Page 56 of Stolen Rival
He moves slowly at first, lying low enough over my body so he can kiss me when the mood strikes. Patrick Mahoney is as measured in bed as he is with his clothes on in the outside world. There’s no passion from him, no chemistry, no creativity, simply two people performing their duty as a means to an end.
The only sounds in the room are his balls slapping against me as he gets faster and faster, entwining with our heavy panting. He seems to get bigger as his movements grow erratic, and I somehow stretch even more to accommodate him.
A few more pistons of his hips shunt him over the edge into his release. The whole thing felt better than I expected it to. I’ve read that a lot of women don’t like sex. I didn’tnotlike it, but I suspect it could have been better.
And not just because it was my first time. Maybe if I was doing it with someone I liked, someone I loved, it would be more enjoyable. But it doesn’t matter. I came here to win, and win I did.
He rolls off me and onto his back, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. After a few minutes of painfully awkward silence, he sits up. “I’m going to have a shower, then I have some work to do. You can go back to your room.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
I blink like I must have missed something. Did he really just kick me out? He took my virginity, he’s done, so now we’re both done?
What was I expecting? That he’d come inside me, fill me with his cruel seed, and suddenlyfall in love with me? That my vagina would be some kind of magical portal to transform him into less of an arsehole? That he wouldn’t reassert his authority, reclaim his power, and control the situation as soon as he could?
I’m a fucking fool.
He got what he needed from me: a wet pussy to sink his dick into. And now his cum is trickling out of me and onto the bed, I’ve been excused. Well, fuck that.
“It’s funny, Patrick.”
He pauses with his back to me, but he doesn’t reply.
“I didn’t think you’d be like other men, but you proved me wrong. Like every man I’ve ever heard of, you’re weak for a woman’s pussy.” I give a hollow, brittle laugh, toss the covers aside, and stomp out of bed. “So easy to manipulate, so easy to control with just a little flash of bare skin.”
I brace for his ire, but it doesn’t come. He resumes his journey to the bathroom, closing the door with a quiet click.
That bastard. He took what little control I wrestled from him and symbolically slapped me around the face with it. Rage courses through me. I snatch up my dressing gown, storm into the hallway and burst into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
My whole life, I’ve never had someone make me feel so cheap, so used. So filled with regret that when I first opened the door and found Patrick Mahoney on my doorstep, he didn’t just fucking shoot me and put me out of my misery.
Chapter 28
PATRICK
Dylan’s—Imean my—private jet sits on the apron, sunshine reflecting off its gleaming white paintwork. I’ve always flown on commercial airlines when traveling long haul, but now my territory has expanded to the United States, having a jet at my disposal will be a useful asset.
A small gasp escapes Sorcha as she clocks the plush interior. She hasn’t said a word to me this morning, and I can’t say I blame her considering how I took her virginity then discarded her like a used tissue. I understood the play. She wanted to force my hand, to make me lose control and hand it to her, and I took the opportunity to wrestle it back—in the cruelest way possible.
I’m a bastard, and the worst part is I don’t know how to be anything else. When you’re brought up in my world, one filled with brutality and violence, it eliminates any soft edges, any thoughts for another’s feelings. Sorcha’s got an abundance of soft edges, and I can see the benefits of her family keeping her away from our world.
But her father’s actions changed everything, and she’s nowmarried to the worst of our kind—me. If she doesn’t learn how to deal with it, she’ll spend her days with puffy eyes and a throat stuffed with regrets.
Whether she likes it or not, she’s stuck with me for the rest of her days.
She seems hesitant to sit, her wide eyes skimming the numerous seating choices. Taking her by the elbow, I guide her toward the back of the plane where there are two seats facing one another, a table in between, and a three-seater couch. A curtain is fastened to the wall, meaning this area can be screened off for privacy. She not so subtly jerks her elbow out of my reach and chooses one of the chairs, then immediately delves into her handbag. Seconds later, she’s got her nose in a book.
Andrew’s expression could sour milk, and I’m not under any illusions that his loyalties are not, and never will be, with me. At some point, he’s going to take a misstep and when he does, I’ll be waiting. It’s only out of respect to Dylan, and the need to tread carefully with the organization I’ve inherited that I haven’t killed him already. Some underbosses can turn their allegiances to whomever is at the head of the family, but Andrew isn’t one of them. He will bide his time and when he thinks my back is turned, he’ll strike. The problem Andrew has is that he doesn’t know me. I never turn my back on friends or enemies. I’m always watching. Always in control.
I take the chair opposite Sorcha and fasten my seat belt. Running my hand over my three-day-old beard, I settle my gaze on her. Either she reads at a snail’s pace, or she isn’t reading that book at all because I haven’t seen her turn a single page.
She’s got every right to be angry and hurt after what I did, but if I had my time again, I’d do the same thing. I cannot let her usurp even a sliver of control. She’s the give-an-inch-take-a-mile kind of woman, and given I’d have agreed to anything while my dick was inside her, she’s more dangerous than I gave her credit for.
Her curves covered by those scraps of lace are seared into my mind. I don’t even have to close my eyes to conjure them.
My type is women. All women. All shapes and sizes, colors and creeds. But my preference has always been for experience, and despite Sorcha’s bravado, she’s an innocent, far from the worldly kind of women who usually warm my bed. Before last night, I’d only slept with one other virgin, a girl in high school, and I was a virgin, too. Both of us were keen to rid ourselves of the label. The event was quick and unsatisfactory. After that, I sought out women who were more proficient at sex than I was until I learned how to make them scream.
Sorcha screamed. Fuck, did she. My ears are still ringing with the sound of her coming apart at the seams. But I could have been gentler. Ishouldhave been gentler. I’m not a teenager. I’m a thirty-five-year-old man who is capable of resisting a naive young woman’s attempt at seduction.
