I abandon the dishes in the sink and turn in Ronan’s arms.

  “Are you interested in getting dirty right now?” I tempt him.

  “Fallon, I have wanted to get you dirty since day one.” He yanks me against him, our chests colliding. For a beat, we just stare at each other, not saying a word. Then he kisses me. Slams his mouth right down against mine, and the embrace completely kidnaps me. It just drags me away, unseen and unheard.

  The temperature jumps from heated to hot to sizzling in the matter of several hasty minutes. Lifting me off the floor, Ronan plants me on the cool, white countertop. Forcing my legs apart, he makes himself comfortable between them, pressing the hardness concealed in his pants snugly against my pussy. He wants me to feel him. Wants me to know just how much he wants me, and surprisingly, I share his desire.

  “I want to get lucky,” he growls playfully.

  “You’re Irish. You’re always lucky,” I toy with him.

  “Aye, ’tis the truth,” he replies in a mock Irish accent, and a debilitating chill runs down my spine. An echo of the past haunts me for a few paralyzing seconds, but Ronan snaps me out of it when he bites my bottom lip and yanks at my shirt. I push the past to the side like it doesn’t exist and willingly get swept away in the present. Fuck you, Declan O’Dea.

  Ronan is a beast. He doesn't waste any time. He knows what he wants, and he goes for it. Much like his notorious reputation. Stripping me down to nothing, he manhandles me, pulling my legs over his shoulders so he can feast.

  The lower half of my body is suspended in the air as he gluttonously eats my pussy, his tongue a slithering, savage snake striking my clit.

  I moan and squirm mindlessly in his iron grasp, coming closer and closer to a brain-splitting orgasm.

  “You taste better than the center of a Boston cream pie.” He indulgently smears half his face in the arousal dripping from my pussy. I’ll take that as the highest compliment coming from a native New Englander.

  “Make me come, and I’ll be even sweeter,” I egg him on, dangling on the edge of hedonistic glory.

  “Say my name when you come.” He bites my clit, and I shudder. “Fucking scream it.”

  I squeeze my thighs around Ronan’s head as he licks me into oblivion.

  My breathing becomes heavier with each inch closer to euphoria. The man is a fucking magician with his mouth.

  My body tenses and shivers the harder I’m pushed until the sweet tidal wave of bliss begins to wash over me, my pussy throbbing and aching until I’m trapped in a complete sexual seizure.

  I go to scream out, to call Declan’s name, but I catch myself. It’s not Declan who’s pleasuring me; it’s Ronan.

  “Ah!” I uncontrollably hit my peak and tumble headfirst into a blinding orgasm. “Ronan!” I scream, just like I’m told, pulling his hair.

  I come wildly, bucking in his arms, fighting his tight hold as pleasure bleeds out of me.

  I go limp when the climax passes, even though Ronan is still indulging in me like dessert.

  “Fuck, I’m hooked.” He licks my soaked folds delectably. “I’m so fucking hooked.” He pants like a feral fucking animal.

  Placing my lower body back down onto the countertop, he deftly unbuttons his dress pants and shoves them down his thighs. There’s no turning back now. The man has had a lick of the lollipop, and it’s only made his sugar craving intensify. I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s so primitive and so sharp it could cut you if you aren’t careful.

  “I’m going to fucking come in you. I’m going to mark you. I’m going to make you fucking mine.” He hauls me up into a sitting position and grabs hold of my heated ass cheeks. Then he penetrates me. Hard and fast, taking everything he’s been chasing.

  His thrusts are deep and controlled. Each one bucking my body up off the granite. I feel him everywhere, infiltrating me on every level.

  “Christ, you’re so fucking good.” His teeth are clenched, his muscles are stiff, and his cock is so fucking swollen it fills me completely. It demands more than I’ve already given. “Come again. Come with me. Let me fucking feel that sweet ass juice.” Ronan pumps harder and faster, his arousal picking up speed.

  I allow myself to let go. To get swept away in the man who is thoroughly fucking me. A hot ache races over my bare skin and settles in my lower abdomen. I’m going to come again. I want to come again.

