Livia
When he catches up to me, I say: “We’re going to an Italian restaurant.’
“Are you bossing me around, princess?” he asks. He speaks in a way-too-comfortable tone of voice, like he doesn’t realize I’m the daughter of a don and he’s just an Irishman on loan.
“Don’t call me princess,” I snap. “This is a business meeting. You shouldn’t even call me by my first name, really. You should call me Ms. Russo.”
He laughs and I wince. It does sound silly, saying that aloud, but Mom’s voice is a constant wail in my head: Don’t you dare get close to an Irishman. Get a nice Italian boy. Find an Italian and settle down and give me some lovely cute Italian grandchildren. Is that so much to ask?
“Are you serious?” he says.
“What if I am?” I shoot back. “Anyway, you haven’t answered me. I said we’re going to an Italian restaurant.”
“That’s fine. I know a great Italian place. I’ll take you there. We can share our cultures.”
“Hmm.” I’m not sure if I believe him, but Aedan has a strange aura around him, nothing like the men I normally mix with in the bar. They’re all bluster and fight, loud and boisterous, always acting as though they’re aware their friends are watching and they have to make sure everybody knows they’re the hardest men who’ve ever walked the earth. Aedan isn’t like that. He just smiles through his red beard and looks at me with an open expression. The change is disconcerting.
“Fine,” I say, after a pause.
We walk through the streets, past pedestrians, alongside a road gridlocked with screaming horns and even louder screaming New Yorkers. I’m walkin’ here! Finally, Aedan flags down a cab. He opens the door for me and waves at the backseat, bowing his head in mock deference. “M’lady Russo,” he says.
“You’re an asshole,” I sneer, as I climb into the car and wiggle up the seat until I’m pressed as close to the opposite door as I can get—as far away from him as possible.
But when he climbs in, I can’t help but notice the way his t-shirt rides up his belly, exposing his ab muscles. They’re hard and honed, and covered in a fine, almost-transparent layer of ruddy hair. He’s so manly, I think, and then immediately squash the thought. But it’s no good. Another thought surfaces moments later. He’s the manliest man I’ve ever been close to. I squash this one, too, remember Luca, remember Mom. Luca; the Irish killed him. That’s enough of a reason for me to despise this man. My twin brother was killed by men he might know. I clench my jaw, pout, do everything in my power to show him I am one-hundred percent not interested.
“Can I have one?” he says, after he’s given the cabdriver the address and the cab has joined the gridlock.
“One what?” I reply, confused.
“A lemon slice. It looks like you’re sucking on one.”
I was sucking my teeth. Now, reflexively, I let them go. “Shut up! You’re lucky I left my pen at the office.”
He tilts his head at me. “Do you think you really had it in you?”
I look him dead in the eyes. “Yes,” I say simply.
He smiles, that constant, at-ease, cocky smile. “Fair enough.”
“Do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t talk to me for the rest of the ride.”
He shrugs. “Alright.”
Inch by inch, the driver slug-crawls through the gridlock, until it breaks and we’re free to glide through New York. The sun is high and seems to be aiming its beams directly at our car. I feel like I’m sitting in the inside of a disco ball, beams crisscrossing and thousands of motes of dust hovering in the air. I stare out the window, at the city, but every so often (by mistake, I tell myself) my eyes come to rest on Aedan. He sits with his hands on his knees, grinning now and then at something he finds funny out the window. The way he’s sitting, his arm muscles are naturally tensed, and I keep looking at them. My body does its dance again, tingling, buzzing. I force it down. Remember Luca. Remember Mom. And, anyway, even if this man was Italian and I was allowed to act on my desires, I don’t think I’d be able to. When you live most of your life as the sheltered princess, it can be difficult to make any kind of move. It’s for the best, anyway. Ah! Why can’t this be simple! Dad’s such an ass, throwing us together. But still, those arms, and look how comfortable he is, not even trying to impress me...Stop. It.
When we arrive at the “Italian restaurant”, I let out a groan. It’s called “The Clover” and if it’s Italian, I’m Irish. Above the door hangs a four-leaf clover, bright green, and next to the door sits a small statue of a leprechaun.
“Thanks,” Aedan says, handing the driver way more than the cab fare. He climbs from the car, goes around my side, and holds the door open for me. “Princess.”
“Stop calling me that, dog,” I hiss.
The cab pulls away and we stand outside the restaurant.
“I said an Italian place.”
“Well...yeah, I tricked you. But this place does some mean burgers.”
“It looks ridiculous.” I imagine Mom standing outside this restaurant, the inevitable diatribe which would spill in eloquent Italian from her lips. I walk to the little leprechaun statue and tilt my head at Aedan. “Are you serious right now?”
He dances over, pats the statue on the head. “He’s alright.”
“I mean—this is enemy turf.” I glance up and down the street. From within, Irish accents surge into the street. Not American-Irish, either, but full-on Irish, slurring and difficult to understand.
