep hoarse voice rasping with emotion for me… the weight of his thick muscular thighs on top of me as his big, hard cock fills me up…
Imagining he’s so turned on by my pleasure, he’ll explode if he doesn’t fuck me.
Yes… yes…
No. No.
It’s no use.
I need something stronger than my imagination. With a frustrated breath, I reach over to open the bedside table.
If Quinn ever looks into my bedside table drawer, he’d be in for a shock when he finds a beast the size of a foot-long subway.
I pull out my vibrating friend and get to work. It’s midnight, and efficiency is key. I need to release this sexual tension; otherwise, if Quinn returns from his run tomorrow morning, shirtless and sweaty, I might explode right there and then in front of him.
Oh. Yup, that’s the spot.
Exactly. Right. There.
Sadly, this little helper will soon be retiring. Every few months, I have to buy a new sex toy. It’s as if my body becomes immune to everything. Which is really shit because sex toys aren’t recyclable, and obviously, you can’t donate them to charity.
Even with toys, it takes me so long to come that it’s embarrassing.
And coming with actual penises, tongues, or fingers involved?
Zero chance. I can’t get out of my head.
Men expect orgasms. They expect you to go from zero to earth-shattering, yes, yes, yes O’s with a finger twitch. The embarrassing truth is I’ve never come during sex.
My ex used his tongue with the same technique as painting a wall with a roller brush-long, broad strokes. After I told him that it wasn’t about covering the whole surface but focusing on the right spot, it was game over for us.
The fact I couldn’t come became this big thing in our relationship, and sex became a chore.
Would my boss upstairs be able to make me come? I’ve never been with a man like him. God, his bulge was so prominent in his running shorts this morning, I wondered if he wasn’t a bit hard.
The familiar heat builds between my thighs.
Slowly… slowly.
I force myself out of my head, imagining Quinn’s hard body on top of mine.
Yes… I’m getting there.
My breaths turn into moans with no one to hear.
My lass, don’t leave me aloooooone.
I freeze mid-stroke. What the hell is that?
Singing. Awful singing on the street right outside my window.
The guy croons on, singing in a painful, mournful tone, like a male banshee. My bedroom is at the front of the house, but I rarely hear even the traffic, so this guy is singing really loud.
He hitches up to a higher note.
Fuck off, you idiot.
An annoying buzzing sound accompanies the bad singing. My phone.
Who’s calling me at midnight? If it’s someone from home forgetting the time zone, I’ll kill them. Unless it’s an emergency. Oh God. Granny Deirdre.
I grapple at the phone, cursing the fucker on the other end. They aren’t giving up.
Sharp green light stings my eyes, and the caller flashes across the screen.
“Piss off, Liam,” I hiss. Gobshite.