The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Lorcan

I park the Bentley in front of the estate and toss the keys in the direction of one of my men. He’ll park it in the basement where it belongs, right between the Rolls and the Lambo. I don’t have the patience for such technicalities today, not with my cock raging like it is.

Poppy mother fuckin’ Murphy.That little bitch has been on my mind all day, through every investment meeting and finance report. And I hate her even more than usual for it.

Rule number one of business is don’t let your dick get in the way of decisions. I can’t remember who said that, Warren fucking Buffet, probably. Anyway, Poppy Murphy isn’t just a minor roadblock, she’s a whole-ass eclipse. How am I meant to run Boston’s most dominant venture capitalist firm and fight a full-on war when all I can think about is breaking in her tight pussy?

Once again, thanks to my erratic mind, my plans have changed. It’s obvious that I can’t wait to take her and savor every moment. I have to get it out of the way and rid her from my mind. It’ll make my pretty little keepsake a little less rare… but it’s a hit I’ll have to take.

It’s a beautiful goddamn day; a perfect day to take Poppy Murphy’s virginity, in fact. I stare up at her bedroom window as the museum comes into view. The little princess in her ivory tower. I’m assuming the inch of freedom I gave her today will have softened her attitude towards me—but not too much, I hope. The feisty side of Poppy is half of her appeal.

I tap out the master code on the front door, and it hisses to life, welcoming me into the cool lobby. The ironic contrast of technology isn’t lost on me as I slip the large, metal key out of my suit pocket, the one that opens her bedroom door. Yeah, you have to scan your goddamn eyeball and answer twenty-one questions to get into the Museum, but there’s nothing but a simple mechanism for the bedroom.

It’s empty.

“Poppy?” I growl, bursting into the en suite, then striding through to the dressing room.

Now, my cock isn’t the only thing that’s raging. I stomp back down the stairs, the new cell Eileen brought into the office to my ear. Orna picks up on the third ring. “Where the fuck is she?” I snap, “I said an hour, not the whole fucking day.”

“Relax,” she matches my tone, “she’s in the garden. Chaperoned, as you insisted. As if there isn’t enough security in this place.”

“Chaperoned by who?”

Orna says his name at the same time my eyes land on him through the window of the bedroom.

White, hot fury. It starts where it always does, at the pit of my stomach. Then it travels up to my chest, pounding against my rib cage like a trapped beast, desperate to be let out.

There they are, walking along the length of the hedges. Talking like they are best-fucking-friends. And what is that in her hand?

I force myself not to run. Men like me don’t run towards a goddamn problem. They remain cool, calm, and collected. Deal with it like a boss.

The Glock is out of my waistband and in my hand, safety catch released, before I reach the lobby again. I round the house and cross their path. “Boy, I will give you thirty seconds to get out of my sight, or you’ll be buried under the vegetable patch.”

Yeah, cool, calm, and collected didn’t last too long.

Poppy stifles a gasp, but the kid barely moves. He turns to her like he has all the time in the goddamn world and offers her a lazy smile. “Boss’s orders,” he says, before turning on his sneakers and heads towards his rose garden. If I was a less honorable man, I’d shoot him in the back to teach him a lesson. But I like to look into a man’s eyes before I take his life.

I make a mental note to burn his precious rose garden to the ground instead, and turn back to Poppy.

I brace myself for her feisty wrath, but it doesn’t come. In fact, she won’t—or can’t—look at me.

The disappointment sinks to my stomach. “Upstairs, now,” I growl. She doesn’t move. I follow her gaze down to her hands, which are wrapped around a single red rose.

Jaw clenched, I snatch the rose from her hand and toss it to the ground. I take my trusty hip flask from my jacket, untwist the lid with my teeth and slosh the brown liquid over it. Then I take my Cartier lighter from my breast pocket, flick it open and drop it onto the sodden pile. The flames instantly lick the stem, curling the petals and turning them to ash.

I do one of the things I hate to do the most: repeat myself. “Upstairs,” I say again, stabbing a finger in the direction of the Museum. “The threat of the vegetable patch applies to you too.”

