I don’t stop until I hear those beautiful whimpers of pleasure and feel that sweet pussy let go for me.
Only me.
I watch her face contort and her breathing become jagged as she arches her back and really rides my face. She squirms and writhes above me, letting out little grunts and moans that send me wild.
“Killian,” she cries out. “Oh God.”
I’m certain nothing is better than this little green-eyed vixen’s legs spread open for me.
She has the most beautiful pussy. Her scent, her taste, her feel… I’m fully erect again.
She shudders as she lets go of control, and I fucking own her climax. Every whimper, every breath, every shudder is mine; I own them all.
Mine.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I rouse my head from the pillow. “I should go.”
“You could stay,” she replies, feigning nonchalance. “It’ll save you the trip home,” she adds jokingly, although there’s an unspoken question in there as well. “And I’ll even make you coffee and breakfast in the morning.”
Every night, I come to Clodagh’s studio to have sex with her, but I never stay. It’s a boundary I haven’t crossed.
“No, I better not.” I kiss the top of her forehead to soften the rejection. “But yes, you will make me coffee in the morning or else you’ll be punished.” I’m trying to lighten the tension of the elephant in the room.
She gives me a strained grin. “Tell me about it. My boss is a nightmare.”
I haven’t told her my plans to help her secure a green card, allowing her to stay in the US without issue. In a few months, when Mrs. Dalton is back and I’m no longer part of her life, she can pursue her carpentry wherever she wants.
I’ll move on from this fling and be free from ridiculous daydreams about my red-haired, inked carpenter.
I think about her at work. I think about her on my run. I can’t take a shower without jerking off.
My mind shifts back and forth between guilt over fucking a member of my staff-my live-in staff-and fantasizing about when I’ll do it again.
It’s the most obsessed I’ve been over a casual fling.
Which is why it needs to end.
***
It must be a midlife crisis.
That’s why I’m sitting in the boardroom surrounded by my business partners discussing the stalled Brooklyn casino disaster when I can only think about Clodagh.
Images run through my head. The most random, unhelpful shit.
Clodagh in her black dress at Teagan’s birthday. Clodagh in her yoga pants. Clodagh scolding me for being grouchy. Clodagh’s studio covered in wood. Clodagh realizing she’s eating balls of butter. I smile.
“Killian?” JP’s voice booms from the other end of the table, snapping me back to reality. “You know what needs to be done to get this moving. There needs to be some serious groveling on your part.”
Fuck’s sake. He’s right. There’s only one way to fix it. The mayor metaphorically has me by the balls and is squeezing tight.
“Like hell I do,” I sneer. I’ll be damned if I’m going to grovel to that smarmy jackass.
JP’s dark eyes blaze with anger as he exhales. “You’re allowing emotions to interfere with your business decisions. It needs to be fixed.”
Anger flares in my chest, aimed at JP, the mayor, myself. I can’t decide who I’m madder at.
“This has nothing to do with emotions,” I snap. “This is about that idiot disrespecting my staff. In my own house, I might add.”
“Look, just because you’re losing your mind over your nanny in some ridiculous midlife crisis doesn’t mean you can drag the business down with you.”
Well, that confirms it, then. I must be as obvious as those old men who come into my hotel bar with much younger women draped over them.
“This isn’t just about you, Killian,” he continues, sounding tired. “We all have a vested interest in this casino.” He turns to Connor. “Help your brother see reason, will you?”
Our standoff is interrupted by a heavy knock on the door.
Marcus appears at the doorway. “Killian, I need to talk to you. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day.”
Now this is a guy who has been through multiple midlife crises.
I beckon him inside, glad for the distraction from the conversation about failed casinos. “Go ahead. What is it?”
He looks from me to Connor and JP, debating whether to speak in front of them.
“Out with it,” I say impatiently.
“We did a police check on Clodagh. There are two different police forces in Ireland, the Northern Irish police and the Republic of Ireland police.”
“I’m aware of that, Marcus.” I sigh. Where is this going? Is everyone determined to piss me off today in this office? “I don’t need a geography lesson. Get to the point.”
“I screwed up. We marked the vetting process as done once the Irish Republic police force returned their response. The Northern Irish police sent theirs in afterward.” He hands me his laptop, looking like he’s about to wet himself with fear.
“You need to see this.”
For a moment, I fail to understand what he’s talking about until it hits me like a ton of bricks.
“We’ll revoke her visa immediately,” Marcus says quickly. “She never disclosed it at the time. I’m sorry, Killian. I’ll have a replacement ASAP.”
Connor and JP stare at me with wide eyes.
My nostrils flare as I read through the report. “No. I’ll deal with it.”
***
“Clodagh?” I shout, striding through the house. My gaze stops at the doorway of Teagan’s room, where Clodagh is tidying up and bobbing her head in time with her headphones.
I tap her on the back, and she screams and jumps. “You startled me. What are you doing home so early?”
My angry expression wipes the smile off her face.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask her, barely managing to keep my voice even.
She grimaces. “Is this about your underwear? Do they feel tighter now?”
“No, not my damn underwear. Though, yes, you have managed to shrink them. You stole a fucking car?”
Any remaining color drains from her face as she sets down Teagan’s pillow on the bed. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”