"Nice dress."

Wren froze before the flame could touch the cigarette and threw a hasty glance over her shoulder. Murphy leaned against a nearby stack of crates, his arms cross over his chest, his blue eyes sharp and calculating. On instinct, she smoothed a hand down the white satin and shrugged. "It's a bitch to move in."

Murphy snorted, pushing off of the crates. "I'll bet," he muttered. He took a step forward and then another, effectively herding Wren away from the prying eyes of the crowd and towards a darker back section that housed whatever the warehouse was used for during the daylight. "Bet ya can't even fit a pair o'panties under dat," he snarled lowly.

His tone was aggressive, as was his expression, and she sucked in a cautious breath as her shoulders bumped against the shipping crate Murphy had backed her into. "Murph," she breathed, staring up into his face. She couldn't think of anything else to say. Despite the obvious temper he was failing at tamping down, she was dumbstruck by seeing him. His voice last night had sparked memories but seeing him in the flesh dredged up memories as early as the week before. She felt like she hadn't seen him in years.

He moved closer, so close that she put a hand out on his chest to impede further movement. Licking her lips, she felt her breathing turn shallow and her throat dry up. "What are…"

His lips crashed into hers, interrupting her next words. Her hands caught his head, clutching his hair as she fought for dominance in the kiss. As his taste flooded her mouth his scent, that one of soap and leather and generic laundry soap, filled her lungs. Deep, throbbing pleasure ignited between her thighs as her hips found his like a magnet. His palm slid down her ass and gripped her roughly. "Murph, wait," she tried again, breaking her mouth away and gasping.

"Don't have time ta wait," he uttered, and his hands glided down the smooth satin of her dress to the hem and began the rather difficult process of shoving it up the length of her thighs. "Christ, did ya paint dis on?" he growled, remarking on the snug fit. He caught her mouth again in a rough kiss, swallowing any protest and stroking her tongue with his. She tasted so fucking sweet after so fucking long, and he couldn't wait to sink between her thighs. When her firm breasts collided with his chest, he changed tactics, and seized them, cupping them firmly and grinding slow circles into her nipples with his thumbs.

She didn't think she'd feel his hands on her again, at least not so soon. She had dared to dream that after all of this was over maybe they could come to some sort of semblance of a relationship, but here, in the middle of everything, it was all too easy to let him have his way. She hissed as his teeth scraped over the tender skin below her ear, and though his lips brushed over the spot, his whiskers stung sweetly. Her nipples stung and ached as he toyed with them. Between her thighs, she was aching frantically, and the more she thought about him driving into her, the faster her breath came. She needed to get his jeans open, needed to touch him, to feel him beneath her hands and deep inside. Pushing her lips back to his once more, she slid her hands inside of his coat, roaming over his chest and shoulders before flattening on his belly and catching the waistband of his jeans.

He deepened their kiss, and his teeth clicked against hers as he hefted her up against the crate and pinned her there. One hand delved between her thighs, and he whimpered just a little when he felt the barely there scrap of cotton between her legs. It was damp, soaked through the moment his tongue touched hers and he grunted harshly as he snapped it off of her body and shoved it into his pocket. His fingers returned briefly, sliding painfully quick up the slick length of her, setting off a loud, breathy cry. Quickly, he angled his head over hers and swallowed the sound. She sucked at his tongue and clicked his belt open, and her hand dove down and encircled his hot, solid cock. She pulled from his mouth and stared up at him, panting with him as she began to stroke him quick and rough.

"Fuck," Murphy sighed, his hips rocking into her caress of their own accord. The quick swipe of her thumb over the leaking tip made him cry out sharply, and he scowled down at her before pulling her hand away. "M'still feckin' pissed at ya," he growled, reaching between them to line up his shot.

She nodded and tugged sharply at his hair. "Good," she grunted. He gave her a cheeky grin and plunged; her voice choked off as he filled her completely. Her eyes squeezed shut and her forehead dropped to his shoulder as her body vibrated. No time was wasted; he began to pound into her immediately, and she fluttered furiously around his thickness, trying frantically to keep up with him. Her heart thudded in her ears and Murphy's breath was warm and harsh against her neck.

"Ah, feck, girl," he snarled, catching her mouth once more, dragging her lip between his teeth. "So good," he groaned. "Feel so good 'round me."

Every other bone in her body had gone numb from pleasure. She was deliciously full of him, his thickness rubbing her raw and ragged, his scent surrounding her as his kisses landed on swollen lips and stubble-burned skin. "Murph," she gasped out with a choppy breath. Her legs tightened at his hips and she clung to the back of his neck and his shoulder, fucking him back just as hard. "Mother fucking son of a bitch," she hissed, rising to a moan at the very last word. "Fuck, Murphy, don't fucking stop. Going to come," she gasped.