  Our pleasured moans and gasps and grunts become entangled, the two of us centered on the same plane.

  “Oh, God . . . Ronan, fuck, yes . . . yes, yes, yes!” I cry out as he hits my spot over and over again. I explode all over him like a popped water balloon, saturating us both with a surge of arousal.

  He can barely speak as his pleasure holds him hostage. I can see everything he’s feeling on his strained, chiseled face though. In the tight lines and bulging veins in his neck. He loves being inside me. And that’s my power. It will be my only edge in this proposed partnership, and I’ll use it to my advantage just like I’m doing right now.

  I contract my pussy, strangling his cock, and he finally combusts.

  One singular bellow escapes his lips as he comes. A tortured, anguished sound that vibrates through his whole body as he shudders and thrusts until there’s nothing left inside him.

  Ronan rests his head in the curve of my neck as he catches his breath. We’re both spent, and sweaty, and completely sated.

  When he finally lifts his head, he clutches my face with one hand. It’s a firm, commanding grip. “I don’t care what it takes. But mark my words, you’re going to be all fucking mine.” There is an absolution to his declaration. Not many people frighten me, but Ronan does.

  Instead of revealing my true concerns, I bat my eyelashes and purr softy.

  “Fuck me like that again, and I might consider your offer.”

  “You might not have a choice.” Ronan withdraws from me, pulls up his dress pants, and puts himself back together. Grabbing me unexpectedly, he throws me over his shoulder and smacks one of my naked ass cheeks. The crack rings out all around my kitchen. Youch!

  “Enough talking.” He marches off toward my bedroom. “I want that pretty mouth wrapped around my cock for the rest of the night.”

  I wake up stiff and still soaking wet. Ronan wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted my pretty mouth wrapped around his cock for the rest of night. I sucked him off more times than I can count.

  He is a brutal lover. Demanding. Taxing. At times, merciless. Don’t misunderstand, it wasn’t all bad. I got off plenty of times, too, but last night was a glimpse of what being Ronan Kennedy’s other half would be like.

  I’m not sure I want the job.

  I like my freedom too much, and I’m unsure how much of that he will afford me. He says he wants a queen. Someone to rule by his side, but I wonder if a man like Ronan is capable of sharing power. He’s the last son remaining from an empire of crime. He’s been bred to lead, to command, to rule. He’s the tip of the pyramid. Would there really be room for two on such a tiny summit?

  I roll over to find Ronan already up and dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed fiddling with his cuff.

  “I don’t even get breakfast?” I stretch, my muscles screaming from the workout last night. “I feel gipped.”

  He turns to look at me, his cunning brown eyes glinting in the morning sun.

  “Unfortunately, no. I have to be back in Boston by this afternoon.” He doesn’t seem apologetic. “Work and all. Have to show a strong front or else the rats will try to take over the ship.”

  “That would be bad.”

  “Very.” He leans over to kiss me. “It’s also why I want you. You’ll be a critical part of my image and my foundation.” Ronan combs his fingers through a chunk of my tousled copper hair.

  “You make it sound so romantic,” I hum.

  He smiles, and it’s a mix of so many things. Of deceit and intrigue and dark amusement.

  “You want romantic?” He arches an eyebrow. “I can be romantic.”

  “You proved that last night,” I allude to his spontaneous candlelight dinner.

  “I was just getting warmed up.” His arrogance is incorrigible. He steals another quick kiss and then sits up. He grabs an envelope off my nightstand and tosses it in front of me.

  “What’s this?” I question of course.

  “A job,” he relays clinically.

  “You didn’t have to come all the way to New York to give me this. You could have just gone through March.”

  “I didn’t come to New York to just deliver that. I came to New York to see you . . . and come in you.”

  “Successful on all fronts.” I’m cheeky.

  Ronan shrugs. “I’m a man who gets what he wants. Even if it takes a few years.”

  Years is right. He has been after me for many.

