Redeem Me (Beckett Brothers #2)

2. Ivy

Chapter Two

IVY

It was supposed to be a joke. An ice breaker. Instead, a thick tension swirls through the air. But not the sexual type of tension unmistakably radiating from the sullen but sexy guy from forty feet away.

Oh, I didn’t miss the innate broodiness he oozes. In fact, it was one of the things that caught my eye, along with his sculpted, muscular shoulders encased in an expensively tailored ebony suit that fits so perfectly it had to have been made for him. Mr Tall, Dark, and Tortured has this repressed look in his big black eyes, like he’s in pain and desperate to unleash himself on someone. His jaw is locked so tightly he reminds me of a firework waiting to go bang.

And after being babied by my big, burly, overprotective brother for the past three weeks, scratch that – for my entire life – I’m in need of a bang – one that makes me see fireworks.

If I have any hope of getting laid tonight, it’s imperative I find a suitable candidate before my brother, Dermot, bulldozes in with his size thirteen Burberry patent loafers and a warning look that would terrify an army of blood-thirsty gladiators .

I might be his little sister, but I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman with desires that need to be taken care of, preferably, before I start my new job. Things have been dry for too long down under. I’m determined to fix that tonight. Once I move into my new accommodation in the leafy suburbs of Dublin, opportunities to get to bars like this will be few and far between.

I try not to salivate over the men beside me. Both are beautifully masculine with shadowed jawlines and sharp, prominent bone structure. Mr Tall, Dark and Tortured’s eyes are a deep espresso colour, but instead of that rich brown exuding a warmth, it exudes a chilling sorrow.

Maybe someone did die.

Maybe they stopped in here for a drink after a funeral.

Fuck.

‘I’m sorry.’ I raise my palms in apology. ‘That was really insensitive of me.’ I’ve never been one to think before I speak. My mouth has got me into plenty of trouble in the past. But right here, this isn’t trouble, it’s just downright awkward.

Tortured composes himself quicker than a nun caught with her knickers down. ‘Don’t sweat it.’ He picks up his drink and drains it in one gulp. I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs. He might be miserable and melancholy, but he is one hundred percent male. My pheromones kick-start into overdrive.

The barmaid flits towards us and I order a double whiskey neat. I should probably have ordered a Sex on The Beach. It might be the closest thing I get to experiencing any action tonight given the way I just sank my silver stilettos in it, but I like my alcohol the way I like my men –strong and sharp.

I pull out my phone to pay but before I can tap it, Tortured tosses a hundred euro note to the barmaid. ‘Keep the change,’ he says, taking my drink and handing it to me. His voice is deep and gruff, like the rest of him. It does things to me. Things that ignite a heat in my belly.

‘Another one, James?’ He turns to his friend.

‘No. I really have to go. Scarlett’s waiting.’ James pushes his glass away. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Have a good night.’ He slaps a hand on Tortured’s broad back, nods at me and abruptly leaves.

‘And then there were two…’ I edge closer to my new drinking buddy, wedging him further into the corner of the bar. I flash him my most seductive smile.

‘You ought to have a licence for that smile. It’s seriously blinding.’ He cocks his head to the side. ‘Are you always so sunny?’

‘Are you always so sullen?’ I retort, taking a mouthful of whiskey.

‘I wasn’t always this way.’ He sighs, swirling his drink around the glass.

‘What happened?’ There goes my big mouth again.

‘It’s not exactly Saturday night chit-chat material when I’m trying to get into your knickers.’ His face deadpans.

‘How do you know I’m wearing any?’ I’m going to make him smile if it kills me.

Torrid flames flicker in his irises. ‘Careful, sweetheart, or I might be compelled to slip my hand under that indecent little dress to find out.’

A million butterflies sweep through my stomach. ‘Careful, Tortured, or I might just let you.’

‘Tortured?’ he scoffs, ‘What kind of nickname is that?’

‘It was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment.’ I shrug.

‘I’ve been called many things before, but that’s new. Not to mention eerily accurate.’ He leans casually on the bar. ‘What’s your name?’ His cologne swirls through the air. It’s expensive, unique and masculine .

