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"Don't ruin my dress. It's Hermès."
⚠️ sexual themes ⚠️
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Don't be a fool. Of course, he would still be in love with her. Look at her.
That was the first thing Irene thought of; her eyes glued to the picture of Grace on the wall. Blonde, blue-eyed, and smiling. She sure looks like a million pounds.
But you are you, God damn it. You are Irene fucking Celeste Deschanel-Grosvenor.
You look and worth billions of pounds.
Irene could no more explain the way she sensed Thomas Shelby's presence than she could explain how her eyes and ears worked. The ability had been such a part of her that she had simply stopped questioning its existence. And it was so natural, organic, that it was impossible to think of it as anything out of the ordinary.
The way the hairs on the back of her neck would buzz alive, the way his scent would hug her senses like a warm embrace. The way his warm breathes hit her neck. "Well, well."
She mustered the strength to resist leaning into his chest. With the last bits of her vivacity, Irene stepped away from the entrapment of Thomas Shelby. She knows his antics well enough to make a difference. Don't ever lean into him.
The heiress turned her heels, climbing up the rest of the steps. Leaving the gang leader dumbfounded without another word. She drummed her fingers along the railings. Irene grinned; maybe it was time to give him a taste of his own medicine. She hummed as her steps brought her to the second study adjacent to the bedrooms.
Thomas chuckled lightly before rubbing his eyes. What is this girl doing to me?
With long strides, he stared at her, pushing his way through a number of his late wife's pictures. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
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Outside, the wind rattled the branches near the windows at her behest.
It was as if the proud apple trees knew there was a storm coming.
Irene sat near the fire, back straight, eyes level. Just the way her mama had taught her. Chin up, shoulders back, let them know you're here.
She glanced up at the man with the blue eyes, "Something the matter?"
Tommy's voice was too close for her liking – reeks of cigarettes, too, "You tell me, sweetheart."
His gaze was smearing the layers of her skin, through and through. Irene had to shift on her weight a little when he moved his eyes downward, breaths turning quicker and quicker with each passing second. The smell of his signature aftershave and whiskey was too familiar to her. Too comforting. It was alarming how at home she felt whenever he was near. Yet, it was not established whether Thomas Shelby felt the same way with his undefined behaviours, feelings, and thoughts.
He parted his suit, retrieving a golden cigarette box from his pocket and lighting it with such a poise you don't expect from a gang leader. Irene rose from the chair with a thump, "Would you stop smoking already, pumpkin?"
With quick hands, Tommy spun her around, "Or what?"
The smoke exhaled from his mouth tickled her cheeks.
She glared back, the close proximity with someone who's got so much blood on his hands not scaring her, "Nothing. You can die for all I care."
She took her chance to free her arm from Tommy's powerful grip. Stepping back towards the window, Irene noticed how everything was much more beautiful up here. The gardens were in full view; there lies the vast forestry where she knew the King of Birmingham have excessively hunted in, then the colourful Gypsy homes scattered near his estate.
Irene stretched her arms up leisurely, taking note of how still the atmosphere had become.
She turned; her cheeks reddened once she made sense of how close Tommy was. His arm leaned on the wall behind her. He stared at her half-heartedly, "What did you say?"
"Excuse me, I'd-"
"What. Did you say to me?"
"I said, you sir, can die for all I care." Irene stared up with those big brown eyes. She was desperate to escape from this, yet every move she makes puts her in a compromising position. The blues on Thomas's eyes turned a darker shade. The darkest. Irene knows that look. She coughed, "Oh, did you hear that? Someone called upon me. Izzie? Yes, I'm coming, dear."
No one knows the extent of how far Irene Grosvenor would lie just to escape the terrifying grasp of Thomas Shelby. But tonight, she proved to both of them that sounding like an idiot was definitely on the table.
He didn't spare her even the tiniest glance, grabbing her arm and pushing her against the wall. The heiress grimaced, "Alright, you really need to stop doing that. It hurts the spine-"
Tommy's gaze fell to her lips before he tore it away a breathe later. The desire buried within the depths of his eyes was unmistakable. Irene knew the emotion well enough, because she too, was burning with it.
She moved a hand inside Thomas' suit, keeping close contact with the surface of his skin. Her hand inched lower, down south. The heat of him, the solidness... Suddenly, she craved for this to be real.
When his lips met hers, they were unforgiving. Punishing, hard. It was doom and redemption wrapped into a neat little packaging that was Tommy's lips. Irene wanted to kiss him until they both stopped feeling angry and sad. She wanted to devour him until the mutual hatred between the two of them melted away with each breath they take.
His hands found their way to her hips, anchoring Irene in place. She pressed herself against him in response. The gang leader's tongue swept into her mouth, and that was when she came undone.
The heiress kissed back hard. She groaned when Tommy's teeth grazed her neck. For a split second, Irene had imagined him ripping her throat out of the pure hatred he'd cocooned toward her people. The fear was immediately replaced by pure desire. She gasped. The alien sensation hit her. She swore the heat on the pit of her stomach had grown into something else.
Irene wanted Thomas to devour her.