  “Persistent.”

  Ronan shakes his head. “Inevitable,” he clarifies. “It’s always inevitable that I get what I want.”

  I suddenly feel trapped under his watchful gaze.

  “And you want me?” I question.

  “Yes, I do,” he states matter-of-factly. “By my side every day and in my bed every night.”

  Coming from any other man, a woman might actually fall head over heels from a line like that. But Ronan isn’t just any man, and I’m not just any woman.

  A pure, untainted love would never happen in our world. Love blooming at all is practically preposterous. We are killers, mercenaries, and death dealers. Chaos follows us wherever we go. And we prefer it that way. Where does love fit into anarchy like that?

  It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

  Love is a poison that renders you weak. Makes you vulnerable and ultimately is your undoing.

  If I were to agree to Ronan’s proposal, it would be a business transaction with sexual benefits and nothing more. No matter how many candlelit dinners or nights between the sheets we may have. I know men like Ronan. I’ve worked for them, I’ve worked with them, and I’ve killed them. At the end of the day, all that matters is him. All that matters is what he wants, what he needs, what he desires.

  “You flatter me.”

  “You deserve it. You’re beautiful and cunning and deadly, and that’s exactly the kind of woman I need by my side.”

  “A bodyguard with benefits.” I slide the envelope closer to me.

  “Mmm, partly, perhaps.” There’s no guise on his part. “I strategically surround myself with only the best. And going forward, implementing that philosophy is imperative now more than ever.”

  I nod, understanding. There are cracks in Ronan’s armor since the takedown of his family, and that makes him vulnerable, susceptible, and weak. It makes him the one thing no one wants to be. A target. He’s only doing what any smart criminal would. It’s flee or fight. And for Ronan, there’s only one once. Fight.

  “Who’s the mark?”

  “A former associate turned fucking rat.”

  Ronan stands and straightens the cuffs of his dress shirt. He’s an impressive man. Tall, polished, handsome, imposing. The kind of man you would pay attention to on the street. “I want you to fucking kill him and bring me the girl he’s with.”

  “A girl? Should I be jealous?”

  “Maybe a little.” Ronan flashes me one of his devious smiles. “It’s not like that, though. So, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t really worry, in general,” I assure him.

  He seems satisfied with that response. “Read the file. Then burn it,” he orders. Bossy already.

  “I know the drill.”

  Ronan leans over and rests his hands on the mattress. “I know you do.” Then he kisses me again. It’s a strong, possessive kiss, with lots of tongue. And to my amazement, I don’t actually hate it. My feelings about him are conflicted, that’s for sure.

  “I’ll be in touch.” He breathes heavily. “We’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  I nod, my head slightly spinning from the overload of Ronan Kennedy.

  Sitting up against my white leather headboard, covered only by a sheet, I watch him leave.

  I need a few quiet minutes to take it all in. To process.

  I can’t wait to hear what March is going to have to say about all this. About Ronan’s proposition.

  He’ll probably shit himself. Hell, I almost did when those elevator doors slid open.

  I clutch the envelope, ready to tear it open when I stop myself. Work later. Coffee, kickboxing, and personal life now.

  I hop out of bed, throw a T-shirt on, and make my way to the kitchen.

  All evidence of last night is gone. The entire dinner. There’s nothing left but a glean on the glass table. It’s fucking eerie just how stealthy Ronan can be. How he comes and goes virtually unnoticed.

  It makes me wary of him all the more, and strangely intrigued.

  He is a fire I shouldn’t fan, but I’m much too tempted not to touch the flame.

  Dangerous.

  I pop a pod into the coffeemaker and inhale the sweet, heavenly scent of caramel cream as it fills the air.

  Caffeine is currently life.

  After the cup is filled, I move to the couch where my laptop is sitting on the coffee table.

  Flipping it on, I blow on the steam and open my email.

  Only one person uses this email address.