Head down and mouth closed, she walks two steps ahead of me towards the cobbled building.

Damn, she looks nothing short of ethereal today. Heaven-sent. Her long, copper hair cascades down her back, catching the light. As much as Orna has pissed me off by taking her eyes off Poppy today, I have to mentally thank her for stocking up her closet. The floral dress she’s wearing billows in the light breeze, riding up her thick thighs as she makes slow, deliberate movements towards the Museum.

I grit my teeth, beating down the monster inside of me that wants to pick her up, sling her over my shoulder and march her into the outhouse and away from all of these nosy bastards on my payroll.

She doesn’t pick up the pace, moving tantalizingly slow as I let her into the lobby, and then order her up the stairs. The most I get from her is a flinch when I slam the bedroom door behind me, locking it with my key. Immediately, she flees to the window seat, peering out into the grounds. Like a moth to a flame.

Is she looking for him?

I clench my fists. “I saw the way you were looking at him,” I growl.

Now, she gives me something. A little eyebrow raise, enough to show she’s surprised. “Who?”

“That kid, Cillian.” She turns back towards the window, but I can see her frowning in the reflection. “You belong to me. What part of that don’t you understand, Miss Murphy?”

Now, she cracks.

“I’m not yours,” she cries, whipping around so fast that her fire-red hair fans around her like flames. “I’ll never be yours! I have a boyfriend and soon enough he’ll realize what’s happened to me and will come to find me.”

I seethe, taking in her defensive stance, her glowering emerald eyes and arms folded across her chest. This is not a woman that will bow down to me. Not willingly, and definitely not while she has some asshole college kid on the brain. I always say that if you cut me, I’ll bleed green, but that’s not usually because of jealousy.

Grinding my molars together, I weigh up my options.

Nuclear: I’ll hunt that weedy little fucker down and drag him to Boston by his goddamn glasses. Because geeky college kids always wear glasses. Then I’ll get him on his knees, put the barrel of my Glock to his head and make her watch as I blow his brains out.

Or, I could teach her a lesson in another way.

The hot, thick tension lingers between us. I rip through it by grabbing her arm and dragging her over to the chaise lounge. “Let go of me,” she squeals, but she must know by now, that isn’t going to happen.

“I’ll show you that you belong to me,” I growl, flipping her onto her front and sprawling her across my lap. “If you want to behave like a spoiled little bitch, I’ll treat you like one.” She wriggles underneath my palm on the small of her back, her protests lost in the velvet upholstery of the couch. But the feeling of her lower stomach pushed against my cock only makes me want to devour her more. “If you don’t stop squirming then I’ll use my belt.”

With my free hand, I lift the hem of her skirt, revealing her sensible cotton panties. Her smooth, porcelain skin looks so fragile and delicate, I’m practically salivating at the thought of breaking it.

So, I’m hoping that she doesn’t answer my question the way I’d like.

“I’ll ask you once, Miss Murphy. Who do you belong to?”

My teeth clench together and my eyes close as she takes a deep breath, pushing harder against my bulge.

“Fuck you,” she whimpers.

I can’t stop the smirk that splits my face. In one swift motion, I tear off her panties, revealing the beautiful curve of her ass. My hand comes down on her soft, untouched skin. I use only a fraction of my strength, but it’s enough to trigger the yelp that I was begging to hear. “I said, who do you belong to?”

“No,” she gasps, pushing her mound into my cock to get her ass away from the wrath of my hand. The friction makes me want to moan out loud, but I stifle my pleasure to dish out her punishment.

Another slap to her ass, a little harder this time. The noise it emits is less of a yelp and more of a moan. My eyes travel up to her face, covered by thick strands of her red hair. I can’t see her expression, but I don’t need to—the way her fist is curled around the corner of the cushion tells me everything I need to know.

I need confirmation.

“Open your legs.”

For once, she does as she’s told. My touch is softer as I trace the length of her inner thigh, stopping when I feel the slick wetness in the curve of her mound.

