Page 31 of The Irish Arrangement

“What the fuck are you mumbling about?” I shoved her shoulder, pushing her onto the bed.

“Nothing.” She crawled back on the bed, and I reached for the waistband of her jeans.

Chasing a woman was half the fun—sometimes. Right now, I wanted her to crawl to me, to bend over for me.

“What deal?” I demanded, sliding my fingers under the waistband.

She clamped her lips shut, seething as she stayed still. Quiet and unmoving. I didn’t give a fuck whether she wanted to be an active participant in making a baby with me. It would happen one way or another.

But I’d be damned if she talked in riddles and tried to keep me in the dark.

A deal? What, the one she made with me in the courtyard, that if she wasn’t pregnant by a half a year, she could leave?

I looked her over, reminded by the sight of her sexy body that I’d never give up this possession.

Or is she talking about something else?

“What deal?”

“Nothing,” she snapped.

Liar. I was sick of her sass, tired of fighting her when I had so many things going on.

I didn’t react in anger, though.

I grinned.

I’d fuck the answers out of her. She wouldn’t keep me in the dark about anything. Not when I was the one in control here. Just like I always would be.

Cara Gallagher—now Sullivan—would not beat me in this game.

12

CARA

Ilay on the bed, trapped and cornered as I stared up at Declan sulking over me. His hands no longer gripped me with that familiar, brutal strength he exuded. But I was just as much pinned under the intense anger of his glare.

He didn’t move, standing and glowering at me until I felt like a trapped animal. A small, hopeless prey. He was the ultimate predator, staring at me with that intention to do me wicked harm. This would be no sweet lovemaking or gentle intimacy. He planned to rape me. And he would probably take me just as hard, if not harder, than he did against the door of his other home.

What is wrong with me? The question blared inside my mind.

Too many things had to be severely broken with me. Perhaps all those days of being isolated and alone here had snapped me, coaxing my brain to misfire.

As I breathed hard and waited in suspense for him to touch me, I felt a sickening sense of awareness. Tension built deep in my stomach. My muscles braced for him to lean into me. And something dark and twisted in my heart relished it all. The danger. The thrill.

I wanted him to fuck me.

After all that time of seeing and speaking to no one, forcing me to be so alone and listless and idle that I fell back to reminiscing on my fondest and sadder memories, I yearned for his commanding touch.

Somehow, I’d come to need him to ground me.

The last time he unleashed his wrath on me, it felt so damn good. It made no sense, but I knew what was coming. Any time he touched me, I came alive. He didn’t let me wallow in thoughts and worries. He forced me to just feel.

He didn’t move. He stared at me so heavily, like he was trying to see into my miserable soul. And that would mean something else, something worse, was wrong with me.

Because I’d slipped up. I’d mentioned that deal, and I did not need him to know that my father was paying me to be Declan’s wife. My husband did not need the ammunition of knowing about my mother’s condition. I wouldn’t put it past him to use it against me somehow, and there was no way in hell that I would further risk her happiness and health in some twisted game this man wanted to play.

I was already nervous from dinner, when Ian asked me about my family. I tried my best to mask my panic at the mention of my mother, guarded about why they wanted to know anything at all. They were curious about my past, but I didn’t know enough to gauge the threat of their interest. Safeguarding my mother was my priority. Keeping Declan ignorant about her mattered a hell of a lot more than having any orgasm he could force out of me.

---