Page 39 of Irish Vice

“Can’t?” Samantha challenges. “Or won’t?”

“Her da has my bollocks in his back pocket.”

“And what are you doing to change that?”

I don’t have an answer for her. I’m waiting for Fiona to get bored. I’m hoping Kieran’ll find another Clan to persecute. I’m thinking a man who smokes three packs a day and sounds like every breath’s his last can’t hang on forever.

“If she doesn’t leave of her own accord, I’ll send her packing after Easter.”

“Easter!”

“Less than a month,piscín.”

She leaves my excuse hanging there for what seems like forever. But finally, she whispers, “Promise?”

I reach for her hand. Pull it close to my heart. Cover it with my other fingers, like I’m trapping a frightened bird. “I promise.”

Come Easter, Fiona will have learned all she can about the Fishtown Boys. Come Easter, I’ll have a fair argument for sending her home. I hope. I pray.

Samantha finally nods. “Easter,” she says.

I can’t stop myself from from kissing her. Releasing her head, I tangle my fingers in her hair. She moans a little, into my mouth, and my cock turns to steel.

I want to lay her out on the table. I want to shove her narrow black skirt up to her hips. I want to yank down whatever panties she’s wearing—black or white or gray, I don’t give a holy fuck—and I want to bury my face between her thighs and suck her clit until she screams. And when she’s dissolved like wet candy floss, when her legs hang limp over the edge of the table, then I want to sink my cock deep inside that pool of sweetness and bring her back for another round or three.

My fingers are going for her hem when the conference room door opens.

15

SAMANTHA

The sounds coming out of me aren’t human. They’re the whistling grunt of a hungry guinea pig and the whine of a lonely dog and the purr of a cat being scratched in the perfect place behind her ear. I’ve hooked one foot behind Braiden’s knee, holding him close, framing the heat of his heavy erection between my thighs.

He’s caught my lip between his teeth, and I’m pinned just short of pain. His fingers rake my hair like low-hanging branches of a tree. I’m melting beneath him, losing my thoughts, losing my bones.

“Excuse me!”

Alix’s voice cuts through the boiling sap that’s taken the place of my brain.

I squeak as Braiden pulls away from me. My skirt is hiked halfway to my hips. My top has slipped from my waistband, and my nipples stand out against the silk like searchlights in a storm.I’m breathing like I’ve just run the bases for an inside-the-park home run, and I’m not entirely sure I remember my name.

“I’m so sorry,” Alix says, as Braiden steps between us, giving me a chance to tug my clothes back in order.

I catch a glimpse of Alix’s face. She’s blushed the color of a good rosé. Her eyes are locked on Braiden’s face, as if the world will end if she notices anything below his belt.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I realized I didn’t show you a prototype of the auction catalog. We had one last month that’s a good example…”

Apparently she realizes her computer offers good cover, because she opens the laptop with enough force that the screen nearly sails across the room. Balancing the device on one hand, she starts typing with the other. “I’ve got it here somewhere,” she says. “Just a second… No, that’s not the right file…”

My skirt is back where it belongs. My top is tucked in, its pearl buttons all in a line. My breasts aren’t cooperating entirely, but I remind myself of warm summer breezes and lazy days in the sun. My heart still pounds, but I no longer sound like I’m about to hyperventilate.

I turn around and move to Braiden’s side, brushing my hand against his sleeve as a silent thank you for his gallantry. A quick glance shows he’s tamed his erection either with his own guided imagery or the sheer embarrassment of our being caught necking like two horny teenagers.

Braiden clears his throat. “Why don’t you just send me the file?” he says to Alix. “I need to check something in my gallery.” And then he asks, “Samantha? I’ll meet you at the car in half an hour?”

“Perfect!” I say, wincing as my voice comes out in the too-bright tone of the weather forecaster on the nightly news.

I wait until he closes the door before I slump into one of the chairs at the table. Covering my eyes with one hand, I try to smother an embarrassed giggle. “Sorry about that,” I say.