Poppy Murphy is dripping wet.

For me.

I slip my hands under her thighs and breasts, rising to my feet and taking her with me. She gasps as the couch disappears underneath her, and moans again when I drop her onto her back on the bed. “Spread your legs,” I growl. The lust is coursing through my veins, pumping my heart a million beats a minute. This time, she does exactly what she’s told. “Good girl,” I say, softer, drinking in her swollen clit and moistened lips. I drag my eyes up to her face, and it’s a sight just as beautiful. Her emerald eyes are wild and her pale skin is flustered a rose red. Both betray the scowl etched onto her forehead. Her chest heaves, up and down, up and down, her hard nipples puckered tight against the thin fabric covering her chest.

Poppy Murphy wants me.

I slide my hand up her thigh, my attention never leaving that beautiful face. She squeezes her eyes shut, jaw stiffening as she grits her teeth.

Yes. Poppy Murphy wants me, but she doesn’t want to want me.

Here I am again, weighing up my options. Only this time, my throbbing cock has a hand in the decision-making. I could take what I came here for—her virginity. I could slip my dick in her tight, dripping pussy and claim her innocence.

Or, I could make her want to want me.

Before my manhood gets to lay out his debate, I tear my hand away from her hip and run both my hands from her knees all the way to the top of her inner thighs. Her breath hitches in her chest as I get so close to her precious flower, and it escapes her when I slide right past it, hovering just above her mound. “Look at me,” I say, pinning her with my gaze. Our eyes lock. My thumb slips down into her wetness, brushing over her engorged clit. My touch is as light as I can possibly muster, but it still makes her throw her head back, a soft moan escaping from her perfect lips. “I said, look at me.”

She meets my eyes again, and there’s no mistaking the lust swirling in those emerald green irises. Never leaving her gaze, I stroke her clit in small, circular motions, enjoying every quiver, every shake under my touch.

“Who does this pussy belong to, Poppy?” I demand.

“Don’t,” she mutters, but her pleas get lost in her gasp as I apply a little more pressure.

“You know by now, I don’t ask twice.”

I can feel the tension mounting in her pussy, and it’s impossible to ignore the tension dancing between our bodies, either. “Yours,” she gasps.

Mine.

“Then come for me,” I demand as her breathing becomes more labored, “give yourself to me.”

She grits her teeth and bundles the bedding on either side of her in her tiny fists. “N-no,” she stutters, so quietly that it almost gets lost in crackling heat.

I press my thumb more firmly against her sensitive sweet spot. Circling faster, harder. “I’ve already told you, no isn’t part of your vocabulary anymore. Now, come for me.”

Maybe it’s the added pressure against her clit, but I could swear she shivers at the harsh tone of my voice. Whatever it is, the way she throws her head back and mutters an oath under her breath sends me wild. With a firm hand pinning her thigh to the bed, I alternate between tracing demanding circles on her clit and lightly trailing my fingers along the length of her soaked lips. Her inner conflict fascinates me. There’s no doubt her body is begging for release under my touch, but the way she’s clenching her fists, biting on her bottom lip, tells me her brain isn’t on the same page.

But I always win. I always get what I want. Eventually, her pleasure overflows under my hand, her legs trembling as she lets herself go, withering on the bed.

Betrayal. That’s what clouds her eyes when she floats down from her high. Her soft mouth hardens, her body tenses, moving it away from my touch.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the need to let her know it’s okay. She opened up like a blossoming flower underneath my touch, and now she’s curling back up, trying to get as far away from me as possible. I press my palms into the bed on either side of her, leaning over to brush my lips over her glistening forehead. “My good China Doll,” I say, low and steady.

I rise to my feet, towering over her. She’s silent, watching as I rearrange my throbbing cock in my suit pants, straightening my cufflinks. “Next time I hear you mention another man, your punishment won’t have such a happy ending.”

I don’t bother asking her if she understood. Instead, I slip out of the room, leaving her laying on her bed, a little less innocent than before.