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“More,” she begged louder. “More!”
He growled with intention, lifting her right up onto him as he kneeled in his worship. Lifted her over and over with squeezing hands beneath her thighs so feverishly, the springs sang beneath their syncing moans.
Fionn slowed a fraction, to squeeze the edges of her jaws until her lips became plush.
Enjoying the clench and stern look in his eye, she looked up at him through lashes, a hand instinctively falling between her legs to rub herself. To use her power for pleasure.
“Oh fuck!” Áine cried, cupping the side of his face with her free hand, to take him with her to this perfect feeling.
He groaned at that, thrusting harder again, commanding her body’s touch.
“Yes. Rub for me, Áine. Fucking come for me.”
She nodded, over and over, cheeks plump and rosied and warm as the build became too much to bear.
“Yes—I—Fionn,” she panted.
He looked down at her hand, spurring his own to squeeze the meat of her bottom. “Áine, I’m—going—to—”
“Please!”
The swell of him thickened more, made her pulse and scream in the back of her throat until . . . she burst, and everything became lustrous. Like they were shackled to a dying star too beautiful to care about the pain just around the corner.
“I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming!” she moaned toward the ceiling as her hands entangled his warm face.
He gripped her shoulders, pushing her body into him to its limit, writhing as he emptied himself into her with animalistic grunts. And then they stayed in the position, Fionn still inside, pulsing the wild temptation to start all over again. They panted atop each other’s shoulders where lungs emptied both of air and all the hardships they allowed themselves to forget for a few minutes.
Áine cradled into his warmth, so very grateful for his touch. But the idea of that being the one time they got to be together made her want to cry. Made her insides well and bloom until the stress pooled into her eyes.
She sat back to take hold of her failing composure.
“Jesus, are ya’ alright? Did I hurt you?” he asked, checking her floppy arms, searching for signs of distress in her eyes.
She sniffled. Almost laughed. “No. God no. I’m overwhelmed, I think. Sad it’s over.”
He brushed her curls behind her ear, seemingly studying something on her sad face.
“I think I feel the same,” he said quietly. “And I say think because I also feel very happy. I’m not sure there’s a word for that, which is surprising because it’s like earlier where maybe some other language does have a way of describing it.”
“Bittersweet belly,” she said. There was no other way to put it.
“What’s that?”
“It’s . . . it’s nothing. Something my Gran would say. It’s that feeling like when there’s a brewing absence of something currently wonderful.”
“Well, I won’t be telling your gran this, but I have a solution for this one.”
“What’s that?” Her heart lodged in her throat for all the things he could say, but ultimately, and what should have stopped coming as a surprise to her at this point, was that he gave herexactlywhat she wanted.
“Round two!” He grinned and pulled the thin sheet up over them to dull the noise of her giggles.
With that, it was in her worshipping him now. Using her mouth, which so easily gave patronage to another without ever uttering a word.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dublin 2016
Áine