  I click on the subject line: PITA

  Dear Dangerously,

  Did you know over one million seabirds and 100,000 sea mammals are killed by pollution every year? People who live in places with high levels of air pollutants have a 20% higher risk of death from lung cancer than people who live in less-polluted areas? And each year, 1.2 trillion gallons of untreated sewage, stormwater, and industrial waste are dumped into US water? I have committed to only using reusable straws and bringing my own coffee cup to Starbucks. I have also applied to an internship in Washington, DC, for next summer at a prestigious environmental lobbying agency. Daddy has a connection. Also, Mom is being a total PITA. She has vetoed every single winter formal dress I have tried on. She said no mid-drifts. What is wrong with two inches of skin showing if it’s tasteful!? She can be so suffocating sometimes! Anyway. I hope you’re doing well. I miss you. Write soon and tell me all about your misadventures in Africa.

  Xo

  OceanGirlSavesTheWorld

  I try not to grin ear to ear as I read the email. I always cycle through so many emotions when I receive correspondences like these. I walked away from my family years ago with the expectation of never looking back. But March stuck his damn nose where it didn’t belong, like March so often does, and he opened a dialogue with my younger sister. I could have killed him. I almost did. But he argued while I had a knife to his throat that if I was going to survive in this line of work, I needed a bridge to my humanity, and Farrah was it. She knows virtually nothing about me. Only what I allow her to believe. Which is that I live in a remote part of Africa teaching young, third-world children how to read and write. The last time I saw her, she was three years old and still in diapers. She’s nearly sixteen now and believes she can change the world. I hope it’s true. I hope she is everything I never got to be.

  I know one thing; she had a vastly different upbringing than I did. And even though I did everything in my power to make sure of that, for a long time I was resentful. But in the end, my protectiveness outweighed my bitterness. Go figure, a hired gun who actually gives a shit about anyone but themselves. I guess stranger things have happened, but don’t ask me what.

  My ultimate plan was to look after her from afar, like a ghost, but fate—and March—had different ideas.

  I type out a quick response. All my responses are short and sweet. Neither noncommittal nor too in depth. Just sisterly banter over spotty communications. That’s the safest, and only, option.

  Dear OceanGirlSavesTheWorld,

  If I were a more responsible and mature sister, I would tell you to listen to Mom. But I’m not. So, I say wear whatever the hell you want, and shove her face in it by making it look fucking good. Push boundaries. Live your life. But always be smart.

  Dangerously

  It’s the best advice her defective sister can give her. I hope it’s enough.

  I hit send.

  After taking a hot shower, I change for the gym. March and I have a sparring date. But before all that, work calls. I’m itching to know who Ronan’s next victim is. A former associate turned fucking rat. That could be half of Boston.

  I rip open the envelope left by Ronan and pull out the contents. My stomach rolls when I see his face. No, this can’t be right. A five-by-eight surveillance picture of Declan fucking O’Dea. Last I knew, Declan was one of Ronan’s most devout disciples. It doesn’t make any sense. Why? I look for answers in the file, but there aren’t any. There’s barely any information at all. Just Declan’s face and the name Aisling.

  I assume that’s his latest babe in the woods. Another love casualty claimed by Declan O’Dea. Ronan doesn’t want her dead though—at least not by my hand—so that makes me believe she is significantly valuable. Can’t wait to find out why.

  The thrill of the impending hunt makes my blood pump. The thought of the kill warms me with a sick satisfaction, and also a nauseating regret.

  Confliction is a killer’s number-one enemy.

  I wouldn’t exactly call the job upsetting, though. Declan and I may have had some fierce sexual chemistry, but that’s where the buck stopped. Even if he did know how to sing like an Irish fucking nightingale.

  He knew all the right things to say and exactly how to say them. And that is deadlier than a loaded weapon pointed straight at your temple. Magically, he seduced me into letting my guard down. Not my finest moment, I’ll admit. Prideful wounds are some of the most painful to lick. But I won’t make the same mistake twice. With anyone. Alone is better than vulnerable any day of the week. And my beliefs are what keep me alive. Keep me protected. Nothing is going to jeopardize my livelihood.