He huffed. "M'not stoppin'," he amended. Urged on by her words, he pushed deeper, rocking into her body hard enough to make the crates she was propped against begin to rattle. Fuck, she was hot. An inferno, even, and wet, so much that it was practically dripping down her thighs. With the way she gripped and squeezed at his length, he knew she wouldn't last long. Snapping his hips sharply, he ran down his own orgasm, crying out hoarsely as he came in a rush. He set her off, and she constricted around him, and then flooded, hot and wet, around his length. Still, he continued to thrust, and she whimpered with every movement, unable to stop until finally she whined, shaking her head. "Oh, god, Murph."

Reluctantly, his hips slowed, and his movements smoothed out until he was barely rocking against her, still shuddering at the pulsing in his balls. His breathing tapered off, and when he could, he spoke: "Hail Mary, full o'grace," he purred, canting his hips sharp and slow once more, rising up onto his toes as he did. He growled low and long when she spasmed around the sensitive length of his semi-hard state. Fuck, he could go at her again and again right then.

Her toes curled and then went lax, and she felt her muscles begin to relax where he held her against the wall. "You gotta put me down," Wren croaked.

"Not yet," Murphy mumbled lazily, stroking his fingertips down the backs of her thighs.

Defeated, she shrugged and clung to him, closing her eyes as her chin rested on his shoulder. His arms felt amazing, wrapped tight around her, and the feel of his hair beneath her lips was soothing. Deeply sighing, she squeezed his cock, still lazily throbbing within, sending little ripples of hot pleasure through her entire body.

Somewhere, a bell rang three times, sharp and shrill. There was a roar from the crowd, positive and negative sounds mingling in the din, and Wren stirred in Murphy's arms. "Was that the bell?" she hummed dreamily.

"Aye," Murphy nodded his head from where it rested against her throat.

She blinked, trying to force her brain back into coherence. The bell meant something. "What round is it?" she asked.

Under her arms, Murphy shrugged, and she felt him start to straighten, his hands pulling gently at her legs as he eased her down. "Third? Fourth?" When she was on her feet, she stared up at him and almost melted at the slightly shy look in Murphy's eyes. His passion drove him, she knew as much, but sometimes it blinded him until after the moment. "I found ya at the end of the second," he offered, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks.

"Oh," Wren nodded, leaning back against the crates with a sigh. She frowned as Murphy's warmth left her, but grinned as his hands tugged her dress back into place. Her eyes drifted shut. They shot open seconds later. "What?" she hissed, standing straight, albeit a bit shakily.

Murphy frowned, and took a step back. "What?" he replied, clearly confused with her sudden turn in demeanour.

"What round is it?" she asked, quick and low. Her hands tugged at her dress and reached to smooth her hair back down. She'd have to find a bathroom, and quickly, and make sure she didn't look like she'd just been screwed, and screwed well.

Murphy blinked. "Third or fourth…" he trailed off. Shit. What had Rocco said? No later than the fifth round? "Fuck," he muttered, hauling his jeans back into place.

She cast him a wary glance, wondering at his sudden urgency. Footsteps began to thunder around them as the crowds descended from their seating to use the bathroom and buy more alcohol and place bets. The two of them worked quickly and silently, righting the remainder of their clothing while shooting each other quick, heated glances.

"We need to talk," Wren uttered lowly as she closed the space between them. Her hand caught his and squeezed, bringing his focus to her.

"Aye," Murphy nodded. His gaze wandered past her shoulder and he saw Rocco lingering nearby, gesturing wildly. He quickly looked back to Wren. "Gotta go," he murmured before softly pressing his lips to hers.

When she opened her eyes seconds later, he was gone, and she looked towards the milling crowd out in the main hall of the warehouse. She spotted Donahue, coming straight towards her, his jaw set firm, his mouth in a grim line. She moved to meet him.

He scooped her arm into his and wrenched her around, hauling her to his side and walking her towards one of the many alcoves that sold beverages. His lips were hard against her ear. "We've got a problem."


"We've got a feckin' problem, Murph," Connor hissed as he rejoined his brother and Rocco. The lighter MacManus studied his darker half for a moment before pointing at him with an accusatory finger. "What were ya doin?"

Murphy shrugged. "Nothin'."

"Don't feckin' lie ta me, Murph." He peered closely at his brother. "You were screwin' Wren back there, weren't ya?"

"So what if I was?" Murphy sniffed.