‘Does it matter?’ I trace a finger up my glass and watch as his gaze follows the movement before flicking back to my face.

‘Oh, you’re one of those girls, are you?’ The flames in his irises intensify, bleeding into his pupils.

‘Tell me what “one of those girls” is and I’ll tell you if I am one.’ I bring the glass to my lips and drink without breaking our stare. The air crackles like a live wire and I am here for it.

He leans closer until his hot breath brushes my lips, mingling with mine. ‘One of “those girls” who knows what they want and aren’t afraid to grab it by the balls.’

He’s partially right. I’m sort of one of “those girls”.

When it comes to men, I know what I want. Which is more than I can say for every other aspect of my life. Much to my parents’ dismay, I took a gap year to work as a nanny in the States. It was only supposed to be until I figured out what I want to do with my life. Five years later, the only thing I’ve actually figured out is that I want to be a mother myself one day. Not that Tortured needs to know that.

‘I’m not afraid to grab anything, or anyone, by the balls, as you’ve probably gathered,’ I shrug, ‘but you have one thing wrong.’

‘What’s that?’ His mouth twitches.

‘I’m not a girl.’ I step forward and rest my hips against his. The bass thumps through my ears, but not nearly as loudly as the blood pounding through my pulse. ‘I’m all woman.’

‘Is that right?’ He shifts his own hips in the slightest, subtlest movement, but it’s enough for me to feel something rock solid stirring in his trousers.

‘Yes. And I need a man to remind me. And fast.’

‘What’s the hurry?’

‘Because it’s been over three months since I had sex. I haven’t even had peace to enjoy some time alone with my vibrator. I have about half-an-hour before my overbearing big brother rocks up and if I don’t get laid sometime soon, I might spontaneously combust.’

‘Whoa.’ He rubs a thumb over the stubble dotting his square jaw. ‘You really are one of those girls, I mean women.’

‘If you really want to find out, I suggest we leave now.’ I want him. Even if he is tortured and repressed. Especially because he’s tortured and repressed. I want him to take every single ounce of whatever made him like that out on me. I’m sick of being treated like I’m fragile. I want to be fucked, royally and thoroughly, to the point where I won’t be able to walk without being reminded of it for at least three days. Is that too much to ask?

‘If I were to leave with you now, where would you take me?’ He dips his face closer and lifts a thick finger to my collarbone, barely skimming the skin. Goosebumps ripple in its wake.

‘You’d have to take me to your place. I’m crashing with my aforementioned overbearing big brother.’

A low tut slips from his lips. ‘My place is miles away. And I never take women there.’

Disappointment snakes through my stomach. It was too good to hope that the hottest man in the bar had an apartment around the corner.

‘Oh well,’ I shrug nonchalantly, ‘if you see an explosion, it’s just me spontaneously combusting.’

‘Just because I can’t take you home doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.’

‘Do you even know the meaning of the word, Tortured?’ I joke, but there’s nothing funny about the throbbing sensation stirring in my panties – yes, I am wearing some, not that Tortured will ever find out either way, worse luck.

‘You’d be surprised.’ His lips brush over my ear. ‘Switch places with me.’

My eyes widen. Fuck, this guy is insane as well as everything else. ‘You want to fuck me in the bar? Here? In front of everyone?’ I scan the crowd, a mix of young, glamorous women and suited men. No one is paying any attention to us. Everyone is immersed in their own unique bubble, chatting, drinking, flirting, dancing. But seriously, not so much that they wouldn’t notice two patrons going at it like rabbits spiked with Viagra. The lighting is low, but not that low.

‘Believe me, sweetheart, if I thought I could get away with it, I would.’ His hand slides over my waist to grip my hip as he guides me into position into the dark corner he was occupying. I’m sandwiched between the hard, hot planes of his torso and the marble counter, with the wood-panelled wall to my side.

The sheer size of his physique blocks anyone from even seeing I’m there, let alone seeing the hand that slides up my thigh and dips beneath my dress.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We’ve already established you’re one of “those women,” but I’m about to show you I’m one of those guys.’

