Chapter 12: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 12

I stare up at the ceiling. What about knowing you have to go to sleep makes your body do the opposite?

Day four of being a professional nanny maid. I won’t win Domestic Assistant of the Year, but for some reason, he hasn’t fired me despite his threats.

Yet.

I hate cleaning. It’s fucking shite. Guest rooms get cleaned every other day. Killian’s and Teagan’s bedrooms are cleaned daily. It’s a never-ending cycle of domesticated torture. Bathrooms must be clean enough to eat dinner from the sink. Mrs. Dalton didn’t say that, but I got the message from all the underlined words.

Still, I can’t complain. I’m cleaning Fifth Avenue toilets.

Then there are the blunt text messages from Quinn. Three yesterday and five today—with ambiguous instructions to run errands for him.

I feel like I’m constantly in trouble.

His voice repeats in my head from Monday night. Lie to me again, and I will personally put you on the next plane back to Ireland, sweetheart.

God, he was threatening deportation, but it sounded so sexual. I felt the heat radiating from his body. It was… terrifying.

Since then, the closest I get to communication is one-word answers or grunts, or he just ignores me entirely. I want to scream at him, ‘can’t you see I’m trying, mister!’ Every time Quinn enters the kitchen, every hair on my body stands on end.

Teagan gives me whiplash. Ninety percent of the time, she is sullen and snarky with me, and the other ten percent, she is delightful. But she thinks she can take me for a fool. Tonight, she tried to convince me that the video of baby goats was related to her homework.

I get more answers from the manual than those two.

I wonder if Quinn is asleep upstairs. What does he think about before he falls asleep? Probably his billions. I can’t imagine him having actual feelings for anyone. Anyone other than Teagan, that is.

God, when he smiles at her like that, I’m at risk of melting into a puddle. I don’t want kids yet, but I know that’s how you want your guy to look at your babies.

I slide my hands down my stomach and into my pants. He doesn’t deserve to be fantasized over, but thinking about my boss before bedtime has become my dirty pleasure.

I close my eyes and part my thighs wider, imagining his fingers circling my clit. Imagining his large hands controlling my pleasure, making me pulse and tingle as he sinks his fingers into me again and again.

Imagining his mouth hungrily replacing his fingers…

Imagining him staring up at me with hooded eyes, those icy-cold blue eyes full of fire… his deep hoarse voice rasping with emotion for me… the weight of his thick muscular thighs on top of me as his big, hard cock fills me up…

Imagining he’s so turned on by my pleasure, he’ll explode if he doesn’t fuck me.

Yes… yes…

No. No.

It’s no use.

I need something stronger than my imagination. With a frustrated breath, I reach over to open the bedside table.

If Quinn ever looks into my bedside table drawer, he’d be in for a shock when he finds a beast the size of a foot-long subway.

I pull out my vibrating friend and get to work. It’s midnight, and efficiency is key. I need to release this sexual tension; otherwise, if Quinn returns from his run tomorrow morning, shirtless and sweaty, I might explode right there and then in front of him.

Oh. Yup, that’s the spot.

Exactly. Right. There.

Sadly, this little helper will soon be retiring. Every few months, I have to buy a new sex toy. It’s as if my body becomes immune to everything. Which is really shit because sex toys aren’t recyclable, and obviously, you can’t donate them to charity.

Even with toys, it takes me so long to come that it’s embarrassing.

And coming with actual penises, tongues, or fingers involved?

Zero chance. I can’t get out of my head.

Men expect orgasms. They expect you to go from zero to earth-shattering, yes, yes, yes O’s with a finger twitch. The embarrassing truth is I’ve never come during sex.

My ex used his tongue with the same technique as painting a wall with a roller brush—long, broad strokes. After I told him that it wasn’t about covering the whole surface but focusing on the right spot, it was game over for us.

The fact I couldn’t come became this big thing in our relationship, and sex became a chore.

Would my boss upstairs be able to make me come? I’ve never been with a man like him. God, his bulge was so prominent in his running shorts this morning, I wondered if he wasn’t a bit hard.

The familiar heat builds between my thighs.

Slowly… slowly.

I force myself out of my head, imagining Quinn’s hard body on top of mine.