"Jesus Christ…"

"Lord's fuckin' name," Murphy growled.

"Ya couldn't keep it in yer pants for five fuckin' minutes?"

"It's been over a week!"

Connor's eyes widened at his brother's admission. "Really?" He sounded genuinely concerned. "Fuckin' hell, Murph, didn't ya…I dunno, take care o'it?"

"Aye, but it's not tha same!"

Connor contemplated this. "Aye, lord's truth," he agreed.

"Uh, I hate to interrupt you two morons, but we've got bigger issues than blue balls," Rocco barked.

"Aye, don't know, Roc, after a week, those would be some fairly big blue balls," Connor mumbled.

"Aye," Murphy nodded, making the sign of the cross. "Hail Mary."

"Full o' grace," Connor replied.

Rocco heaved an aggravated sigh. "I think Wren's in trouble," he bit out carefully. His dark eyes swept from one MacManus to the other.

Connor snorted as he swept aside his coat and checked the weight of his guns which was slowly becoming familiar. "Aye, we already covered dat."

Rocco shook his head frantically. "No, I mean, I think she's in trouble here right fucking now."

Murphy paused, the slightly heady rush still coursing through his body suddenly turning icy and sluggish. "What?"

"That's what we came to tell you; I overheard a few of Monaghan's men talking. Look, I had no idea Agosti was like this but…"

"Like what, Roc?" Murphy growled. "What are ya feckin' talkin' about?"

"Agosti is a sick muther fucker," Rocco explained tightly. "Some of Yakavetta's boys were talking 'bout the 'tight little blonde with the arms dealer' an' how if Agosti was going to watch, they hoped he filmed it."

Murphy's eyes narrowed as Rocco's voice grew more and more acidic. "Watch what, exactly?"

Connor gave his brother a pointed look. "What do ya think?"

The darker twin shook his head. "She wouldn't…"

"Aye, she might not, but it doesn't matter, if Agosti is under the impression that she will."

"That guy she's with," Murphy mumbled.

"The Italian," Connor prompted.

Murphy snorted with a wry grin. "He's not Italian." He glanced at Rocco for confirmation.

"Hey, all I know is that he's an arms dealer from Toronto, or Montreal, or some shit like that."

Murphy chuckled darkly. "No, he's not. He's fuckin' Irish. That's the guy that pulled Wren to the car. Jesus, they're going to get Agosti alone to try and fuckin' kill him."

Rocco frowned at the incredulous tone in Murphy's words. "Isn't that what we're trying to do?"

"Exactly!" Murphy spat. "But they're using Wren as fuckin' bait!"


"The job is fucked," Donahue cursed, spinning Wren back around so he could tower over her. "Oh wait…maybe that's just you."

Her face flamed and she glanced quickly left to right, hoping they were out of earshot.

"Don't bother pretending like nothing happened. The next time you decide to fuck MacManus, make sure there aren't any compromising people around." He nodded back to the arena and where they had been sitting. "One of Agosti's guards saw you. Shit, you were barely out of view…"

"Is this you being jealous? Or the arms dealer?" Wren snapped. "I'm not your fucking property, Donahue."

"For this purpose, you are," he hissed back. His fingers tightened on her arm and she felt herself being shoved backwards towards yet another shadowed alcove.

"What are you doing?" she growled.

Donahue quickly glanced to the right and then behind her. "Trying to keep from getting killed. Follow my lead."

She wasn't prepared for the rough hand on her shoulder or the one that snagged her jaw and forced her to look at up at him. When she stared up into his eyes, there was an apologetic flash through the dark irises, and then Donahue's entire façade changed.

"You just don't learn, do you?" he growled sharply.

Wren sensed a presence behind her – a few, actually, and she quickly glanced to see two of Agosti's men that had accompanied him from Italy, and Agosti himself, standing and watching the exchange.

"Damon," she heard herself whisper. It was the name Donahue was using as a cover. "Nothing happen…" she was cut off as Donahue's fingers tightened on her jaw.

"Don't fucking lie to me again," he hissed. He pushed her back into the shadows.

She had a feeling where this was going – the only way to scrape together some semblance of their plan was to play off her supposed infidelity as a habit that 'Damon' took great pains to break. It wasn't their original plan, however, and Wren's heart began to beat a little faster. This was unknown. She didn't know how this was going to unfold.

This time, when the crates hit her back, she felt a cold trickle of fear. Donahue loomed over her, so much darker than Murphy, and his black eyes flashed dangerously, skittering down to look pointedly at the his open jacket. He looked back to her and gave her the faintest nod. Take the guns, he silently told her, and shoot.