Page 34 of Legacy Of Ashes
Two hours later, Murphy has his assignments and the conference room sits empty except for files scattered across mahogany. I pour whiskey into crystal tumblers, hyperaware of Conall watching my every movement.
"You handled that well," he says.
"You sound surprised."
"Not surprised. Wet." He accepts the glass, fingers brushing mine deliberately. "Your father would be proud."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Would he? Or would he be horrified that his little girl is authorizing interrogations?"
Conall's gaze drops to my mouth, then lower to where my blouse gaps between buttons. "You're not a little girl anymore."
"No, I'm not." I perch on the edge of the table, letting my skirt ride up enough to show the tops of my stockings. "So why do you still treat me like one?"
His knuckles whiten around the glass. "I don't?—"
"You do." I slide off the table, moving closer until I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. "Careful touches. Professional distance. Like I might shatter if you fuck me the way you want to."
The glass hits the table with a sharp crack. "Saoirse?—"
"Do you remember that night in the study?"
His jaw clenches. Of course he remembers. Christmas break, three years ago. I'd found him working late, drowning in whiskey and financial documents. The kiss that followed was hungry, desperate—until he pushed me away like I'd burned him.
"You kissed me like you wanted to devour me," I continue, emboldened by the hunger in his eyes. "Then spent three years pretending it never happened."
"Because it couldn't happen again."
"Why the fuck not?"
He sets down his glass with deliberate control. "Because you were twenty-three and I was old enough to know better."
"I'm twenty-six now." I step closer, close enough that my breasts brush his chest. "What's your excuse now?"
"Because I work for your father. Because you deserve better than a man who's killed for your family."
"Don't I get to decide what I deserve?" I reach up, fingers tracing the edge of his bandage through his shirt. "Maybe I want a man with blood on his hands. Maybe I want you to get them dirty with me."
His breath hisses between his teeth. "You have no fucking idea what you're asking."
"I'm asking you to stop treating me like I'm made of glass." My hand slides down to palm the bulge straining against his trousers. "I'm asking you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."
"Christ, Saoirse." His hips jerk into my touch. "You think I don't want to? You think this has been easy? Watching you grow into this incredible woman while keeping my cock in my pants?"
"Then don't."
Something snaps in his expression. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with surprising gentleness before his mouth crashes against mine.
This isn't the careful kiss from three years ago. This is hunger unleashed, three years of want exploding between us. His tongue claims my mouth while his hands roam my body like he's memorizing every curve.
I fumble with his shirt buttons, desperate to feel skin against skin. When I finally get the fabric open, my nails rake down his chest, leaving red marks on scarred muscle.
"Fuck," he groans against my mouth. "I've wanted this for so long."
"Then take it." I bite his bottom lip hard enough to sting. "Take what you want."
His hands grip my ass, lifting me onto the conference table. Papers scatter to the floor as he pushes my skirt up to my waist, exposing the black lace barely covering my pussy.
"Spread your legs," he commands, voice rough with need.
