Page 35 of Dirty Delivery

“Savannah,” he growls. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I pull back just enough to look up at him and meet his gaze. The intensity in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine, and I know I’m exactly where I want to be.

“Good,” I murmur before taking him back into my mouth, determined to push him to the edge—and maybe take myself over with him.

His groans grow louder as I take him deeper, my pace quickening. He thrusts gently at first, but when I don’t pull away, he begins to move more deliberately, his hips rocking forward in time with my strokes. The motion sends a rush of heat through me, and I hum softly around him. The vibration earns me a sharp growl from his throat.

I reach up to cup his balls in my hand and massage them gently. The combination drives him wild, his breathing ragged as his hands twitch in the blanket again, clearly fighting the urge to touch me.

“Savannah,” he warns. “You’re playing with fire.”

I look up at him, keeping my pace steady, and let the corner of my mouth curl into a wicked smile. He groans at the sight, and his control slips further, his hips jerking forward.

“That’s it,” he growls, his hand finally tangling in my hair as his need overtakes him. But just as I think he’s going to take control, he pulls me back. The sudden loss of him leaves me gasping for breath.

Before I can protest, he leans forward and grips my arms as he pulls me to my feet. In one swift motion, he tears my shirt over my head, only to toss it to the side. His hands cup my breasts, and his thumbs brush over my nipples before pinching them lightly, which sends a jolt of pleasure straight through me.

I moan at the sensation and brace my hands on his shoulders. His lips curl into a devilish grin. “You’re so fucking perfect.” He lifts me effortlessly and settles me onto the couch.

His fingers hook into the waistband of my sleep shorts, and with one sharp tug, he rips them away, leaving me bare beneath him. He doesn’t hesitate, lining himself up and driving into me in one smooth, powerful stroke. The sudden fullness steals my breath. My nails dig into his shoulders as he sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving me closer to the edge.

“Look at your pussy taking all of me, such a good fucking girl.” The gravel in his voice is laden with lust. “So wet and tight for me, mo stóirín. Your pussy was made for me.”

“Please, Rylan,” I whimper, my voice breathless. “I need more. Harder.”

He responds immediately, grabbing my breast firmly and tweaking my nipple hard. It sends a jolt of delicious pain through me. The sharp mix of pleasure and pain is intoxicating, and realization ripples through me: I’ll take anything he gives me.

My orgasm builds inside me, my pussy fluttering around his cock. “I’m going to cum, Sir,” I cry out, unable to hold back.

“That’s right, baby,” he groans, his pace never faltering. “Come all over this cock like the good little slut I know you are. Milk my cock dry.”

His hand slides down to pinch and roll my clit, and I shatter. The orgasm crashes over me, a tidal wave of pleasure that steals my breath and leaves me trembling. My juices explode out of me, and his eyes darken with hunger.

“Fuck, baby, look at you squirting for me,” he purrs, his thrusts continuing hard and fast. The relentless pace tips him over the edge, and with a guttural moan, he stills, his warmth spilling into me as he finds his release.

The sound of our ragged breathing fills the room, and I collapse against him, my body spent and sated. For a moment, neither of us speaks, the weight of what just happened settling over us like a blanket. But as his arms wrap around me and pull me close, I know one thing for sure—this man is going to ruin me.

And I’m going to let him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Savannah

I’ve never been one to sit still for long, but being cooped up in Rylan’s house for days on end is a special kind of torture. The silence is oppressive, and the endless ticking of the clock is a constant reminder of just how little control I have over my life right now. I’m restless, pacing the hallways like a caged animal, and it’s not just the physical confinement getting to me. It’s the mental strain of everything.

But . . . there’s something else. Something lighter, freer, that I can’t quite put into words. It hits me as I’m staring out the window, watching the world carry on without me. For the first time in what feels like years, I don’t feel the crushing weight ofteaching. I don’t miss the early mornings or the endless lesson plans. I don’t miss the demanding parents or the even more demanding expectations I put on myself.

The realization settles over me like a warm breeze: I don’t enjoy teaching anymore. Maybe I never really have. The pressure of it all had driven me to a breaking point, one I hadn’t even recognized until now. The thought that my unhappiness might have contributed to one bad decision that led to this mess—inviting a stranger into my home—is sobering.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to meet expectations that weren’t even my own. Maybe it’s time I let go of them.

With a newfound determination, I find Rylan’s office and borrow his laptop. He’d left it on the desk, his trust in me evident in the way he didn’t even ask what I needed it for. I sit down and open my email. My heart races while I draft my resignation.

Subject:Immediate Resignation

Dear Principal Courtney,

Effective immediately, I am resigning from my position. Thank you for the opportunities over the years.

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