Knockout: The Doyles A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Read online

  “Off,” I whisper against his lips. It sounds more like a pleading question than the demand I’d intended. So much for that power.

  In an instant he’s on his feet, sliding off the last layers that will keep us apart. My breath hitches as I rake my gaze over him, taking in every inch. The long lean lines of his body hard and honed. His cock is perfect, big and full and eager. Just like him.

  There’s so much I want to explore, to do, but right now I want this man inside me more than I want life itself. Well, maybe not that much, but pretty damn close.

  He moves back toward me, leans over me, when he freezes. A stricken look comes over his face.

  Condom. Right.

  “Side drawer,” I urgently say, already reaching to slide open the drawer. Owen pulls out the unopened box, and looks at it for long minute. This final barrier means no going back, and I feel it as strongly as I feel the absence of his body.

  He tears open the box, then the foil packet, and deftly rolls it on. My eyes linger on his cock, thick and hard with the promise of what’s to come.

  It’s even better than I’d imagined. He’s so much more than I ever dared to hope.

  He slides up my body, kissing his way toward my stomach in excruciatingly slow progress, but stops to part my legs. As he buries his face in me, licking and nipping, waves of pleasure arc through my body. I press up against his mouth, demanding more, wanting more, on the edge of some tide that could sweep me away.

  “Owen.” His name is almost a plea, and he continues to work his way up until he’s over me.

  Time seems to stop. Staring up into those eyes, sensing the weight of his body on mine, feeling him so close. A convoluted path brought us here, to this minute, and yet every fiber of my being says that this is utterly right.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” His voice is tight with unmet need.

  His body hovers over mine, his hard cock pressing between my thighs. He’s easily keeping his weight above mine, but the heavy muscles of his body bear down almost involuntarily. Gravitational pull.

  Wanting. I want to feel every part of this man, want him to know me. Really know me. To share space and time that defies the limitations of our lives. Want him inside me.

  My lips press into him, opening, letting him slide his tongue in to explore mine. A moan, an arch. My body aches for him. Please. Yes. All of you inside me.

  His breaths are ragged, the edges of his restraint starting to give. “Molly?” Say it. Say what you want.

  “Yes,” I say, reaching down to guide him to my opening. Fuck yes, hell yes, please yes. Now. Yes.

  His gaze is on mine, his eyes dark and heavy. There’s something very fierce and very gentle and utterly serious about this man.

  “I want to feel you inside me, Owen.” Not just that. I want all of him, body and soul. To answer his need with my own. Cursing softly, he brings his lips to mine again for just a second.

  Arching my hips, willing him, a burst of pleasure fills me as he slides his cock inside me. Inch by inch –so many delicious inches – he slowly moves inside me. Just taking that space, pushing deeper and fully sheathing himself inside me.

  “God, you’re the most beautiful thing.” My breath catches and my eyes burn at the note of wonder.

  Owen moves deep inside me, our hips rocking in the perfect motion together. Every sense I have is wrapped up in this man, pleasure so deep that it rockets through layers I never knew I had. Slowly at first, then deeper, more urgently, he thrusts into my core.

  He’s all I can see, taste, and feel. He’s all there is, a slow grind of rising pleasure takes me toward the edge and pushes me over into a blinding climax. My inner walls vibrate, clamping down around his cock. All I can do is cry out his name, begging him for more, for something beyond the edges of this beautiful place we are.

  Unrelenting, he drives into me and my legs wrap around him again. My heels press into his ass in some demand for more, and then it takes me again. Waves of raw physical ecstasy blend with some deeper bud of something like hope. I soak in every ounce of my own joy, and give it back again, with a pounding of my hips and a sound that’s almost a scream.

  He’s holding back, pacing himself, and I want more. Almost beyond reason, I want more, his completion, his pleasure. His surrender. The look on his face is so intense, his eyes locked on mine, both here and a thousand miles away.

  In a word, I bring him back.

  “Owen,” I whisper.

