Page 45 of Dirty Delivery

I follow his command and the plug slides in with only a moment’s resistance. The sensation is strange, a mix of fullness and pressure that leaves me squirming.

“Perfect,” he says, his hands caressing my hips. “You take everything I give you so well, mo stóirín.”

Before I can respond, his hands grip my hips and lift me slightly. I hear the sound of his zipper, and then the head of his cock presses against my wetness. He slides into me slowly, filling me completely. The added sensation of the plug makes everything tighter, more intense.

“Look at you,” he groans, his voice strained. “So perfect. So mine.”

I gasp, my pussy clenching around him as he begins to move, slow and deliberate at first, before he finds a rhythm that leaves me breathless. Being restrained, unable to reach for him, leaves me aching with desperation, craving more of his touch. Each thrust draws a soft moan from my lips, the pleasure building into an unbearable crescendo. His hands clutch my hips, pullingme closer as he presses deeper, the sensations sending sparks through every nerve in my body.

“You’re incredible,” he mutters, his voice rough with restraint. “The way your body responds to me—it’s like you were made for this. Made for me.”

I can barely form a coherent thought, much less a response. The cold counter against my stomach is a sharp contrast to the heat running through my veins, my wrists bound and body trembling as waves of ecstasy crash over me, leaving me utterly at his mercy. The fullness, the pressure, the intimacy of his touch—it’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

“Rylan,” I breathe, my voice breaking. “I’m . . . I’m so close.”

His lips brush against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Then let go, mo stóirín. Let me feel you.”

With his encouragement, the tension coils tight and snaps. My climax washes over me in a rush of heat and light. My body clenches around him, drawing a deep growl from his throat as he follows me over the edge. His movements grow erratic, his grip tightening as he finds his own release, filling me completely.

For a moment, the world is still. Only our labored breathing disturbing the quiet calm. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck, his touch surprisingly tender after the intensity of what we’ve just shared.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Every part of you.”

I smile, my heart swelling with an emotion I’m not quite ready to name. Instead, I’ll just bask in the warmth of his arms and the safety of his presence, letting the rest of the world fade away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Savannah

It’s peaceful here, impossibly so, but my mind is anything but. I sit on the edge of the bed, basking in the golden streaks of the golden morning light, staring out at the ocean beyond the wide windows. Waves crash rhythmically against the shore, their sound soothing yet distant, like background noise to the storm brewing in my head.

How the hell did my life change so much, so fast?

A month ago, my biggest worry was figuring out how to escape awkward Tinder dates and survive another school year without completely losing my sanity. Now, I’m hiding out on a private coastal island with a man who—let’s be honest—might as wellhave walked straight out of one of my forbidden fantasies. Only, he’s real.

I run my hands through my hair, letting out a shaky breath. He’s completely upended everything I thought I wanted, everything I thought I knew about myself. He was just supposed to be the cocky delivery guy who always pushed my buttons, flashing that arrogant smirk and leaving me blushing and annoyed in equal measure. But now? Now he’s . . . more. So much more.

He’s protective and commanding, yet unexpectedly kind. The way he looks at me—like I’m the only thing in the world that matters to him—it’s as thrilling as it is terrifying. It’s the kind of look I’ve dreamed about but never truly believed I deserved.

And then there’s the way he touches me.

God, the way he touches me. He knows my body better than I do, teasing out reactions I didn’t think I was capable of. It’s intoxicating, the way he can make me forget every fear, every doubt, with just a single brush of his lips or the firm grip of his hands. But this isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, too. He makes me feel seen in a way I’ve never felt before, like he’s peeled back every layer of my defenses and laid me bare.

And yet, I’m still conflicted.

I rub my temples, trying to organize the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume me. This is the same man who has been essentially stalking me—granted, it was to keep me safe, but still. He broke into my life, quite literally, and forced me to stay in his world. That should be unforgivable. And part of me wants to hold onto that anger, that sense of violation. But I think about the way he’s protected me, the way he’s held me like I’m something precious, and I . . .

Damn it, Savannah, get it together.

I stand abruptly, pacing the room in frustration. How did he break down my walls so easily? How did he get under my skin,in my head, and . . . in my heart? Because, whether I like it or not, that’s exactly where he is. I stop mid-step, gripping the edge of the counter as the weight of that realization slams into me. I’ve spent so long protecting myself, keeping everyone at arm’s length, yet here he is—blazing through my defenses like they were built from sand. The thought terrifies me, but what’s worse is how much I don’t want to rebuild them. I don’t want to shut him out, even if it means risking everything. Because in his presence, I feel seen. Known. Wanted. And that’s a kind of danger I’m not sure I can walk away from.

And that’s the most unsettling part of all of this—how quickly he’s become essential to me. He’s a force of nature I can’t fight against. It’s not just the vulnerability that scares me; it’s the thought of surrendering completely, only to find myself alone if he decides to walk away.

This is the furthest I’ve ever let anyone in. There’s no comparison, not even close. It’s always been easier to keep people at arm’s length, to avoid the risk of being hurt. But Rylan . . . he’s already broken through, and I don’t know how to deal with that.

The memory of last night flashes through my mind, his hands on my skin, his lips tracing paths that left me trembling. It wasn’t just the pleasure—though, God, there was plenty of that. It was the way he looked at me afterward, like I was something sacred. Like I was his. And that—that terrifies me more than anything.

Because what if I want to be?

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