I Kidnapped the Mafia Heir, and He Never Tried to Escape novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Chained to the Winch

Cuffed in her dead father's boathouse, the heir talks like he owns the room, and Roisin ends up on his lap with her jeans soaked and her phone lighting up with an order to kill him.

"How does he know my name?" I said.

I was pacing between the winch and the workbench, and I could not stop.

"Padraig knows everything that happens near water," said Mal.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one I've got."

He sat on the crate with his wrists cuffed to the iron ring and his long legs stretched out in front of him.

He had not tried the cuffs once.

"Roisin Culhane," he said.

"Don't."

"It's a good name."

"My father gave it to me, and you don't get to say it like that."

He looked at me for a second, and something moved behind his face.

"All right," he said. "Culhane, then."

I found a space heater under the bench and kicked it on.

It ticked and began to glow orange between his boots.

The boathouse smelled of diesel, rope and cold concrete.

I hadn't been inside since the funeral.

"You followed me for six days," he said.

"Seven."

"You park like it's your first time."

"I have done this hundreds of times."

"Your left taillight's out. I noticed on Monday."

"You noticed on Monday and you still went to the hospice on Thursday?"

"It's my father's hospice."

He said it flat.

I stopped pacing.

I had been so angry for nine days that I hadn't looked at him properly.

He had shadows under his eyes, and a tired line at the corner of his mouth that the wool coat and the polite voice did not quite hide.

"You haven't eaten," he said.

"Shut up."

"Or slept."

"I said shut up."

"You're about to fall over, Culhane. Sit down."

"You don't give the orders here."

"No," he said. "You do. So give one."

I crossed the floor and grabbed the front of his shirt in both fists.

I meant to shake him.

I meant to say something terrible about his uncle.

He tilted his face up to me, calm as water, with his hands chained and his mouth a few inches from mine.

I kissed him.

It wasn't gentle.

I bit his lower lip and tasted blood and cedar, and he made a low sound in his chest.

His mouth opened under mine.

I pulled back an inch.

"You like this," I said, furious.

"I'm enjoying it a great deal."

"You're chained to a floor."

"So I noticed."

I looked down.

The front of his trousers was tented hard, and I could see the shape of him against his thigh.

"That's," I said.

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"Probably."

I should have walked out and called somebody.

Instead I swung one leg over his lap and sat down on him.

He hissed through his teeth.

I felt him through my jeans, thick and hot and pushing up exactly where I'd been aching for nine days.

My whole body lit.

"Hands stay on the ring," I said.

"They're cuffed to it."

"Then they stay there."

"Yes, boss."

I felt that one in my stomach.

I put my hands in his hair and kissed him again, deeper, and rolled my hips.

The seam of my jeans dragged over my clit and I gasped into his mouth.

"Slow down," he said, low.

"Don't tell me what to do."

"It feels better slow."

His voice had dropped, and it was rough around the edges now.

"Use your hips, Culhane. Take the whole length of me and use it."

I did.

I rocked forward and felt his cock drag hard against me through two layers of denim and wool.

I was already wet, and I knew he could feel the heat of it through the cloth.

I unbuttoned his shirt with shaking fingers, because I couldn't stand not to.

His chest was hot and hard and scarred in three places.

I put my palm flat over his heart and felt it slamming.

"That's not a calm man's heartbeat," I said.

"Never said I was calm."

"You look calm."

"Then I'm better at it than I thought."

He dipped his head and put his mouth on my throat.

His teeth scraped once, right under my jaw, and I arched into him with a noise I didn't recognize.

"There," he said against my skin. "Do that again."

"Do what?"

"What you just did with your hips."

I did it again, harder.

The friction was rough and slow and not nearly enough, and perfect.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"I want," I started, and my voice cracked.

"Say it."

"I want to come on you."

"Good girl. Then do it."

I dragged myself over his cock in long, deliberate rolls, my fingers biting into his shoulders.

He watched my face.

Every time I ground down, a muscle jumped in his jaw.

He was hard as iron under me, and he never once begged or moved.

He just breathed, and held still, and let me use him.

"I haven't wanted anyone since my father died," I said.

I hadn't meant to say it.

It came out between breaths, fast.

He didn't say anything clever.

"Then take your time," he said.

That was what undid me.

I came apart with my forehead against his and my nails in his shoulders.

It rolled through me hard and long, my clit throbbing against the seam of my jeans, my thighs shaking on either side of his.

I said his name for the first time without meaning to.

"Mal. Mal, fuck."

"I've got you."

He couldn't hold me.

He sat there with his arms chained, taking the whole weight of me coming apart on top of him, and the only thing he did was breathe with me until it stopped.

When I could think, I was slumped against his chest, and his cock was still pushing hard against my thigh.

His jaw was set tight.

"You didn't," I said.

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes, boss."

I wanted to laugh, and I wanted to cry, and I did neither.

I climbed off him on unsteady legs and tugged my jacket straight.

My jeans were soaked through at the center.

He saw me notice it, and his eyes went dark.

"Don't look at me like that," I said.

"You'll have to chain my eyes too."

I picked up my phone off the workbench to give my hands something to do.

It buzzed in my palm.

An unknown number, a single message.

"Mal Murtagh dead by Saturday night and your brother walks. Your choice."

I looked at the man I had just come on, still half hard on the crate.

He read the screen over my arm, and for the first time since Thursday, his smile went away.

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