Page 46 of My Irish Mafia King

“Yourself… or me?”

“Myself,” I tell her. “What if my instinct about Owen is wrong? What do I have, really? The convenience of everything, the idea Owen planted, the rumors, and the terror in Grandad’s voice when he said his name. It’s hardly concrete.”

"That’s what tonight is for. Tomakeit concrete. But remember, we need to look like we’re on a date at first. We need to dance, mingle, seem natural. Try not to look too invested in me. We want Owen to think I’m just your date, not your…”

“Obsession,” I say, gripping her leg more firmly and bringing my lips to hers.

I love the sound she makes when I catch her off guard with a kiss. The surprise, then the pure pleasure as our lips meet and she gives herself to the moment, is what I love. I love how her body grows needy, like she’s waiting for me to touch her heat, her eager wetness.

She puts her hand on my chest, nudging me away, but I can tell it’s difficult for her to summon the effort… as difficult as it is for me every moment I’m close to her. All I want is to pull her into my lap, let her feel my throbbing length, grind against her until we’re both aching with the intensity of my lucky charm’s first time.

“I’m serious,” she says. “It’s one thing if he thinks you’re a Good Samaritan who’s taken pity on me and brought me to a ball… but if he thinks you’reobsessedwith me, he might use it as leverage.”

“When I have proof—when I can end this without starting a war—I’m going to make him regret what he did,” I growl.

“Soon,” she whispers, “but you have to let me take the lead.”

“When you said to take the lead,” I tell her later, as I hold her hand and guide her to the dance floor, “I assume you didn’t mean here?”

All around us, couples dance. The men wear expensive suits, and the women wear designer outfits. A random observer, at least at this early point in the night, wouldn’t guess that this is a mob party. Everybody is behaving in a civilized way.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers, a note of panic in her voice.

“Relax. Frank and Owen aren’t here yet…”

“I can’t dance, Killian,” she says, as the song changes to something slower. “I know you’ve probably been to hundreds of parties like this. You have probably been dancing since you were a kid. But I don’t dance. Ever.”

“Let me help you,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “Just follow me,a stór. You don’t need to be afraid, not with me, never.”

“Why do all the women look like they hate me?” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around me.

She’s not wrong. The single society women are throwing her vicious looks, sneers of pure disapproval.

“Just ignore them,” I say, achingly aware of my woman’s body pressed against mine, moving her side to side to the flow of the music.

“But why?” she persists.

“People have been trying to court the mafia prince for years. But I’ve wanted none of them. I’ve wanted no one before you…”

She clutches onto my sides, laying her cheek against my chest as I embrace her. I know she’s right. It’s important that we proceed cautiously. I don’t want to make her a target… But I hate the idea of these women judging her, daring to look down on her, when she’s better than the whole damn lot of them.

We dance slowly. When the song ends, she tells me she needs some air.

“Lucy…”

I follow her outside, trying not to walk too quickly, trying not to seem too keen. She walks to the front of the building, sucking in the cold Boston air, her breath fogging as she exhales. “I feel like a different species to them.”

I touch her hand. “You are,” I say. “And that’s a good thing. You’re kind, non-judgmental, and independent. You’re everything they’re not, and that’s why I want you so damn badly. All the time. Every second of every day since we reconnected.”

I pull her toward me for a kiss, but then she takes a step back, nodding to a limo that’s just pulled up. But a group of people step out who I don’t recognize, not Frank or Owen. Nearby, an older woman is smoking a cigarette, jewels gleaming on her neck.

“If you don’t kiss him, I will!” she cries.

Lucy laughs, turning to her. “I’m sorry?”

“No,I’msorry for being such a blatant eavesdropper. I heard his speech. It was the most romantic thing I ever heard.”

“I’ve never been accused of being romantic before,” I say, laughing.

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