“Not anymore,” Aedan says. “Anyway, nobody in their right mind’d try and hurt a woman I was with.”
“You’re the big tough man, are you?”
“Nah. Just people know what I’d do, is all. Anyway, my car is parked around here.”
“So you’ve taken me somewhere for the sake of convenience?”
“No, the burgers really are good. Why don’t you try it, at least, princess?”
I wheel on him, feeling my face burn red. “Stop calling me princess!”
I’m close to him, too close. I can feel the heat of his body, the power of it. He stares down at me with those hard eyes. His fingers twitch and his arms tense, his chest tenses ever harder; I see the outline of his pectorals through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. I imagine what it’d be like to place my hand on that chest and feel the solidness of it, perhaps gouge his skin with my fingernails. I wonder how it’d feel to have a man like this lift me off my feet. I bet he could do it like I weighed nothing, I think.
No!
I take a step back, nervous, confused. I say, “Let’s go in, then,” mostly just so he’ll stop looking at me like that.
He keeps staring at me for a few moments. Without meaning to, I bite my lip, and that seems to almost drive him wild. His eyes go wide and he looks at my lips for a long time. Dirty prick, I think, sensing that his mind is doing just as much imagining as mine. Dirty damn Irishman.
He waves a hand at the door, bowing slightly. “After you, m’lady.”
“Asshole,” I mutter, pushing the doors open.
I expect it to be a smoke-filled, grimy bar, but what I’m met with instead is a brightly lit room with vibrant green paint and table mats with pictures of clovers on them. Lanterns hang from the walls and when we enter, a smiling teenager wearing a green outfit with dangling green clover earrings approaches us, holding a clipboard. I look around. Most of the tables are filled with families, probably unaware that this is a front for the Irish mob. The only sign that this is anything other than a run-of-the-mill theme restaurant is the burly man sitting in the corner and the group of Irishmen talking loudly in another corner, whisky bottles and glasses piled up around them. Other than that, it looks like any other restaurant.
“Mr. O’Rourke,” the smiling teen says. “A table for two?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Chloe.”
Chloe, I think. Is he fucking her? Even if he is, why should you care? I don’t. Hmm…let him fuck whoever he wants. No, but I want him…no, I don’t. Ah!
When we’re seated, Aedan orders a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He sees me watching Chloe and says: “That’s my pal’s daughter.”
“I don’t care,” I throw back.
“Okay…”
The whisky arrives, swiftly followed by two mountainous burgers. Aedan brings his hand to his head when I make to eat mine with a knife and fork.
“No!” he says in mock outrage. “That’s sacrilege!”
“No,” I say. “Sacrilege would be getting burger grease and ketchup on this dress.”
“That is a damn nice dress,” he says, eyeing it, especially the way it tugs at my breast line. “Damn, damn nice.”
I drink more whisky than I normally would, downing four glasses before I’ve even finished my burger. My head becomes foggy and I find myself smiling with more ease. I also find myself looking more openly at Aedan’s arms, tight, bursting, the kind of arms that a woman can’t get her hand around, the kind of arms which tell a woman she’s with a real man now. Bits of bread stick in his beard from the burger bun, and, spurred on by the whisky and the general atmosphere, I reach across and wipe it clean. As soon as I realize what I’ve done, I drop my hand into my lap.
Aedan laughs and winks at me. “Feels good to have a lady like you tending to me.”
“Shut it.”
The plates are whisked away and soon we’re sitting in lantern light sipping whisky. Aedan drinks as much as me, but it seems to have no effect on him. For around half an hour, we talk business. I explain to him about the dummy accounts, the false fronts, etc., and then when business is over, we settle down and get on with some real drinking. Soon, my head is swimming and I stretch my legs out under the table. My heeled foot brushes up against Aedan’s leg.
“Accident,” I breathe, trying to sit up straight. “That’s all.”
“That’s okay, pretty lady,” he says. “You can touch my leg any time you damn well please.”
“Are you always such an asshole?” I ask, having to focus hard not to slur my words.
“Just most of the time.”
“You look like an animal,” I say, gesturing with my glass. There was something wrong with the sides of the glass; whisky splashed up over the rim and wet my hand. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
He leans his elbows on the table, his t-shirt squeezing his biceps, making them large and hard. “Maybe,” he says, “an animal is exactly what you need.”
“Stop.” I sigh. I’m asking him to stop as much for my sake as his. My pussy doesn’t care that he’s an Irishman; my pussy wants him badly. My pussy is aching, my insides longing for his fingers, his tongue, his cock—anything, as long as it’s his. I try and push the thoughts away, but it’s hard when I’m filled with whisky.
“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are, Livia?” Aedan says, and the way he says it, it’s like he means it, not at all like the showing-off of the men at the bar.
“Yes,” I say, wobbling slightly from side to side. I grip the table, steadying myself. “Yes, they have.”
