Page 20 of Her Irish Savage

His eyes go flat, like a rattlesnake eyeing a mouse for supper. “What did you just call me?”

I hear the warning in his voice, sharper and far more deadly than the alarm that rang when I shimmied out of my seatbelt. I catch my breath against the unexpected belly-swoop that jacks my heartbeat into overdrive.

Maybe it’s the aftermath of being shot at, the leftover adrenaline from fleeing thedúnlike a pair of action-adventure heroes. Maybe it’s rage at the Crew for not letting me in, or it’s how Moran was taken down by the desk clerk, or it’s because Iwant new memories to replace the shitty ones of Madden Kelly’s fists.

But I want more of this breathless feeling—of this sudden raw desire. I purposely soften my tone before I look up at Moran through my lashes. “Daddy?” I coo. “Won’t you help your little girl?”

He closes the distance between us like he’s been shot out of a cannon.

His hand moves with precision, fingers seizing the zipper tab like tweezers. His pull is steady and strong. The front of the suit compresses my chest, then my ribs, then the small of my back before he peels the vinyl down to my ankles.

I barely have a chance to snatch a full breath before he shoves me onto the bed. My feet are trapped as I balance on all fours. Moran orders: “Stay.”

I’m tempted to woof like a dog. Instead, I look over my naked shoulder and say, “Yes, Daddy.”

I watch something snap inside him. He toes off his shoes like they’re doused in acid; he strips off his socks too. He pulls off his long-sleeve T, tossing his head like a bull once he’s free. He doesn’t bother pulling his belt all the way clear, just undoes the buckle, then his button and zipper. He pulls his boxer briefs down with his jeans.

He’s naked, except for a scattering of scars and the tattoos that cover his right arm. A lighthouse stretches from his shoulder to his elbow, wreathed in black clouds and thready lightning that boils over his biceps. The design is executed in exquisite detail; I can make out windows on the tower and every bar of the iron cage at the top. Storm-whipped ocean waves cover his forearm. The tattooed zigzag of a heart monitor races across his wrist, cut short with an unflinching straight line.

I reach for the design because it’s beautiful and it’s terrible and I can’t imagine how many hours he sat in some artist’s chair, getting the ink pumped under his skin.

He bats my hand away. I’m not allowed to touch.

For a single gobsmacked moment, I think he’s retreating to the bathroom again. But then I realize he’s tearing into his duffel in the corner. He’s digging into a leather kit, shoving aside a comb, a razor, and an amber bottle of pills. He comes up with a chain of foil squares, victory glinting in his eyes.

I twist to help him as he tears open a packet. I want to roll the condom over his cock. I want to run my fingers down the rubber, feel the length of him, hard and ready. “Please,” I say. “I’m Daddy’s little helper.”

He slaps my hand again and turns me around, his chest to my back. When I arch against him, I feel his dick between us, pressing hard against me.

His fingers close around the nape of my neck, and he pushes me forward, his grip steady and commanding. I balance on hands and knees again, but he wants more. Hedemandsmore. He lowers my face toward the mattress until I sink onto my forearms. My bare ass is full exposed.

“Is this what you want, Daddy? Is this how you want your little girl?”

I’ve never played this game before. I only say the words now because they’re sparking something deep beneath Moran’s surface, something fierce, something animal.

I need that savagery. I need to forget what Madden did, forget that Da died, forget the surprise of gunfire at thedún.I need Moran to fuck the last twenty-four hours out of my mind.

He digs his fingers into my hips, tugging me back until I feel the tip of his cock between my legs. I gasp—not because he’s hot and not because he’s hard and not because he’s bigger than any man I’ve ever had before. I hiss because his fingers find my bruises. They burrow into dark places where Madden shoved his fists.

Moran growls something, Irish again, ending with that word he calls me:Scáthach.He shifts his grip and folds an arm around my belly. He’s holding me tighter than he was before, but now itdoesn’t hurt. He’s not pressing into my old wounds. He’s found a new way to pull me close.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I say, pushing back against him.

He reaches between my thighs and slides his thumb inside. I’m wet. Soaked. He must like how I feel, because he groans deep inside his throat.

He drives home like he’s staking a claim in a gold mine. I gasp at the pressure, at his weight, at his strength. He fills me, going deeper than any man has ever gone before. A flutter immediately starts inside me, a ripple, a swirl.

He eases back, slow and steady, almost pulling free. I need him, though. I don’t want to let him go. I whine, a silly, desperate sound, and then I whisper the same order he gave me: “Stay.”

He stays. He tightens his arm beneath me. He shifts his weight and he fills me again.

It’s easy to find our rhythm. We move without shame, without awkwardness, without any of the little slips and stumbles new lovers make.

Sex with Moran is hard and fast and dirty.

He says my cunt is amazing. He tells me I’m strong. He says I’m brave, and no one has ever said that before, and I don’t believe him, I can’t believe him, even though I’m opening up beneath him, and I’m spinning…hanging…waiting…

I come.

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