Page 3 of His Possession

Rory’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, just enough to send a chill down her spine. “More than you can imagine.”

The impact and meaning of his words hung between them, and Maeve felt her pulse race. There was no mistaking the warning in his tone, but it wasn’t fear that gripped her—it was something far more dangerous. Excitement. Desire. A fire that burned too hot, threatening to consume her.

Maeve took a slow step back, breaking the tension before it snapped. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice cool as she turned away.

She could feel Rory’s eyes on her. Every nerve in her body was on edge, every instinct screaming at her to run—or to turn back. To face him head-on.

“Maeve.” Sabella’s voice cut through her thoughts as she approached the bar, her friend’s expression tight with worry. “What did I tell you?”

“I know,” Maeve said quietly, setting her glass down with a sharp clink. “Don’t engage.”

“And yet you did,” Sabella hissed, glancing over her shoulder toward Rory.

“And then I walked away.” She held up her hands. “And not a scorch mark to be had.”

“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“Probably better than you do,” Maeve muttered.

Sabella grabbed her arm, her grip firm. “Listen to me. Men like Rory McMahon don’t ask—they take. They devour. And they don’t stop until there’s nothing left.”

Maeve shrugged off Sabella’s hand, her jaw tightening. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be.”

Maeve didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Rory’s presence and voice still lingered on her skin and in her ears. She turned her head slightly, glancing back toward the sculpture.

He was gone.

But even without seeing him, she knew. Rory McMahon wasn’t done with her. Not by a long shot.

And somehow, the thought didn’t scare her. It thrilled her.

CHAPTER 2

RORY

The low hum of the bass reverberated through the walls of the club, a rhythmic pulse that blended with the faint clink of glasses and the murmur of voices below. Rory leaned back in his chair, the soft leather creaking under his weight. The view from his private office offered a bird’s-eye perspective of the nightclub floor—a kingdom of neon lights, shifting shadows, and carefully curated chaos.

But the woman kneeling between his legs with her mouth around his cock provided another thing on which to focus. “Suck me harder pet, I don’t have all night.” The words sent a shudder through her—fear or desire, he wasn’t sure but didn’t much care. What he did care about was that she did as she was told.

Her lips wrapped more firmly around his length. He could feel himself pulsate in her mouth. Her tongue swirled all around him, tasting him, exploring him. Rory groaned slightly as he realized that it wasn’t the woman before him he wanted—it was Maeve O’Connell. How he craved a connection with her—her submission, his possession and the intimacy such a relationship would provide him, not to mention a meaningful and valuable tie to her father in Boston. Rory wondered if her father knew she was in Galway—doubtful.

Rory's hands gripped the back of the woman’s head, guiding her movements, shoving his cock to the back of her throat, making her gag. Harder and harder he began to thrust until he felt his cock begin to swell, getting ready to shoot his cum down into her belly. She didn’t offer him any resistance; she accepted he would use her the way that pleased him. He pressed in hard and felt the sweet release he’d been looking for, but it wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. She swallowed every bit of his cum before he withdrew.

“That was nice, pet. Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure to serve you, Sir.”

A well-trained sub. She actually looked as though she meant it. It didn’t really matter to him one way or another. She rose from her knees and left him in peace. The submissives who frequented the club knew what it meant to be summoned to his office. Although no one forced them, none of them refused.

He controlled the club; it was his domain, a space where he reigned supreme, and he left nothing to chance. Yet, tonight, Rory’s thoughts weren’t on the seamless operation below. His attention had been captivated by a single sculpture—a twisting creation of bound hands—and the woman who stood beside it, defiant and unshaken.

Even thinking about her felt like she was there challenging him—sharp on the tongue, but impossible to forget. Rory closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of her fierce blue gaze. She’d met his scrutiny without flinching, her spine straight, her expression daring him to look closer. Most people cowered when faced with his intensity. Maeve hadn’t even blinked.

And her art—it wasn’t just art. It was a declaration, raw and unfiltered. Those bound hands reaching for freedom struck a chord Rory hadn’t expected, a reminder of the chains he carried as much as a reflection of her own struggles. He didn’t need toknow her story to see it in the jagged edges of the metal and the desperation carved into every line.

His panther stirred, restless beneath his skin. Rory let out a slow breath, his grip tightening on the crystal glass in his hand. The animal inside him had recognized something in Maeve, a pull that went beyond instinct. She was a challenge, yes, but also something more—something he couldn’t quite name.

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