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It took no urging for her to bend over me, her mouth closing over the tip of my cock.
“More,” I told her. “Take more.”
And she did. Slick and hot, she took more of my cock. I waited for her to stop, to pull back, but she didn’t, and my hands in her hair holding on. Holding tight.
“Yes,” I breathed, half out of my mind with lust and pride. “Like that. Take it all the . . .” I arched into her, electricity running through me as she swallowed me deep. I bit my lip against everything I wanted to say. About how beautiful she was. How perfect. I swallowed all those words back down to where they came from.
Poppy hummed in her throat, the vibrations a special new torture. I held her head with both hands and fucked myself up into her as hard and high as I could go. Again. And then again.
And still, she surrendered.
What else would she give me? What more could I take from her? The thought of easing my cock deep into her asshole sent me hard over the edge and my orgasm nearly broke me in two.
“Jesus . . . fuck, Poppy.”
I let go of her, not wanting to hurt her, and she stayed with me to the end. Curled over me, milked everything out of me, until finally, with a gasp, she fell back on her heels. Her eyes streaming. Her lips red.
Smiling.
“That was . . .”
I couldn’t let her finish. A sudden and primal survival instinct lifted out of my childhood maybe. I didn’t fucking know. All I knew was the only way to survive this . . . us . . . was to not put anything into words. That way, years from now, I could convince myself this girl and the way she’d made me feel had been a fever dream. The effect of too little sleep.
Careful of her shoulder I lifted her into my lap, arranging her around me so I could kiss her as deep and as hard as I could. Kiss her like I wished I could fuck her. Completely.
I tasted myself on her, the salt and tang of my come, and the strange taboo of that was gone. And somewhere back in my brain, I realized the question wasn’t what else would she give me, but what would I give her? What lines would I cross? What bridges would I blow up for her?
This ground we were on was too goddamned dangerous. I’d tipped us—she’d tipped me—into a mine field.
She pulled back, panting for air, and I realized I was doing the same. Both of us breathing like we were being chased.
“That,” she began, insisting on smiling at me. Her shirt, the hand-me-down from Sinead, was a threadbare flannel shirt with buttons down the front. “Was amazing. You’re so fucking hot, Ronan. But I was pretty amazing. That had to be the best blowjob—”
I tore open the shirt she wore. Buttons flew into the fireplace and across the room into the kitchen. Instinctively, she lifted her hands to cover herself. “You startled me!” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“I didn’t mean to.” I pulled the shirt off her shoulders. God, her breasts. Her creamy skin with the sprinkling of freckles leftover from some long-ago sunburn. There was a mole just at the edge of her ribcage.
She’s just a lass who doesn’t realize she deserves better than you, you cunt. My father would never say that. But his voice had become the tool I used to torture myself with the truth.
“I meant to scare you,” I said and took the edges of the shirt, still buttoned at her wrists, and pulled, forcing her arms behind her back. “Does that hurt your shoulder?”
“No.”
“Good.” And there I tied the shirt in a knot.
She gasped, the skin of her neck turning red.
She tested the knot but couldn’t move. Her breasts lifted and fell with hard breaths, thrust forward by the position of her arms. Like she was offering herself to me. Fuck, I liked that.
And so did her, judging by the way she rocked against me. I could feel her—hot and wet—through the thin cotton pants she wore. She rocked again. And again. My cock sprang hard again in a heartbeat. I did nothing, my hands on the long arms of the chair we sat in while she worked to find the friction she needed. She spread her legs out wider, trying to press harder against my cock, but the chair was too narrow. Deep as fuck, but too narrow.
She made a sound of frustration.
“What’s wrong, princess?” I whispered.
“I can’t . . . I need.” She bent forward, and I put my arms on her elbows, pushing her back up so I could see her face. I wanted every second of this. “Help me, Ronan.”
