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I was under no illusion that she was still feeling the fright that had her hiding in my wardrobe of all damn places, but I didn’t care.
I wanted her.
I needed her.
And I always got what I wanted.
When she didn’t kiss me back, I grabbed her lip between my teeth and dug down again. She hissed but, interestingly enough, didn’t try to pull back. Considering that was instinctive, I had to wonder why she hadn’t. Then, I wasn’t left to wonder much longer because, finally, her hips began to roll against mine.
The move was edgy. Unpracticed.
I didn’t care, though. It just felt too fucking good to have some friction against my cock that wasn’t thanks to my own fist.
I released her lip and she, in turn, released a whimper. That sound lit me up inside. It was keyed to everything about me that was instinctual. Like the caveman part of me had just woken up by triggering that atavistic side of her.
Fuck, I was speaking bullshit, but this was just so beyond normal for me that I didn’t know what the fuck was happening. I simply knew that from her unskilled movements, I could goddamn climax.
I pulled back from her and put space between us. She looked confused, her eyes wide and hungry, her lips parted as she pulled in ragged breaths. Her tits jiggled, and I wanted nothing more than to have my cock pillowed between those delicious mounds, and to have her naked on the floor, all of her glorious creaminess out on display.
“Strip,” I grated, and she jerked at my tone. Narrowing my eyes at her when she didn’t move, I bit off, “What the fuck are you waiting for?”
She jumped again, her tits bouncing with her, and then she reached for her camisole. As was the way with women, she crossed her arms in front of her, grabbed the hem, and then lifted it over her head. And what that simple move did to her tits had my tongue feeling too heavy for my mouth—I could have panted at the sight of all that flesh just waiting for my touch, my teeth.
Her hands were shaking as she reached behind her to release the snap of her simple, white cotton bra. There was no artifice about her, nothing that screamed she was a politician’s fancy piece of ass. When she undressed, she didn’t make it into an art form. A dance. She was utilitarian with her movements, and fuck, if that didn’t get me even hotter.
As she dragged the tight jeans down her legs, revealing a pair of mismatched panties from her now-discarded bra, her bottom lip quivered as she hooked them down, too.
When she toed out of them, standing there before me like something from a Renaissance painting, I couldn’t contain the growl as I snarled, “Get on my bed.”
With a little squeak, she hurried over to the bed, and her fear? Fuck, it got me hot.
I usually fucked women who knew what they were getting into when they got into my bed.
Some women? They liked the bad boys. They liked thinking they were fucking someone who knew what it was like on the other side of the tracks. Some of them probably had husbands who came home every night at six and kissed them goodnight while making love to them in their double bed.
That wasn’t me.
They came to me for a fuck, and I fucked them. Using them as much as they used me.
But Aoife wasn’t like that, and maybe that was why she got to me so fucking much.
I watched her ass jiggle as she retreated to my room, and when she planted herself on my bed, her skin clashed with the blue comforter, and it made her look like one big bowl of peaches and cream that I wanted to lap right up.
My mouth watered with need for a taste, but instead, I stayed the bastard I was and murmured, “Spread your legs and show me your pussy.”
Her eyes widened, a whimper escaped her, but God love good Irish women, she obeyed. She parted her thighs, slipped her hand between her legs and showed me her pussy.
I looked at her for endless moments, our gazes trained on one another until I broke it, broke the stare to grab a chair from the side of my dresser. I dragged it over to the foot of the bed and took a seat before the show in front of me.
“Are you Catholic, Aoife?”
She blinked at me. “My mom was. I was b-baptized.”
I tilted my head at that. “Do you go to church?”
“Sometimes.”
“When was your last confession?” I half-mocked.
