September 1928
Monte-Carlo, Cannes, Saint-Tropez, Paris, Madrid, Amalfi, Positano, Portofino.
It didn't seem a lot until Thomas and Alfie compiled the pictures, and there were no less than five, fifteen-centimetre stacks. Shots of the socialites on boats, living their best lives. Laying around on white sandy beaches, Old Fashioned in hand. Skimpy swim attire adorning their figures, a new yet frustrating change from the regular boring ones he would see women flaunt proudly.
Thomas almost flew to Positano himself once he saw those.
For however long it's been, and for whatever happened between the two of them, Tommy's not ready to share even an inch of Irene Grosvenor with anyone. Yet, she keeps driving him into lunacy.
Alfie rubbed the back of his neck as he leaned back, "You would think when you leave a girl to be kidnapped by your rival, thus breaking her heart would make her devastated. But look at them,"
Both their eyes drifted to the smiling heiresses, playing a game of ball with their aristocratic peers. Not a care in the world. "Smiling and shit. Let me tell you, right; it doesn't make an older man like me feel good. All the guilt. And somehow, she's smiling again."
Tommy chuckled, "You've gone soft."
"No, no. I've been the same, alright. They're heartless."
Frankly, Alfie Solomons was speaking the truth.
Irene had been pretty much this prepossessing porcelain doll during the span of their 'work' relationship. Majestic and solid to look at from the outside, fragile to the touch. It wasn't that she was weak in any way. No, his woman was not a weakling. She could cut you out with just one opening of her mouth and dance of her tongue. But the heiress lacked this sense of street smartness. A soft skill required to survive this dark, dark world. Something that he recognized in her younger sisters too.
And for a porcelain doll to immediately tape herself back into normalcy without a hint of desolation was something to be applauded and offended for. At least for the two criminal warlords.
Tommy stubbed his cigarette on the mahogany table with little patience before rising to his feet. Sliding on his coat, he heard Alfie's voice boomed, "Where you goin', treacle?"
The Brummie rolled his oceanic orbs, "Business."
"Right, you're a busy man. Just leave me here, right, to mourn and fend for myself as I stare at Isabelle's photos until I die."
Alfie Solomons was turning into a dramatic little arse.
Without another turn of his head, Tommy headed out the door. Disregarding the loud and theatrical sigh escaping his friend's mouth.
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
It wasn't until past midnight when Tommy arrived at Warwickshire.
The looming estate felt cold ever since Irene Grosvenor ran out of the soiree he threw to celebrate his winning. Every trace of the heiress was terminated when Lizzie Stark moved in, bringing her flair to the house.
The bone-white violin, ties Irene had bought for him during one of her previous visits to London, even the throw blanket the socialite gifted him when they finished a significant takeover.
Tommy slammed his palms on the horn, the memory flooding back.
"Tada!" Irene made a grand gesture toward the throw she'd set on top of the scattered documents. It was grey coloured, large enough to engulf the entirety of Irene, made with a luxurious material from its looks. The gangster stretched out his hand to feel the texture. Oh.
He kept a straight face as he tried to hide his surprise. That blanket felt like a bunch of clouds sewn into one giant fabric. "A blanket,"
"A fucking blanket." Thomas deadpanned.
Those brown eyes tried hard not to roll, but to no avail, "Not just a blanket, silly. This is an original Vicuña wool, the finest wool available. The man who made this is the descendant of some Flemish blanket maker or something. They are, in essence, the royals of blanket making."
Tommy raised that perfect brow, and Irene had to fight the smile coming on to her lips as her stomach did somersaults. She did not know that one of the most feared men in the underworld – her boss – was flattening his clammy hand on his trousers.
"Here, sit down."
Thomas Shelby scoffed.
Once again, those honey-brown orbs shot upward, "I'm not going to murder you, boss. I would have hired someone if I wanted to. I don't want to stain these diamonds."
Irene gestured to the rings resting neatly between her slender fingers.
Now Thomas was the one rolling his eyes. A slight shake of his head was enough to tell her that he was amused. What was slightly shocking to her was that her boss complied with her order, lying down on the couch with his legs sprawled leisurely. He put his hands behind his head as the heiress had her mouth open.
What. A fucking. Sight.
Irene shook her head fast enough to rattle the dirty thoughts in her head. How she would take her time lying on top of him, her legs fitting perfectly between Thomas' as their sweaty selves ground and grunted and moaned. His face between her legs, her writhing underneath, as he sucks the living daylights –
"Oi."
The heiress seemed to lose her balance for a second before gaining back her composure. "Sorry."
She cleared her throat, the throw blanket already in her hands without her even noticing. When did I grab this?