She hated how good it felt. How amazingly right. She's spent nights fooling around with haughty boarding school boys – drunkenly and stupidly. Chaste kisses under the moonlight as the sky watched the two teenagers frolic. But never like this. This far. Savage. Angry. Powerful.
Each time Tommy's tongue touched hers, it felt as if they were trading blows. They kissed like they were throwing insults at each other. Constant and powerful. If this were their regular day-to-day fighting, Irene wouldn't know who was winning. What she knew was, she wanted more.
The thought made her kiss him harder, faster. She tugged roughly on his goddamn three-piece suit, cursing at it. . Thomas didn't want to be beaten. His hands moved across her back, impatiently assaulting the finely made silky emerald fabric. Irene panted, "Don't ruin my dress. It's Hermès."
She didn't remember moving, but somehow they were now pressed against the bookshelves on the far corner. Maybe because she was too focused on how Tommy was pushing against her, hoisting her up. God, how she wanted to rip the rest of his shirts off. Take the last of his buttons, leaving him with all his glory.
Irene tipped her head back, allowing him access to her neck as his hands were on her calf. Caressing it so gently, she had goosebumps. The heiress leaned into his touch, wanting him so badly it was driving her crazy. The heiress pulled away as she sunk to her knees. Pushing Thomas against the wall in the process, earning a groan from the blue-eyed devil.
Her fingers unbuttoned his trousers swiftly. Staring up with those big doe eyes, she skimmed her finger from Thomas' navel to the heat of him. He threw his head back as a delicious moan left his mouth. She slipped a hand under the elastic band of his boxers, driving the tip of her finger along the shaft, chuckling when she saw how tortured his face was.
"You are the death of me."
Irene peered through her lashes, "I know."
His jaw clenched as he roved his hand through the back of her head. Tommy's throat bobbed as if the act of speaking itself was torture, "Now, be a good little princess and suck."
The corners of her lips turned up into a sardonic grin. She curled her fingers around Thomas' length. Irene started to stroke him softly, setting a languid pace as she peppered his shaft with kisses. She didn't waste any more time. Thank the heavens, as Tommy was already bucking up to meet her hand.
The time for teasing was over. Irene engulfed the head of Thomas' cock in her mouth. She swirled her tongue around it and dragged it along the underside. She sucked on the head before taking him as far as she could and started bobbing up and down.
She releases him after a bit, replacing her mouth's job with her hand. Pumping him up and down. She peppered his balls with kisses, in the end sucking on one of them between her lips.
A moan escaped Tommy's throat, "Fuck. "He panted, "The things your pretty little mouth can do."
Some locks had decided to plaster themselves on his forehead, and his impossibly dark blue eyes were heavily lidded and ablaze. Irene held his gaze as she ran her tongue back up his smooth shaft before taking him in again. His fingers found their way to the back of her head, lightly scratching her scalp as his grunts and moans and groans turned louder. Faster. More desperate.
She cupped his balls again, stroking them with her manicured fingers.
"Fuck," Thomas moaned, "Jesus Grace, I'm-"
Irene's enclosed eyes were immediately wide. She pulled back, dropping her hands as she stood. What. The. Fuck.
Jesus Grace.
Jesus.
Fucking.
Grace.
What the actual fuck. The heiress wiped her chin, disgusted.
She watched as Thomas was slowly brought back from his deliciously high ecstasy. She glared as the confusion registered on his damningly beautiful face. "What-"
Her hand – the hand that served him until he reached his high, met his cheek. The sound resonating around the quiet room. She was fuming. All she could see was the red. And not the beautiful ruby kind.
How humiliated she felt. She was fucking here. Irene fucking Grosvenor was here. And yet again – It was Grace, Grace, and Grace.
A reality check was imminent, "Last I checked, my name is Irene, not Grace. Or whoever was on your fucking mind, you fucking pig. "
The man in front of her blinked, almost startled. Almost. Registering the last couple of minutes into his head. Understanding dawned before he shuttered his expression and moved closer.
Terrible anger filled the space around them, burning brighter and more furious than the passion they shared earlier.
She stared at him. Disbelief still etched on, accompanied by her ever-present anger. She couldn't manage anything besides a slight shake of her head. Her eyes stung with gathering tears. The realization hit her like a physical punch. Her palm buzzed with disgust.
She was going to be sick.
Thomas took notice of the look on her face, "Irene-"
"Don't."
He seemed ready to argue but clamped his mouth shut. A while passed before Irene moved toward the door. She was angry with him. Yet also sad and disappointed. Her pride was crushed, already in pieces like shattering glass.
Thomas Fucking Shelby had uttered another woman's name while he was preoccupied with her. She had thought he was a changed man. How stupid Irene was to think Thomas Shelby could ever change.
And now, she doesn't know what to do except run out and ball herself and cry. She should have known better. Everyone was right; never ever trust the blue-eyed devil.
"Irene."
"I can't... " Irene couldn't breathe.
How gullible you are. How stupid you are. The voice in the heiress' head chuckled darkly. She wanted the ground to swallow her whole. The world was closing in on her. What are you doing, Irene? Get away from the monster.
"I-I don't have time for this." She marched toward the door. Tommy gathered himself with a deadly poise the heiress should have noticed from the first time they met, "Irene-"
"Don't. You have pierced my heart, now please let me mend in peace."