Her lashes fluttered, then lifted. Satisfaction punched him in the chest when her pleasure-glazed brown eyes met his. Because he’d put that look there. The feeling was primitive. It was arrogant. But fuck if he didn’t own it.
“You good? You still with me?”
She blinked, the haze clearing. Her gaze roamed over his face then lower, down his shoulders, chest and lower still, taking in his dick that stood at rock-hard attention. He didn’t try to hide from her, fisting his erection, stroking it. Letting her see just what she did to him.
“Yes, I’m still with you.” She reached for him, covering his hand with hers. Replacing his hands with hers.
A full-body shiver racked him as her delicate fingers wrapped around him, squeezed him. His head bowed, palms flattened on his thighs. And he watched her—watched her touch him. Undo him.
“Enough, baby,” he ground out, gently sweeping aside her devastating fists. “I want to finish inside of you.”
Picking up the protection, he ripped it open, swiftly sheathed himself and then climbed onto the couch. He crouched over her, one knee separating her thighs, the other planted on the floor. The head of his dick kissed the wet, tiny opening of her sex, and he shook from that barely there caress, yet he paused.
As much as it cost him, he gripped the arm of the couch and pressed his forehead to hers, carefully crushed his mouth to hers...and breathed Mycah in. As he parted his lips, slowly slid his tongue into her, he mimicked the action with his cock.
Thrust.
Penetrated.
Buried deep.
Heat. A liquid heat that scalded and had him drowning at the same time.
He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling around the couch’s arm so tight they pulsed in protest. His muscles howled with the need to move, but the stranglehold she had on his dick... Too tight. Almost painfully tight. And too fucking perfect. He didn’t want to break it.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he scattered hard kisses to the corners of her mouth, chin, cheekbones, temples, forehead.
“Talk to me, Mycah.” He studied her, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. Her sex fluttered around his dick, as if acclimating to his width, his length. And he granted her that time. Still, before he did anything else, he wanted those words to move. “You okay? Tell me what you need from me.”
Her tongue wet her full lips, and she met his gaze. “Don’t hold back with me.”
Groaning, he hooked a hand underneath her leg, and withdrawing until only the tip of him remained notched inside her, he thrust home. Their twin groans saturated the room, snapping his control. Her nails bit into his waist, and that added a flare of pain to the sensory overload that catapulted him into this erotic storm.
He didn’t fight it. Didn’t want to. No, he willingly became a part of it. He let go, sweeping Mycah up with him, riding her, fucking her with an abandon that should’ve alarmed him. And if he’d cared enough to slow down, to analyze why this woman affected him in a way no other did, he might’ve been scared. But he didn’t slow. Didn’t analyze. Didn’t care.
Flipping them over together, he buried his hands in her curls, dragging her head down and fusing their mouths together as he slammed up inside her, urging her to take him even as he did the taking. And she obeyed that unspoken command. Her hips crashed into his over and over, she rose and lowered, doing a lewd dance that threatened to send them into the sweetest, dirtiest oblivion.
Mycah trembled, her sex quivering around him, and heeding that signal of a looming release, Achilles reached between them and circled that slick, swollen button between her feminine folds. Circled, rubbed. Pinched.
With a high, hoarse scream, she came.
And a couple of strokes later, he went with her.
Even as he hurled over that edge, he knew one truth...
Once wouldn’t be enough.
Four
The elevator doors opened with a quiet hiss and Achilles stepped onto the executive floor of Farrell International. It’d been three months since he’d attended the reading of hisfather’swill. He barely managed to suppress a shudder. God, even thinking that word still had a fist of disgust and anger lodged in the base of his throat. It’d been three months since he’d arrived in Boston to find out about Barron’s death. Since he’d gained two half brothers. Since he’d become a billionaire who owned and ran one-third of an international conglomerate.
But in those ninety-and-some-change days, he’d yet to stop feeling like an impostor. Yet to stop feeling like the fifty-first part of a fifty-piece puzzle that the manufacturer mistakenly added to the box.
The Feral Farrell.
That’s what they called him.
Not to Achilles’s face. No, Boston’s so-called polite society and his older brother Cain’s many business associates weren’t brave enough to risk their reputation or bottom line to do something as stupid as blatantly insult a Farrell. Bastard or not.