  His muscles coil hard, and he drives deep inside me again. I don’t know how he’s restrained himself to this point, but he slows and I could weep for the want of sending him in the other direction.

  “More,” I gasp.

  He lets out a deep growl, but slides in and out at a steady pace. When I strain against him, he looks wicked with the pleasure of it.

  “Molly.” His hand wraps in my hair, and he whispers softly in in my ear. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

  And he pulls completely out, leaving me almost bereft. Before I can make sense of it, he sits next to me and pulls me into his lap. His cock strains up to me and immediately I understand.

  Sliding down onto his length, I let him fill me to the hilt and we still. Just staring into each other’s eyes, lost in something so far beyond this second.

  My voice is hoarse when I murmur, “Fifteen seconds?”

  At that, I feel his self-control begin to slide, giving way to the that fierceness just below the surface. He raises his hips, ready to complete what he started but I bear down, pin him with my weight. Not that I really could, but he stills again, mine to command.

  His blue eyes are on me, a question held in them.

  I grind down on him, a slow and luxurious motion, and a sound of almost pure torture escapes his lips. His arms are around me, and they tighten reflexively.

  I lean forward, picking up the pace just a little. Then I slow and arch back when he tries to rock his hips into me. Denying and then moving down again, harder, every inch of that cock mine. Claiming Owen Doyle.

  My lips touch his ear, hot breath on skin. “Is this what you want?”

  Every word punctuated with just the tiniest shift of pressure. He groans, almost incoherent with the power of it. Which is exactly what I want.

  I let him thrust up into me, and then I pull up, away. While I want him to come, I don’t forget how he took me to the brink and left me there, and I can exact a little pain-tinged pleasure in exchange.

  The power has shifted, and he’s firmly back in my hands. He pushes up again, his hands trying to pull my hips down, to complete the circuit of our chemistry.

  “Yes, dear God.” I’ve never heard him sound like this.

  Another achingly slow dip, a rise and fall of my hips. One, two, three. I try to steady my breathing, because I push myself to the edge again as I move against his hard cock. It fills my narrow channel, and my clit gets stroked with each movement. He’s even harder, beginning to pulse. His eyes have an almost frantic look.

  “Molly, please.” His words are ragged, between desperate breaths. And then again, “Please.”

  I can’t resist him.

  I open to him, and he takes me, determined thrust after thrust that I meet with my own desire. His eyes are locked on mine, and he drives into me with a ferocity that leaves me grateful he held back until now. I tip into the ether again, moaning as I start to feel his release take hold. He pushes into me so hard that I cry out, and he lets out a roar, thrusting into the aftershocks of my orgasm.

  We stay like that a long time, heavy breaths moving through us both. His face is against my neck, buried in my hair. I rest my forehead against him, my eyes closed. Finally, I pull back and he looks at me with wide eyes.

  “Good God, Molly,” he whispers, his voice sounding rough and parched.

  Good God indeed.

  9

  Molly

  It normally takes an act of God to wake me after a series of long shifts. My body, however, demands my attention as a soft c
aress works its way up the underside of my arm. My eyes flutter open and I smile to see Owen looking down at me. Scrapes and bruises have already bloomed across the rugged lines of his face from whatever he got into last night. I reach a hand up and cup his cheek.

  “I wasn’t too rough with you last night, was I, Doyle?”

  “Hilarious,” he murmurs.

  Truth is, I’d be feeling where he was inside me for a few days, maybe more.

  Still, as I look at the marks across his face, my stomach tightens. He might not be a fighter forever, but he’s one now. And in the light of day, that’s a harsh reality that’s suddenly hard to bear again.

  “You look too pretty to have just woken up,” he says, continuing to stroke my arm. He trails his fingers up to my shoulder, tracing the freckles. “Ursa Minor.”

  People teased me relentlessly about my freckles in school until either my brothers or the Doyles made them realize what a bad idea that was. I’d never been ashamed of them.

  His finger moves to the bridge of my nose, to the freckles there. “Cassiopeia.” Heat rises to my cheeks.