Yes… I’m getting there.

My breaths turn into moans with no one to hear.

My lass, don’t leave me aloooooone.

I freeze mid-stroke. What the hell is that?

Singing. Awful singing on the street right outside my window.

The guy croons on, singing in a painful, mournful tone, like a male banshee. My bedroom is at the front of the house, but I rarely hear even the traffic, so this guy is singing really loud.

He hitches up to a higher note.

Fuck off, you idiot.

An annoying buzzing sound accompanies the bad singing. My phone.

Who’s calling me at midnight? If it’s someone from home forgetting the time zone, I’ll kill them. Unless it’s an emergency. Oh God. Granny Deirdre.

I grapple at the phone, cursing the fucker on the other end. They aren’t giving up.

Sharp green light stings my eyes, and the caller flashes across the screen.

“Piss off, Liam,” I hiss. Gobshite.

Groaning loudly, I press cancel on the phone, taking my anger out on the phone.

Uh. I’ll never be able to come now that Liam has weaseled himself into my head. Now there’s a guy who could come quickly. All I had to do was give the guy’s willy a wee tug, and he was exploding faster than a gas tank with a lit match.

The lunatic outside sounds like he’s drunk-crying.

“Answer the phone, Clodagh!”

Fuck.

Double fuck.

Please say this isn’t happening.

I leap out of bed so quickly I feel dizzy. The vibrator falls to the ground with a thud. My pulse is pounding, but my limbs are frozen.

Stones hit the window. Not just at my window, but at the house in general.

This is not good. Not good at all.

The drunken ramblings grow louder.

Stalking toward the window, I rip up the blinds to see a disheveled Liam stumbling back and forward on the pavement.

He hasn’t spotted me yet.

Please don’t wake my boss.

Liam is singing Irish love songs. He’s changing the words to suit my name, but it doesn’t work. His feet hop as if the pavement’s on fire.

“Cloooooodagh!” It’s the desperate cry of an unhinged man, as if his soul is being ripped out of him. He closes his eyes and arches his back, rocking his hips back and forth as if in worship of the moon.

This fucker will get me fired.

I race through the studio to the front door, not bothering with socks, shoes, or a dressing gown. I don’t care that I stumble up the stairs and graze my knee. I’m going to murder him.

If Quinn comes out, it’s game over.

My heart hammers in my chest as I race out into the main hallway, the marble cold to my bare feet. I’ve never been so angry in my life.

The main door is heavy and hard to open. Finally, I pull it open with force.

Mid-sentence, Liam stops singing and stares up at me as if I’m not real. Then he has the audacity to smile.

“What the absolute fuck, Liam?” I spit out, glowering at him.

His eyes are bloodshot and glazed. His hair is a mess. He’s holding flowers that look like they’ve been stepped on.

“I’ve missed you, Clodagh,” he slurs, taking a step forward. “I’ve come to see you.” He stumbles up the first step of the townhouse. “I haven’t had sex in eight weeks because of you.”

“What do you want, a fucking medal? Stay away!” I yelp, looking for something in the hall to push him backward with. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Clodagh!” It’s another loud howl from the pit of his stomach.

“Shut up, man.” I wave my hands to shoo him away. “You’ll get me fired! Go away! Fucking hop it, dude. Go home.” I use my fiercest Donegal growl. “Now.”

There’s movement upstairs.

“Liam, please,” I whimper, begging him with every cell in my body. “Please. Just go before you get me in trouble.”

He burps.

“Soz-sorry about that. No.” He shakes his head furiously. “No. I can’t do that.” He takes one more step up, within punching distance. “That night, darlin’. God, that night. I can’t think of anything else since.”

Dropping to his knees, he thrusts the flowers out in front of him and begins crooning loudly again. He closes his eyes, and a vein in his forehead throbs as a painful rasp explodes out of him. It’s safe to say he’s not going to make Broadway.

I see red.

The cold stone slabs are like ice under my feet as I step out of the doorway, ripping the flowers from his hands.

Then I whack. I whack, and I whack, and I whack.

He’s not expecting it. He stops mid-wail, replacing the singing with grunts.

There’s no stopping me. Spewing curses at him, I bash him again and again over the head with the flowers. Petals are flying everywhere, and I don’t care.