“Well, you’re beautiful; add me to the list.”
“They killed my brother.”
Did I say that out loud? Am I drunk? Is that even a question?
“I know,” Aedan says quietly. “But I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”
“Your boss probably did!”
Aedan studies a stray crumb of bread on the table. “Maybe.”
Maybe? Maybe! But he said he didn’t have anything to do with it. Fuck, imagine being alone with him with the lights low and sitting on his lap and feeling his cock, imagine feeling it right up against my panties, imagine clawing at those muscles, imagine feeling that beard tickle my lips as we kissed. Imagine…
I shake my head, the whisky making it feel like my brain is shifting around inside my skull. My mouth is dry. I open and close it, tongue sticking to my teeth.
“Are you okay?” Aedan asks.
“Fine,” I say. “I thought you were flirting with me.” I give him a toss of the head, causing my hair to flutter around my eyes.
His eyes roam over me, staring at my breasts. I squeeze them together with my elbows, something I would never, in a million years, do if whisky were not pounding through me.
His eyes go wide and I find I like the way he watches me, as though at any moment he’s going to lose control and jump over the table, hands clawing at me. I wonder what it would be like if a man like this lost control on me. My drunken mind has no problem throwing up several suggestions, all steamier and hotter than the last, causing me to cross my legs and press them together tightly.
“Are you okay?” The prick knows exactly what I’m going through. I can see it in his eyes, the way they glitter playfully. “Livia?”
“You’re just a dirty dog,” I say, words tumbling together. “That’s all.” I make to swing another glass of whisky back, but Aedan darts his hand out and touches my wrist.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he says.
I shove his hand away and knock the glass back. “It’s not up to you to tell me what is and is not a good idea!” I cry, not realizing how loud my voice is until it rises in the air. “Anyway, you’re a dog,” I go on, only vaguely remembering having said it a few moments ago. “You’re a dirty Irish dog.”
“Yes, ma’am. Does that excite you?”
His voice, deep and husky, is the sort of voice which makes me imagine what it’d sound like if he was groaning in pleasure, if I was bent over and he was behind me, if we were…
Focus, Livia. Remember.
“I need to go,” I say. “That’s what I need to do. We’ve discussed business, haven’t we?” I slide my glass of whisky across the table, wanting to get it away from me, not trusting my willpower to resist it if I keep it near. “What else is there to talk about?”
His eyes do that sparkling thing again, as though dozens of possibilities are flitting through his mind. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he says.
“Dog!” I spit. “Dog!”
He opens his mouth and dangles his tongue out, grinning, and then makes a panting dog gesture. I can’t help it. I giggle, but as I giggle I look at that tongue, wide and long, and imagine what it’d be like to have it down between my legs. I wonder how it’d feel to have my clit—right now sore and engorged, begging—licked and teased by that tongue. I wonder how it’d feel to have that tongue trail down my spine and lick at me from behind. I cross my legs harder, like a woman who needs to pee. But I don’t need to pee; I need something else.
“I need to go,” I repeat. “That’s all. I need to get a cab.”
I grip the edge of the table and haul myself to my feet with a groan. As soon as I stand, blood rushes to my head, presses against my forehead, and I slump back down. Aedan makes to stand. I hold up a finger: I can do it. I stand up again, and this time I manage to stumble away from the table, almost hitting Chloe and knocking her trays everywhere. I walk on shaky legs toward the door, which means I have to walk right by Aedan. He watches me uncertainly, his bearded lips a flat line.
“I’m going to get a cab,” I mutter, but then I stumble, trip, and before I know it I’ve fallen straight into Aedan’s lap.
He catches me, propping one hand behind my head so it doesn’t crash into the table. His hand feels good there, and my ass pressing firmly into his groin feels even better. He’s getting hard, I think, and a second later he’s rock-hard, pressing through his pants and into my ass. I shift, trying to stand up, but I find I like the way his cock massages my ass cheeks. Heat rises. I gasp. Dammit, but this feels good. I shift again, and Aedan looks into my eyes with a hitman’s calm, a hitman’s capability, looking extremely manly and hot.
“I need to get a cab,” I say, a siren blaring in my mind: Luca! Mom!
I struggle to my feet, but only succeed in grinding my hips into his erect cock again.
“Let me help,” Aedan says, lifting me under the armpits and helping me up. I was right; he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
How did we get here? I think, when we’re suddenly in the street.
“Let me give you a ride home,” Aedan says. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you get in a cab. I know what men are like.”
His cock was so hard, so quick. Fuck, he wants me as much as I want him.
“Give me a ride,” I say, as he unlocks the passenger-side door to his car. “Give me a long hard ride.”
When he starts the car, I’m so horny that even the vibration of the engine through the seat is enough to get me going. I’m wet, wetter than I have any right to be considering we’ve barely touched.
“Let’s get you home,” Aedan says, in that deep, chesty voice which makes goose pimples sprout all over my bare legs.