  Owen notices, and that smug Doyle grin crosses his face. Even with the stitches, it’s very effective. I pull his head down and kiss him.

  We kiss slowly, languorously. His long fingers tangle in my curls as my hands slide over his massive shoulders. A groan escapes my mouth when I come up for air. Our eyes meet and we can’t seem to stop staring at each other, even now. His breath catches.

  “You’re so beautiful, Molly. I…” He pauses, like he wants to say something more, but instead he brings his hot mouth to my neck. He kisses his way up my jawline, briefly resting on my mouth before making his way down the other side of my face, teasing the hollow of my throat with his tongue as he slowly moves down.

  He peels the sheet away from my breasts, murmuring appreciatively, caressing them before kissing his way down my body. As he presses his lips to my nipples, he lashes them with his talented tongue.

  “Owen,” I gasp, gripping his hair.

  He hums a little as he sucks on my nipple, scraping his teeth across it. His hand moves down to my pussy and teases my entrance. God, I’m soaked already. He smiles against my breast as he sinks one, then two, of those beautiful fingers into me.

  “Deeper,” I moan, angling my hips to meet his touch. He obliges, picking up a slow rhythm as he moves gently in and out. A slow, burning heat builds this time.

  His eyes meet mine as he adds a third finger.

  “Yes, Owen, God…”

  Continuing his languid pace, he curls his fingers inside me. Jesus. I’m not one to be passive in bed, but this feels so fucking good. Arching against him, urging him on, my body demanding friction. Finally, his thumb rests on my clit, rubbing circles around the tight bud as his other fingers slip in and out.

  The man is brilliant with his hands.

  The now familiar hot coil of desire builds in me. My inner walls clench around Owen’s hand and he growls, low in his throat. He rises to kneel above me, his fingers never stopping. His eyes seem almost fierce as he works my pussy.

  His name rips its way from my lips again. His jaw tightens and he rubs my clit faster, more firmly, as his fingers slam against me. My body bucks off the bed, and he presses my hips down to keep the delicious pressure mounting in my pussy. It’s almost too much.

  “Come for me, baby,” Owen whispers, pinching my clit.

  The deep gravel of his voice sends me over the edge and I make a noise I didn’t know I was capable of. He plunges his fingers deep inside me as I climax, drawing it out as long as he can.

  “That’s it, buttercup,” he whispers in my ear, raking his teeth across my earlobe.

  It takes me a few minutes to come down.

  “You’re always beautiful,” Owen says, brushing my sweaty hair off of my forehead. “But goddamn, you’re stunning when you come undone.”

  Both Owen and I know how to put shields up. Know how to be hard. I lick my lips and slide my hand around his cock. Time to see him come undone.

  It’s nearly lunchtime when we’re finished. Owen, gentleman that he is, insists I take the first shower. I use all the hot water, but will hopefully make it up to him by making lunch.

  Microwaved leftovers, my specialty.

  Even with a cold shower, he comes out looking like pure sex, a too-small towel wrapped around his waist. He grins at me. “Should’ve thrown the clothes in the wash.”

  “I’m not your fancy two-toilet lace-curtain Irish, Doyle. You think I’ve got a washer in this place? I go to the laundromat.”

  “You can always use my machines. Free of charge.” He leans down and kisses my forehead.

  “My hero.”

  He hums to himself as he moves around my kitchen like he’s always been here, like he belongs. He pulls the water pitcher out of the fridge, and as he pours a glass, his humming turns into singing.

  “In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty…”

  “Owen, no.” His singing voice leaves much to be desired, but that’s not the problem. It’s the fucking song.

  “I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, putting my hand on his chest.

  He puts his glass of water down and covers my hands with just one of his.

  “As she pushed her wheelbarrow down streets broad and narrow, crying ‘cockles, and mussels, alive, alive-o!’”

  He dances now. At least I think it’s supposed to be dancing as he sings the refrain.

  “Owen!” I laugh despite myself as he affects a brogue.

  “Alive, alive-o, alive, alive-o crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o.”

