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“We can.” I stalked toward him. I had him now. Conor was mine. He was still fighting it. But it was futile. I knew it. He knew it.
“I can’t.” He stumbled back, kicking out the chair, his movements now wild and jerky as I advanced.
I felt powerful. Like I was, for once, the predator. And he was my prey. It was only a matter of steps before he gave in. Before he was mine.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I promised, “you just let me do it.”
“But they’ll… Diarmuid will—”
“—doesn’t have to know.”
His back slammed into the bedroom door with a rattle. I couldn’t help the triumphant smile as I closed the distance between us. He had nowhere else to go. Nowhere left to run.
He’d have to face me. Face himself and what he wanted, what he needed.
What we both needed.
What we’ve both wanted from the very fucking start.
I leaned in and pressed my breasts against his firm body, pushed my aching core against his bulge, letting out a low moan. This is how we fit, Conor.Can’t you see how well we fit?
“Damn you,” he hissed, his hands coming up to grab my shoulders. He didn’t push me away. But he didn’t pull me closer.
“Stop fighting me,” I whispered into his mouth before I melded my lips to his.
For a moment, he didn’t move. For a moment, he kept fighting. Fighting me. Fighting himself.
Why the hell were we so wrong? In a lifetime of wrongs this was the only thing that felt right.
My heart started to sink, the edges of my confidence blurring from the sting of rejection. His fight was too great. Or perhaps his need for me was too weak.
Then he moved, suddenly, like he was bursting out of a prison. His hands crushed me to his body, lifting me off my toes. His head tilting so he could lock us in further, his tongue meeting mine in a wild dance.
It was a violent unleashing, a whirlwind released from a bottle. We were hands and groans and clashing tongues and grinding hips. His hands slid around to my ass and he picked me up by the backs of my thighs like I weighed nothing, wrapping my thighs around his waist, spilling groans into each other’s mouths as my pussy and his cock pressed together.
I heard him fumble for the door handle, the shudder of the door in its frame before it released and swung open. He stumbled us into the room like he was drunk. Swaying at the foot of the bed before he dropped me onto it. I landed with a bounce and a yelp.
He was like an avenging angel towering over me, his chest heaving, his wide shoulders like dark wings. My broken tattooed angel. I reached for him, arching my back as my nipples begged to be rubbed raw by the smattering of hair on his chest.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“But—”
“Don’t. Move.”
I lay there, trembling. Silently begging for him not to leave me here like this. I would die. I would burst at the seams of me, my need, my desperation too big to contain.
He kneeled at the foot of the bed. I lifted my head and yelped as he grabbed my ankles and tugged me down the mattress until my ass was hanging off the edge. He placed my knees over his shoulders. I felt so exposed, a shudder running up my spine.
I let out a gasp as I felt his breath on my inner thighs, as he traced the edges of my aching core and gently parted my lips.
“Fuck,” he breathed, “you are…art.”
Before I could respond, he lay his tongue flat on my centre and licked long and firm.
He painted me with his tongue over and over. Swirls over my clit. Long strokes from ass to tip. Firm dabs into my entrance.
All words left my mind. All sound except the rush of the blood in my ears. My vision was nothing but the splashes of colour behind my closed lids.
