Page 54 of Mob Knight

“Liam. It’s my middle name. If I use your name, we’re not Dom/sub. If you need a break from that, then use my name. During a scene, when we’re here, or when we’re in this dynamic, I’m sir. Only use Liam here if you need my attention immediately,cailín.”

He pauses for a moment, and the hand on my ass pulls me against him. His free hand cups my jaw. I don’t know what he searches for in my eyes. I don’t know if he found what he wanted when he speaks.

“I don’t want to—I won’t—limit the endearments to scenes. Unless you ask me to, I won’t call you a slut or a whore. Cunt refers to your body part, not who you are to me. That means I need something else to call you when we scene, but the same words come to mind even when we’re not scening. If you’re confused about how things stand, ask. Unless you want continuous roleplay, you speak to me as an equal whenever we’re not in this dynamic. When we are, you speak to me with the respect and deference your Dom deserves. Little subbies who don’t, will get a hot arse to remind them who leads.”

A shiver courses down my spine. I feel no compulsion—or even motivation—to act out to get that kind of reaction from him. No part of me wants to be a brat. But earning a punishment isn’t unappealing.

“Come, little one.”

He leads me to the dance floor where other couples sway to the music. Unlike a nightclub, the music’s quiet. The steady beat is erotic in a way I can’t explain, but when a couple moves to it—their bodies pressed together—I don’t know. If music were an invitation to sex, I’d RSVP yes.

The way Cormac moves proves there’s nothing this man can do to lessen his sex appeal. He could be a stripper between his banging body and how he moves to the rhythm.

“Is there anything you don’t do well?”

“Draw.”

I grin and shake my head. “You’re a superb dancer.”

“Because my mom and aunts insisted my brother, cousins, and I learn ballroom dancing. I guess I’m just comfortable.”

Comfortable.

The man could put Thunder Down Under AND Chippendales out of business.

He leads me off the dance floor to a dimly lit alcove that I didn’t notice until we stepped inside. He takes his hooded mask off, so this must be important.

“Cailín, I put together a security detail for you. With Pablo taking any interest in you to get to me and after those guys accosted you today, I won’t take chances with your safety. Even if this goes nowhere beyond tonight, I won’t risk it.”

“What does that mean? I can’t have mobsters escorting me into people’s homes or kids’ schools.”

“Unless there’s a credible threat of bodily harm, they’ll be shadows. You won’t know they’re there. They’ll see you and be close enough to get to you, but you won’t notice them.”

“But Cartel guys will. They’ll know exactly what to look for.”

“Exactly. Pablo needs to know you’re under my protection. That fecking with me doesn’t include using you.”

“Fecking?”

He blushes!

“I’m not allowed to use the real F word in front of women and children.”

“Not allowed? Is that like some mobster code?”

Even in the low light, I can see his fair skin is close to tomato.

“Sorta. It’s the rule in my family, and my parents, aunts, and uncles terrify me enough not to break it.”

“That’s sweet! Let me guess. Your mom isn’t much taller than me, but you wouldn’t stand close to her if she had a wooden spoon in her hand.”

“Pretty much. She’s a few inches taller than you, and she doesn’t need the spoon. But she has one. My two aunts do too. By the time my brother, cousins, and I realized they’d never use it on us, they’d scared us into perfect manners. I’ve also never had Irish Spring soap for dinner, but I wouldn’t put it past my mom to give me a full serving if she ever found out I swore in front of a woman or child or at one of my relatives.”

I don’t think he fakes the shiver. I believe he’s truly scared of the women in his family. It’s utterly endearing.

“Myabuelitahas a pair ofchanclas—the wooden soled slippers—she’d wave around. She never spanked me with them or actually threw them at me, but I never pushed her far enough to find out if she would. The woman’s the same height as me, but about thirty pounds lighter. She’smuy pequeñaand nearly eighty. Not even a hundred pounds soaking wet, but I’d bet on her in a fight. She’s the Mexican Sophia Petrillo. If there were a modern-dayGolden Girls, she’d be the matriarch. Rather than Sophia’s dreaded melon baller, it would be thechancla. When I was twenty, I gave her a t-shirt that says¡Teme a la chancla!Shestill wears it with pride thirteen years later. She might be buried in it.” Fear thechancla.

He chuckles, and I feel the vibration in his chest since my tits are pressed against him. I’m wearing heels like I do most days. Otherwise, they’d be closer to his ribs. At my whopping five-two-and-three-quarters, I look like a kid next to most adults. Even a two-inch heel makes a difference. The deep rumble fits with how he can be a grizzly bear one moment and a panda the next. Manly while easygoing.

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