Page 32 of Clipped Wings

My spine tingled with heat, my balls drew up, my fingers grasped at her silky skin. With scrambled thoughts and buckling knees, I poured myself into Emma. Her walls thickened around my cock as I continued to pump, my release exploding like a bullet from a gun.

When I was sure she’d emptied me, I pulled out before she could reach her own climax. She slumped against the wall, perspiration beading along her spine.

I wiped myself off with my handkerchief, speaking with nonchalance. “Mick will take you home.”

Emma turned around, frustration clear in her eyes. She reached for my handkerchief, but I tucked it into my pocket. I wanted my cum to be a reminder of my ownership, so I wasn’t going to clean her like I normally did. She wouldn’t forget her lesson anytime soon.

“No,” she argued, her jaw set in defiance. “I’m done being kept in the dark. You either take me with you to your meeting, or I’m getting back on that fucking stage. Your choice, Jack.”

I ground my teeth to keep from roaring. What the hell had gotten into her? My body was alight with rage, but an idea occurred to me. If Emma wanted to be in that meeting, I’d fulfill her wish. I didn’t feel like letting her go so soon anyway. But I would make damn sure she didn’t hear a single word that was said.

“Fine,” I bit back at her. Her eyes widened, as though she’d been expecting a fight. “Put this on.”

I threw my suit jacket at her. She caught it, scrambling to slide her arms through.

Chapter Thirteen

Emma

Jack led me up to a private room above the balcony, his grip on my arm firm.

When we entered, every face turned to us. The heads of house. I recognized them all from the wake, but I’d never spoken to any mobsters outside the O’Connell family. Apart from the knowledge that one of them was a Murray, I didn’t know their last names. They watched as Jack guided me to his empty seat at the head of the table and sat down, hauling me onto his lap in one fluid motion.

“Everyone, meet Emma.” Jack gathered his tumbler of gold liquid. I recognized the smell. It was a vintage Macallan single malt—about three hundred dollars a glass. “Emma, meet everyone.”

I forced a shy smile, my cheeks flushing. Four pairs of eyes stared back at me, incredulous. My hair was a mess and I was wearing nothing apart from stripper heels and Jack’s suit jacket. I also happened to be the only female in the room. The misogyny of the Irish mob knew no bounds.

“Jesus,” a man sitting on the right side of the table whispered, his gaze briefly meeting mine. He looked younger than me, perhaps still a teenager. “She’s with you?”

“Keep it in your pants, Bryan,” Kieran said, making me cringe. I’d forgotten he would be here. I had all but blocked out every man in the room while I danced. It was easier to pretend I was alone or dancing just for Jack. Now I realized that all of these men—including Jack’s brother—had seen the whole thing. They’d seen more of me than I was comfortable with, but it’d been my choice.

Jack might be furious, but I didn’t regret my decision to get on the stage. It had gotten me in this room. He was going to let me be a part of his world, if just for a moment.

“She belongs to me,” Jack warned, directing his anger toward the young boy, which shut him up. Jack’s possessiveness could be exhausting, but I was grateful for it in moments like this—when every eye at the table was on me.

I was Jack’s, and he was mine.

“Can we trust her?” one of the older men asked, his accent as thick as his copper beard. He gave me a suspicious glare. I returned it, growing tired of them talking about me like I wasn’t here. Still, I kept my mouth shut. Jack was ruffled enough already.

“Anam cara,” Jack muttered, taking a sip of whiskey.

The answer seemed to satisfy the group, who stopped ogling me. To my left, Kieran met my gaze, a twinkle in his eye. I had a feeling ‘mo anam cara’ didn’t mean ‘I love you’ like Jack had said. I would have to research it when I got home. Whatever its translation, it refuted any suggestion that I wasn’t trustworthy.

As the ruddy Irishman started talking again—something about Seoul—I relaxed against Jack. The comfort I found in being near him after such a long time apart was immeasurable. And he looked so yummy in his expensive three-piece suit, his hair disheveled after our short but effective tirade. My little stunt had garnered the reaction I wanted from him.

As I settled in, Jack adjusted the leg I was straddling and an electric current shot from my core straight into my fingertips. Jack hadn’t let me finish, so I was still hot and slick. I’d almost forgotten my discomfort, but his sudden movement awakened me, making the heartbeat between my legs throb once more.

Out of my peripheral vision, I thought the side of Jack’s lip twitched in a shadowy smirk, but he took a sip of his drink before I could be sure. I squirmed, trying to get relief, but Jack held me still. His arm wrapped around my torso, pinning me down to his thigh.

Oh, fuck.

My so-called punishment wasn’t over yet.

Jack flexed his leg. My clit pulsed like mad, seeking any way to get off, but Jack stilled himself. I dug my fingers into the solid flesh of his forearm, trying to find my bearings. That time I was positive I saw a smile curve along his mischievous mouth.

Oh, my God. He was going to torture me in front of all these people. His business associates. His mob. And he wasn’t just doing it to punish me for stripping. He was making sure I couldn’t focus on anything but him—that I couldn’t hear a word being said over the blood rushing in my ears. No wonder he hadn’t argued when I had demanded a seat at the table. My body might be here, but he had no intention of letting me use my brain for anything other than a silent plea.

Jack adjusted himself again—imperceptible to the rest of the group—and I was pushed to the brink of orgasm. Sinking my nails into Jack’s iron-like grip, I fought with everything in me to keep the gasp from escaping my lips.

---