Claimed - a Portwright Book

Chapter Three: Declan

I looked at her, wondering how anyone like her was holding up so well. I mean, I was pretty hardened by her age, but I remembered those that weren't. And her kind? Well, they grew up thinking the world was unicorn farts and daisies and nothing bad could ever happen to them.

Sophie wasn't acting like that at all. Yes, she'd fallen apart for a second, but she'd rallied like a fucking trooper.

I swung my leg over the bike and held my arm out to her. She looked at me, then the bike, then nodded.

"Good, yep," she muttered, pulling her satchel over her head so it crossed her body.

Then, she visibly steeled herself, leant a hand on my arm and climbed on behind me. Her chest brushed my shoulder as she sat down and I told myself to calm down as a certain part of me took notice of her curves.

I patted her leg. "All right, nice and close, and hang on tight," I said over my shoulder.

She looked at me, obviously confused. "Tight?"

I chuckled. Reaching behind me, I pulled her down the seat so her legs hugged my hips – ignoring the surprised, breathy "oh" from her that had me picturing all sorts of unwholesome things I could do to get her to make that noise again – and found one of her hands. I pulled it around my body and the other one followed instinctually.

"Hang on tight," I repeated and felt her nod against me.

I passed her the second helmet and pulled on mine before starting the engine. As soon as it roared to life, I didn't have to worry about her hanging on tight; her legs and arms clamped around me and I had to admit I entertained a few more unseemly scenarios between us.

I pulled out of the bar carpark and headed towards the swanky part of our town. There was a distinct border, not marked by those proverbial tracks, but a river coming up from the ports – Paddy's domain on one side, Geraldine Buckley's on the other. Gardens were more manicured, houses got bigger, and street lights more plentiful as we headed East.

As we idled at a traffic lights I felt her tap my shoulder and I turned my head.

"Uh, where are you going?" I heard her ask.

"Buckley Manor," I replied, thinking it was obvious.

"Oh... Uh, so I don't live there anymore..." she said slowly.

Of course she couldn't make my job easier.

"Where do ye live?" I asked, noticing the light had gone green thanks to the wanker behind me who honked us.

"East Boulevard. Sixty-three."

Of course, she did. I wasn't going to ask her why now. But I spun the bike, flipped off the guy who honked again and we tore towards East Boulevard.

We finally turned into her street and I doubted the posh tree-laden street had ever seen a motorcycle. She tapped my stomach just as I saw the right number and I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.

I felt her move behind me and held my arm out to help her off, with some more surely unnecessary rubbing against me. I couldn't touch her. I hadn't saved Rory from a fall only to land in it myself. But the girl was a temptress and no mistake. Still, underage meant hands off. I just had to keep reminding myself of that. Plus, Geraldine Buckley's youngest daughter and CúMhartain? That wasn't a pairing that was going anywhere fast or for long. I'd have a statutory charge minimum slapped on me regardless of what happened between us.

When she was standing, I pulled off my helmet and flicked my hair out of my face. Automatic lights had come on as we pulled into the driveway and I saw her staring at me now, helmet in her hands. My responding appreciative look was one of practice, muscle memory, and I didn't shut it down quick enough.