“Loch, I need—I need—”
He changes the angle again and nails my prostate dead-center.
My head throws back in a shower of sparks.
His teeth sink into my exposed neck and he sucks, hard, scatters more of those sparks across my skin in another mark of his, replacing his paint. Each thrust hits me exactly right, embers flying wild.
His hand snakes between us and closes around my dick, pumping in time with his firestorm hips. “Let it out now, Kris,” he orders into my skin.
My thighs are shaking, arms strung taut, every muscle straining, reaching, his cock drilling me relentlessly, I can’t not obey.
Sensation releases me like cannon fire, a clawing shout and an explosion and I’m wrecked, spilling over his hand and streaking across our chests.
Loch’s thrusts stutter. His face is buried against the side of mine and I hear him, babbled, senseless groans—no, words, words that slip through me like water before I can think to hold on to them.
“Mo chroí, mo chuisle, mo mhuirnín,” then “Kris,” and his whole body tenses and quakes.
He doesn’t give himself a chance to relax, he barely lets me breathe before his lips are on mine again, desperate, even more so now. He rocks steadily, almost absently, and I’m over-sensitized but I meet him there, gently pitching my hips with tiny, fevered grunts until we’re twitching in aftershocks.
Loch pries at my fingers on the headboard.
“Touch me,” he orders, and I do, I have to, arms damn near jelly but I curl them across his back and feel the sweat sheen on his skin, the rattling beat of his heart against his ribs.
The kiss settles from needy to savoring. Our lips are raw, our breaths pushing through in demanding gasps, but I can’t stop, and he doesn’t either, licking and tasting andfeeling,I can’t get enough.
I want to know the evolution of his kisses. How today’s will be different from tomorrow or next month or five years from now, how the texture of his lips will change, how sometimes he’ll be aggressive and sometimes he’ll be this and I want to be able to track thedifferences like constellations. I want to know what it’s like to kiss this man at every stage of his life.
Word by word.
It’s too big to think of anything else.
But I want his forever.
I want it and I love him and I’m a goddamn moron.
Chapter Seventeen
My body is heavy and deeply relaxed, every limb sinking into the mattress in the density that comes on the border of sleep. A dream is there, something about paint splattered on a wall, fingers dragging through it—
Loch moves against me, and I come fully into consciousness.
I slept. And for the first time in I don’t even know how long, I’m not exhausted.
I’mhappy.
His head is in the middle of my chest, one arm slung over me, pinning me to the bed. His shoulders steadily rise and fall, the muscles down his back contracting and releasing in rhythmic breaths, the sheet draped across his waist.
As carefully as I can, I grab for my phone on the bedside table. It’s barely morning. Of what should be my last day in Ireland. My room is a mess with the food trays we hauled up yesterday, most of the bedding is knotted around us, pillows scattered. Everywhere is marked by the undeniable signs that we did absolutely nothing all day yesterday except each other.
I scroll through missed texts. Nothing pressing.
Except that it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and the guy who should be overseeing this Holiday now is dead asleep on my chest.
I set my phone back down and brush my fingers through his bright hair. “Hey. Loch.”
He stiffens, a panicked waking up, before he remembers where he is, who he’s with, and channels that alertness into peering up at me.
A groan, and he drops his face to my sternum. “No. It’s na morning yet.”
