The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
Poppy agreed to stay but she had two conditions. Both were going to be tough to fulfill, but I’d move fucking mountains to have her stay.
I had one condition of my own. We’d stay here, at the chalet, until the new year. Almost three months spent together, not as captor and keepsake, but as a couple.
All was quiet in Boston; the news of Bratnov’s demise spread like wildfire through the city. It put the fear of God back into the businesses that were lax on payments and earned us respect from other families across the country. Donnacha agreed to postpone his travels until January, working with Miguel to hold down the fort until I get back. With business in order, I didn’t have to focus on anything but Poppy.
And boy, did I focus on Poppy.
We spent the rest of September exploring the coast in my Jeep. With her leg still in the cast, I’d carry her down to the beaches so we could watch the surfers brave the waves over hot cocoa and pastries. October, she spent the days making pumpkin-everything in the kitchen, and I spent the nights with her curled up in my arms with the lights off, telling her cheesy ghost stories with a torch tucked under my chin. November came, knocking the leaves off the trees and bringing in the snow. We locked the doors and closed the curtains, spending the evenings making love in front of the fireplace, wrapped up in the tartan throws she’d bought from a local boutique.
Poppy could walk again by December, and the angry scars had melted away from her smooth skin. Visitors came and went; Nova Mondez came to get away from the storm cloud of her dad’s passing. I owe her family a lot, especially her brother, so I told her she could stay as long as she needed. Then Donnacha and Orna came over, bringing sacks of presents, Poppy’s workroom tools, and anecdotes from the estate. Poppy would disappear on long walks with Orna, while Donnacha and I played poker and smoked illegal cigars in the drawing room.
Poppy was my new drug, and by the time Christmas morning comes, I’m addicted to every inch of her porcelain body.
“Good morning,” she drawls, planting a long, passionate kiss on my mouth the second I opened my eyes. I groan into her lips and pulled her against my chest.
“Merry Christmas, China Doll,” I murmur into her messy bun, running my hands over her soft, naked curves and breathing in her sleepy scent. As always, the mere feeling of Poppy against me makes my cock stand to attention. In one swift motion, I flip her onto her back and climb on top of her. Like the good girl she is, she opens her legs, curls them around my hips and pulls me closer to the warm spot between her thighs. I moan into her mouth, brushing my erection along the length of her warm pussy lips. I pull myself away from her kiss just long enough to look into her eyes. As I sweep the stray strand of hair from her forehead, I wonder how I’m going to fuck her on our first Christmas together. Am I going to pin her down and tie her wrists to the bedposts and spank her until she comes over my hand, then wrap my hand into her hair as she chokes on my cock? Or am I going to replace my spanks with soft kisses, gently licking, sucking, and fucking every inch of her soft body? Then, eyes never leaving hers, slide into her and bring her to one of many orgasms in slow, rhythmic waves?
I might be the boss of Boston, but in the bedroom, Poppy is the boss of me.
“Are you on the naughty or nice list, China Doll?”
Her eyes twinkle and she bites her lip. “Naughty,” she whispers back.
With a low growl, I rip back the covers and flip her onto her front, revealing her pert ass. I grab the silk ribbon from the bedside table and wrapped them around her hands, cuffing them behind her. Leaning down into the crook of her ear, I say, “Naughty if you want me to carry on. Nice if you want me to stop, baby.”
She gasps something excitable into the mound of pillows and pushes her ass upward in anticipation.
I push it back down into the mattress and part her legs with a strong hand, mindful of the tender scar on her thigh. Her sweet pussy lips reveal themselves to me, already glistening with anticipation. With the lightest touch I can muster, I run my fingertips up the back of her thighs and to the curve of her ass, enjoying the ripple of goosebumps that suddenly appear on her pale skin. I’ve barely touched her, but she’s already moaning into the pillow and writhing around underneath me.