‘What guys?’ Nimble fingers skim higher until they meet lace. My pulse thunders through my ears. I swallow back the saliva flooding my tongue.

‘The type that knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to grab it by the…’ gleaming eyes bore into mine as he yanks my lingerie to the side and sinks his fingers into my slickness, ‘pussy.’

I gasp and his lips curl in satisfaction. It’s not exactly the smile I was aiming for, but he definitely looks slightly less tortured.

I part my legs, scanning the bar to check if anyone has noticed a dark stranger has two fingers inside me and is currently pumping them hard enough to rock not only my body, but my entire world.

‘No one is watching, sweetheart. No one but me. ’

‘You didn’t even kiss me first.’ What kind of stupid line is that? I told you my mouth opens, and anything is liable to come out. In my defence, it’s impossible to think about anything other than his fingers.

He laughs, but it’s low and cruel. ‘I don’t do romance, sweetheart. But I will make you come hard enough to see stars.’

I believe him.

Someone jostles into the space next to us. Over Tortured’s shoulder, I glimpse a guy ordering drinks. There’s no way he can see I have a stranger’s hand under my dress. Not with the way his body is shielding mine, but still, a ripple of anxiety whips through me, but the added danger only adds to the experience.

Tortured isn’t anxious. His fingers don’t stop. If anything, they quicken. My arousal drips all over them as I keep one eye on the guy beside us.

‘Don’t you dare look at another man while my fingers are inside you.’ He lowers his face and drags his stubble over my cheek. ‘Look at me while I make you come.’ It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and it is as hot as fuck.

He jerks his head back and our eyes collide. ‘Is this what you came here for?’

I nod as my thighs tighten and tremble.

‘Me too. I came looking to lose myself in someone. Though, I imagined it would be my cock sinking into that wet heat, not my fingers. Though, watching you writhe is oddly satisfying.’ His thumb pushes on my clit.

‘Have you ever been finger-fucked in a bar before?’ His gravelly voice will live rent free in my head forever, along with the memory of this night.

‘No.’

‘Good.’ Electricity hums between us. ‘I like that this is new to both of us. Now be a good girl and come on my hand before we get thrown out of here.’

White hot lust squeezes my core. The sheer naughtiness of this entire scenario is almost enough to get me off alone, so when he adds a third finger, I’m gone, catapulted into the most decadent, all-consuming oblivion.

Heat suffuses my skin. My breasts ache with a heavy longing. My core convulses around his fingers, and my limbs go taut before shaking and shuddering. A depraved, decadent pleasure pulses through my pussy as I shamelessly grind against his hand, wringing out every second of the most debilitating orgasm known to woman.

Tortured watches on with smug satisfaction, probably knowing he’s just ruined me for any other sexual experience after this.

I wanted fireworks. I got a nuclear bomb.

When he’s coaxed every ounce of pleasure from my body, he slides his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. His tongue slips out and he licks them without breaking eye contact.

It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. The bar is packed but I only have eyes for him.

‘Caelon.’ A familiar voice booms from behind Tortured’s back, shattering my orgasm-induced bubble. ‘There you are.’

‘Dermot?’ Tortured spins around to face my brother.

‘How are you doing?’ Dermot extends a hand.

Tortured – I mean Caelon - glances at his own hand. The very hand that’s still slick with my arousal. The hand that’s wearing a goddamn fucking wedding ring!

How did I not notice that before I let him slide it into my lingerie?

It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

Caelon slaps Dermot’s back with his other hand and pulls him in for a man hug.

‘Are you getting soft in your old age or what?’ Dermot laughs, his eyes falling to me, wedged into the corner. ‘Ivy! I see you met Caelon.’

I smooth my dress down, praying I don’t look as thoroughly fucked as I feel.

‘She certainly did.’ Caelon’s gaze flits between Dermot and me, like he’s trying to figure out the missing piece of the puzzle. ‘Ivy is your… girlfriend?’ Oval eyes narrow in my direction. Rich coming from the man who’s wearing a wedding ring.

Dermot’s laugh reverberates through the air over the music. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Ivy is my sister.’

Caelon leaps away from me like he’s been stabbed with a red-hot poker.