  He pauses.

  “It’s only going to get worse, Molly Mary. Best that you sing along.”

  He goes into the second verse, chasing me around the tiny kitchen. It’s a miracle, or maybe the opposite, that his towel hasn’t fallen off. By the third verse, fishmonger Molly Malone has died, in the tragic Irish way. Owen, all six-feet, five-inches of him, is kneeling on the floor in front of me, belting out the last refrain dramatically and tossing his arms out before clutching me against him.

  After my giggling subsides, he stands. His laughing smile reminds me of the easy times we had as kids, before feelings complicated everything.

  “I love you, Doyle, but don’t give up your day job.” I go to ruffle his hair, but the stricken look on his face stops me in my tracks.

  “Christ, Owen, it’s an expression. Calm down. It’s not wedding bells. We’re not that Catholic.”

  I turn to go back to the microwave. The pad Thai is probably cold again. He grabs my arm.

  “No, Molly, it’s not that.”

  My stomach drops at the edge in his voice. For a night, just one night, we were Owen and Molly. Simple, uncomplicated. But I can feel the weight of our lives already closing in.

  I force myself to face him.

  “Then what is it, Owen? I’m so tired of this shit!”

  “It’s just,” he looks up as if beseeching the heavens for a little help. “I’m not ready to tell Sean yet.”

  Now it’s my turn to beseech the Lord. “God almighty, Owen. Don’t be such a coward. My brothers don’t own me.”

  He recoils like I’ve slapped him.

  His voice goes cold.

  “I’m not a coward, Molly. But I care about both you and your brother. You’re family. I don’t want to fuck it up. We need to be thoughtful about it.”

  He’s right. Although, now as I look at him standing in my kitchen, I’m not even sure what this is. I know what I want, at least I think I do.

  But does he want the same thing? And as my eyes graze over the bruises on his face, my heart stills. It’s not as easy as it seems.

  I’ve just felt too many things in the last twelve hours. A few more minutes of enjoying whatever this is between us won’t hurt anything.

  There’s plenty of time to unearth it, examine it, and face those obstacles later. br />
  I’m embarrassed. I hit the buttons on the microwave and we sit in silence for a few minutes until it dings. I pass him the food. A peace offering.

  “I’m sorry, Owen. You’re right.”

  He raises his eyebrows in amazement.

  “Don’t get used to it.” I pull a fork out of the drying rack next to the sink and hand it to him.

  I fix up a plate for myself, and we eat quietly for a few minutes. My gaze rests on his injury. The familiar foreboding slips in, weighing on me. Maybe if I could understand, I could help in some way?

  “So are you going to tell me anything else about that fight you got into?”

  He looks up as if he can see the wound on his face.

  “I told you. I’m looking for someone. I asked the wrong questions.” He puts his fork down. “But maybe I can ask you the right ones.”

  My breath catches for a moment. His face goes serious and my skin bursts out in goosebumps. What on earth is he going to ask me?

  “Do you know your neighbors at all?”

  What?

  Not what I expected. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but I taste disappointment in my mouth.

  Unpack that later, O’Brien

  “Yeah. Well, some of them. There’s a family on the first floor with a baby. Cute kid until he starts screaming. Which is often. Luckily I’m used to it.” I give a little shrug and he grins.

  “Third floor is an older man and maybe his granddaughter? I’m not a hundred percent on their relationship, and it seems weird to ask. She’s a good kid though. Wants to be an EMT, so I’m mentoring her for a school project.”

  Owen leans across the table and kisses me.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” he says.

  “You smell like scallions,” I reply, wiping some grease from the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m Irish, Molly. You’re gonna have to tell me what the hell a scallion is.”

  We finish eating and he gets dressed in his soiled clothes. There’s nothing else to do about it—nothing I have would fit him—not by a long shot. He’s getting ready to head out and I’m sad to see him go.

  It surprises me. After years of living in a loud, crowded house stuffed with family, I enjoy the quiet immensely. But Owen makes my tiny apartment feel like home.