I settle between her thighs, my tongue finding her center. She tastes like heaven and sin, wet and ready for me. I work her with my mouth until she's trembling, until her thighs shake around my head.
"Come for me," I command against her sensitive flesh. "Come on my tongue."
She shatters with a cry that echoes off the walls, her body arching as pleasure takes her. I don't stop, drawing out her climax until she's boneless beneath me.
Only then do I rise above her, stripping off my clothes before settling back between her legs. My cock presses against her entrance, hard and aching.
"Look at me," I say, gripping her chin. "I want to see your eyes when I claim you."
She meets my gaze as I push inside, both of us groaning at the perfect fit. Tight. Hot. Mine.
"You're mine now," I growl, setting a rhythm that has her gasping. "Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep."
"Yes," she breathes. "Yours."
I take her hard and deep, marking her as mine with every thrust. She meets me stroke for stroke, her nails raking down my back as she claims me in return.
When she comes again, clenching around me like a vise, I follow her over the edge with a roar that comes from somewhere primal and possessive.
After, I gather her against my chest, her head on my shoulder. She fits perfectly in my arms, like she was made for this moment.
"What happens now?" she asks softly.
"Now you're under Kavanagh protection," I say, pressing a kiss to her hair. "And anyone who tries to hurt you dies."
She lifts her head to look at me. "Is that what this was? Protection?"
"No." I cup her face, thumb tracing her swollen lips. "This was me claiming what's mine."
The truth hangs between us, dangerous and undeniable. Whatever game we started tonight, there's no going back.
Sorcha Quinn belongs to me now. And I'll kill anyone who tries to take her away.
CHAPTER
SIX
I followEamon through the maze of shipping containers, my pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the mission. He moves with predatory grace, and I can't stop watching the way his shoulders fill out his leather jacket.
Focus, Sorcha. You're here for evidence, not to ogle the target.
"Quality control," Eamon says, his Irish accent rougher today. "We check random shipments to make sure our partners don't try to fuck us over."
I pull out my phone to take notes, using the motion to photograph container numbers. Everything here connects to something larger—weapons, drugs, money. The kind of evidence that builds RICO cases.
Workers scatter as we approach, each one avoiding eye contact with Eamon. They know exactly what he's capable of.
"This one." He stops beside a container marked with Cyrillic text, muscles flexing as he punches the code. "Ukrainian associates. Electronics."
The doors swing open to reveal televisions stacked floor to ceiling. But something's wrong with the weight distribution. These boxes are too heavy for empty packaging.
"Looks legitimate," I say, fighting the urge to investigate further.
Eamon's eyes find mine, intense blue studying my face. "You notice things. I like that."
The approval in his voice sends unwanted heat through me. This is dangerous territory—not the criminal enterprise, but the way my body responds to his attention.
We move deeper into the warehouse where workers handle wooden crates with excessive care. The smell hits me immediately—cosmoline gun oil.