My hand comes down rigid and hard on her ass cheek, suddenly and unexpectedly. I love how the soft flesh of her ass jiggles under my slap and flushes pink almost immediately. She squeals into the Egyptian cotton.
“Use your words, China Doll,” I growl. “Naughty or nice.”
“Naughty,” she groans, arching herself up towards me, tugging at the silk restraints on her wrist.
“Good girl,” I moan, landing another hard slap on her cheeks. And then another and another, until her pussy juices are dripping down her thigh and she can barely take it anymore.
“Naughty,” she gasps, “God, so much naughty.”
The lust in her tone is too much for me. “Face down and on your knees,” I growl, using the restraints to move her into position. My good girl knows the drill, immediately propping herself up on her knees and burying her head back into the gap between the cushions, presenting her ass to me. Dipping my hand between her thighs, I slide two fingers into her wet hole and rub her juices over her tight asshole. She squeals at my touch, gasping when I slowly slide a finger into it.
“Naughty or nice.”
A pause, then, “Naughty.”
When I prop myself up on my own knees, I tower over her. With one firm hand on her ass, I guide myself into her tight asshole, holding her firmly in place when she buckles under my weight.
“Naughty,” she moans into the pillow, cuffed hands balling into fists. “Naughty, naughty, naughty.”
* * *After, I wrap Poppy in a blanket and carry her down to the living room. As soon as she sees the present under the tree, she scowls. “We said we weren’t doing gifts.”
I nod to the box next to it. “Seems like you broke that promise too,” I say with a small kiss on the tip of her nose. “Me first.”
I pick up the large box and the gentleness with which I lower it into her lap makes her eyebrows raise. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
With a sheepish grin, she rips off the wrapping paper and claws at the big brown box underneath. When she pops the lid, she scowls, then her mouth melts into the perfect O and her eyes widen. “Is it real?” she whispers.
A laugh escapes me. “I’m offended.”
With shaking hands, she delicately lifts the Tiffany lamp out of the box and stares at it in awe. “The Pond Lily,” she murmurs, tracing her fingers over the leaves and flowers carved into the brass base. “I didn’t… it isn’t… who did you have to kill?” She squeals, before shushing herself like her loud voice will shatter the stained glass.
I drink in her broad grin and shiny eyes; not even twenty bottles of whiskey could ever make me feel this euphoric. I didn’t have to kill anyone, but I had Donnacha strong-arm the curator at the New York Historical Society. I don’t know, or care, how many bones he had to break or how many of his children’s lives he had to threaten. All of it is worth seeing two of the rarest things in the world, right here in my living room.
“Okay, your turn,” Poppy says, setting the lamp down on the coffee table, pausing for a second longer to admire it there, before diving back under the tree. The box she gives me is medium-sized, wrapped in silky gift wrap and finished with a comically large bow. Flashing her an amused grin, I lift it to my ear and give it a good shake. “Sounds like a box of chocolates.”
“Lorcan Quinn!” She barks, lunging off the sofa to grab the box. “Be careful! It’s delicate.”
“Oops.” Still smiling, I peel off the paper and open the box.
The contents make me numb.
“I had Orna bring me the pieces when she and Donnacha came to visit,” Poppy cuts through the heavy silence. “I was missing the shard I cut you with, but Orna found it in one of your suit pockets,” she laughs awkwardly. “It took me a while to glue the—”
“Why?” I choke out, voice wrapped in emotion. I turn the Faberge egg in my hand, the diamonds glistening in the glow of the tree lights.
This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
Poppy brushes her soft hand over my cheekbone, following it with a small kiss.
“Because, like an old teacher once said to me, even the most broken things can be beautiful. They just need a little love.”
Powered by a sudden surge of love of my own, I sweep her into my arms and crush my lips against hers. I wrap my hand in her hair, drawing her closer, until there’s not even a millimeter of air between our bodies. “I love you, Poppy Valentina.”
“And I love you, Lorcan Quinn.”