“You make me crazy, Cloooodagh! You’re driving me out of my mind,” Liam wails under the flowers. His breath smells like he’s just given a pig a blow job.

I yank him by the arm and drag him down the steps with surprising strength.

“What the hell is going on?”

Dread hits me at the sound of the low, gravelly voice.

I turn, ass clenched in terror, to see a half-dazed, half-angry Quinn in low-hanging boxers glaring at me. He runs a hand through his dark hair.

Too close to the fantasy.

His eyes pierce through mine, fury building as he takes in the shit show on his doorstep.

“I’m so sorr—”

Arms wrap around my legs, and a drunken Liam lifts me off my feet before I finish.

I let out a piercing scream as he stumbles to his feet and hoists me over his shoulders until I’m fully airborne. Liam is strong. He works in construction. Even in his drunken state, he easily lifts me. With one arm, he pushes me into the fireman’s lift. I flop down on his back until my face is against his butt.

What the fuck is happening?

My pj shorts eat my crack.

“I’m taking you back to Queens,” Liam shouts as a deafening alarm sounds. The police?

No, it’s Quinn’s house alarm.

Kill me now.

I swing over Liam’s shoulders like a rag doll, blood rushing to my head.

Quinn shouts something, but I can’t make it out with my head banging against Liam’s butt.

“Put me down!” I rasp, beating his back with my fists.

He’s on the move. I feel every footstep he takes in my throat. He’s going to drop me, and I’m going to land on my head. “Liam, put me the fuck down. Now.”

The house alarm drowns out my cries. Everyone on the street must have woken up now from the noise.

Liam’s making good speed down the street as I hang upside down, watching the stones of the pavement move beneath me.

I’m past angry.

To make this ordeal worse, this must be the least flattering viewpoint of my ass.

I just want Liam to let me down so I can put some clothes on, pack my belongings, go to Orla, and put this terrible experience behind me.

I’m freezing.

He stops abruptly.

“Put her down,” says a deep American voice above me. Quinn. He sounds close.

“She’s my lass,” Liam snaps, tightening his grip on my hips.

“She’ll be the judge of that.” Quinn sounds furious.

I see a second set of feet on the pavement. Hairy big toes. A warm arm slides under my belly, hoisting me off Liam’s shoulders and onto even broader shoulders.

Quinn.

He’s breathing heavily. His chest feels warm against my body, considering he’s outside with no clothes on.

Now other feet are circling us.

Hanging upside down over Quinn’s back, I grab the top of his boxers. Why isn’t he putting me down?

“Sir,” another voice says in an Irish accent. Oh God, I hope it’s not Sam.

“Uh, Mr.—” I start.

“What took you so long?” Quinn growls, still holding me in a fireman’s lift. “Deal with this guy.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” a second voice with an American accent replies as Quinn gradually lowers me until my chest is in his line of sight.

I cling to his neck for stability, feeling his shoulder muscles tense beneath my grasp.

My body slides against his as he sets me down on the ground. I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My bullet nipples are hardened from the chilly air, lightly brushing against his chest through my thin tank top. His warm breath tickles my hair, and the heat of his hands radiates through my lower back, connecting me to him.

He feels like a hard, warm rock.

I’m absolutely fucking boiling.

His blue eyes flash down to mine like I’ve hit him with an electric bolt. Then he sharply releases me from his grip and steps back.

I see then who he’s talking to.

About ten (I’m too distraught to count) men in black circle us. All are wearing the same black trousers, black shirts, and earpieces.

I feel like I’m watching a slow-motion movie. Two of them drag a belligerent Liam down the street by the armpits. He shouts my name as they haul him away.

I don’t know where they’re taking him, but it better be another state because if I see him again, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.

As I watch Liam, my teeth chatter, and my whole body is like ice, but I don’t care.

He just cost me my visa.

“Clodagh, you have no shoes on, for fuck’s sake,” Quinn growls.

I snap back to reality and turn to him, dazed. We’re not touching, yet it feels like we are.

His glare intensifies.

I look down. He’s standing in the street in his boxers. He’s not wearing shoes, either.