She sat near Thomas's torso, careful not to have their midriff touch. Though with the narrow couch, it seemed pretty impossible. Right now, she's just sitting haphazardly between the surface of the sofa and her boss' crotch. One arse up and one arse down. "Boss, you have a hectic schedule. And I know you don't sleep, don't try to deny it,"
The blue-eyed man underneath her closed his mouth just as it was about to open.
"You should nap at least thirty minutes a day. At least. And with this weighted blanket, you will feel like you are tucked in, like a baby."
She spread the fabric as best as she could, though Tommy's toes were a tiny bit uncovered.
"Trust me; it is that powerful. Remember the other day I was late, and you gave me shit about it? It was partially because of this blanket. It kept me in bed all morning before I realized – what?"
The blues in her boss' eyes twinkled with mischief and that playful lust, "Couldn't get out of bed, huh?"
Thomas's eyes widened once he realized how easy it was to make the heiress come undone. Her neck and cheeks reddened a mere five seconds after he uttered that sentence. She turned her head to the side, facing the fireplace as her mop of brown hair brushed his abdomen.
Tommy was curious. His index and thumb brought Irene's chin forward. "I like this, don't look away."
His index brushed her overly crimson cheeks as his thumb moved up toward her ample bottom lip, "You blush too easily. Your cheeks light up just after a sip of beer. Strange."
Irene pushed herself up slightly, her smile downcast and embarrassed like she was trying to hide it. Her weight shifted when she moved, bringing it to the region Tommy's been trying so damn hard to control ever since she settled those arse on the couch and him.
He grunted, hands flying to squeeze Irene's waist. Preventing any more damage. The heiress looked panicked, hands settling on his sternum, "Thomas, is something-"
It was the second wave of a rush toward his cock that did it for him. This girl was the literal death of Thomas. Why did she have to lift that fucking –
His voice came out dangerously low and hoarse it alarmed the heiress, "Don't fucking move."
He opened his eyes, breathing hard, only to find the clueless socialite staring down at him with curious eyes.
"What, I-"
When the realization hit her, those brown eyes were as big as saucers. She quickly – and dangerously – stood up. Another strained cry softly escaped Tommy's lips, "Jesus."
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't see – well, I did see, but the couch was so small, and I thought – it's just that – Sorry. I mean – Is it my fault? Never mind, just – Sorry, I – "
When she bit her bottom lip, Thomas had to palm his erection right then and there. Trying so hard not to show her his bulging cock as she fumbled with her stuff.
She looked at him, eyes drifting to the doors, "Should I-"
"Fucking out, " Speaking was getting harder for him.
Once Thomas heard the doors slam and the pitter-patter of Irene's heels were far enough, he did the only thing that seemed rational.
He rested his hand on his shirt-covered abdomen as his mind conjured up Irene, doe-eyed, looking down at him like before. Thomas remembered how her hair tickled his stomach slightly, how her lips were a force in on itself. He loves it when she talks business and law with him, how her lips move when she speaks complicated Latin.
His hand slowly made its way down.
A low moan rumbled in his chest as his arousal spiked. He brushed the base of his cock, inhaling sharply as it bobbed. His movements were leisurely.
That's right. He didn't need to rush this. Another wave of pleasure hit him dead on as he moved his hand up, now wrapping his fingers around his shaft. Thomas groaned, hand sliding up and down. He brushed the underside of the head as he bobbed his hand. The moan was now inevitable. Jesus, what would Irene's hands feel like?
The image became clear. Irene above him, tenderly touching his cock as she kissed him. Her eyes locked with his as her ever mischievous smile was plastered on her face. She bobs him slowly at first, seeking his approval and guidance. Then faster, and faster, and faster. Her mouth would drag stripes across his shaft as he pulled her hair back and moaned.
And then he would clasp his hands on her waist, align himself against her opening and bring her entire weight down on him. Let her ride him like one of her overly expensive horses. He would groan into her neck, his whole body vibrating at the lovely friction. Irene's body would be pulsating as he thrusts, meeting her rhythm.
"Jesus fucking Christ-"
The hand slamming Rolls Royce window was what brought him back. Tommy was ready to strangle whoever was there until he saw the mother of his daughter lean against the door, shivering from the cold.
Lizzie wrapped the robe around her tighter, hugging her slender figure. Her head motions for him to get out, and with one last sigh, the Peaky Blinder turns the ignition off and opens the door.
"Where the fuck have you been? Ruby has been asking for you – "
Thomas brought his lips to Lizzie's as he unfastened his belt. Pushing her against the car door as he opens her robe, her legs around his waist.
He fucks her raw, and, well, it was probably the best fuck they've ever had.