One of the men in black clears their throat. “Sir, shall we—”

“No,” Quinn cuts in. He lets out an agitated breath and stares at me as if I’m the biggest pain in his ass. “Clodagh can provide you with a statement in the morning.”

My stomach lurches. A statement?

I look around at the guys. They all look as uneasy as me. I guess they fucked up too, by not being on the scene quicker.

There’s Sam.

My weak wave is met with a sheepish smile from him before his attention drops to my chest.

Quinn’s jaw tightens. “Go inside.”

The neighbors probably don’t see this kind of show very often. What do you get when you mix a drunken Irishman, a bad nanny maid, and an angry billionaire?

Deported.

As quickly as they arrive, the men disperse.

I stiffen as Quinn places his hand on my lower back and leads me toward the house. The touch of his hand burns my skin. It must be a combination of the cold night air and my embarrassment. Only minutes ago, I was fantasizing about those hands caressing me in bed.

I feel his breath against my neck when he speaks. “Mind your step. There’s glass.”

Quinn guides me into the house and shuts the door behind us. He lets out a heavy breath and then turns to me, arms crossed against his bare chest.

I stand frozen in the hallway, my teeth chattering and my heart hammering. “I’m fired this time, right?” The question comes out squeaky and weak.

I don’t let him answer. “Don’t. I don’t want to leave New York.”

Appealing to his emotional side isn’t working, judging by the annoyed curl of his lip.

I smile weakly. “If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for your immigrants.”

Jokes aren’t working either.

His jaw works as he glares at me. It’s always working. “You’re a fucking handful.”

Hmm. It’s not a term of endearment, but it’s not “you’re fired” either.

I attempt another weak smile. “At least there’s not a dull moment with me. It’s good to break from the schedule.”

“Did you ask him to come here?”

“What?” I stammer. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Is he your ex?”

I shake my head adamantly. “No! Just someone I… I made a mistake with, and he likes me.”

“I gathered that,” he mutters dryly. “Is that the guy who messaged you?”

I nod. “All I seem to do is apologize to you,” I say in a tiny voice.

The muscle in his jaw works overtime. “It appears so. And it’s only been four days. Mrs. Dalton never had idiots showing up at my door like this. Then again, Mrs. Dalton doesn’t look like you.”

His eyes drop to my chest. I forgot I was semi-naked. Almost.

When they lock with mine again, they flash with something that looks a lot like desire. I must be delirious from the cold.

“Is that the last of the guys obsessed with you, or should I tell my men to be on alert for more?”

If he’s joking, then I’m not fired yet.

Is he joking?

He’s not smiling.

“I left the rest back in Ireland.”

His scowl doesn’t give way.

“Uh, what are they going to do with him?” I ask, feeling slightly anxious about Liam. The guy’s an ass, but I don’t want him to get into serious trouble for a drunken mistake.

“It’s unlikely you’ll be hearing from him again.”

Jesus Christ.

“They’re going to… kill him?”

My face must go white because he almost chuckles. Almost. “No, Clodagh, I’m not a murderer. They’ll shove him in a taxi with a good stern warning.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “You made a joke.” I sigh with relief. “I’m so sorry for waking you. Is Teagan awake?”

“She sleeps through everything. Apparently, it’s a teenage skill.”

I nod, feeling my shoulders jump with a chill. I glance down at my nipples, jutting up like coat hooks, and I brusquely fold my arms over my chest.

Killian stiffens.

Neither of us speaks.

My gaze drops down his delicious torso to the outline of his cock in his boxers. Is he half-hard? Heat floods me as I stare down. He’s all fucking man.

I stop breathing.

When I look up again, he stares at me through hooded eyes ablaze with unashamed hunger.

He wants to fuck me. I think. No, I know. I know he does. Right here in the hallway, as hard as he can.

The man would tear me apart.

My lips involuntarily part. My thighs part slightly. My heart skips a beat.

He’s going to kiss me.

Please.

“Go to bed,” he says, his voice full of gravel.

He turns abruptly and takes a few steps toward the grand staircase to his bedroom before stopping. “Do you want a nightcap?”

“Sure,” I whisper.

He nods curtly. “Put on a robe or something.” His voice is extra gruff as his eyes slide over my body one last time, triggering another violent shiver.

I must have hypothermia.