Page 53 of Her Irish Savage

Instead, he gives me his fingers to suck.

They’re salty and sweet. I roll my tongue over them, around them. I pull hard, trying to fill all the empty places inside me.

And he lowers his head to my right breast, sucking my nipple past his teeth. His mouth threads a wire straight to my clit, and just like that, I’m on the edge of coming for the third time.

“Oh my God,” I moan around the fingers in my mouth. He starts to trace my lips, making them hum again, the way they did in the kitchen. Before I can beg, though, he uses his wet fingers to pinch my nipple—hard, harder, hardest, almost more than I can bear.

At the same time, he slides down my body and buries his face between my thighs.

Patrick Moran knows how to eat pussy. He draws my folds into his mouth, pulling with a steady pressure that makes me strain for more. He fucks me with his tongue. He sucks on my clit.

I’ve never been with a man who wanted to go down on me. Sure, a couple of guys have licked me like I’m an ice cream cone. One worked down there for long enough that I produced my usual fake orgasm—shouting his name, pulling his hair, the whole nine yards. But five minutes later, I realized he only did it so he’d get his own pipes cleaned.

Patrick isn’t checking off items on a spreadsheet. He’s paying attention to what I want. What I need. When his thumb stretches my taint, my clit starts to pulse, echoing the heartbeat that’s hammering through my head. He spears my pussy with his tongue until I beg. “Please,” I tell him. “Just do it,” I plead. “Let me finish. Please.”

He raises his head, those coal-black eyes peering at me over the curve of my waxed mound, over the plane of my belly that rises and falls as I pant for release. His thumb is heavy, pulling me, stretching me.

“You’ve got the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he says.

And I’m coming before he sucks my clit into this mouth.

My feet fight against the silk neckties that bind them. My arms strain against the leather belt. My entire body is electrified, on fire; every nerve is shattered.

I can’t tell where his lips are, what his tongue is doing as he works miracles between my thighs. All I know is I’m cresting again, before I ever imagined my body could respond.

I scream without words as every cell in my body explodes. I never imagined sex could be this way, could be this good, could empty my soul and fill it back to overflowing.

Somehow I realize that Patrick has left the bed, but before I can complain, he’s back. I slit my eyes open, barely able to make sense of shapes, of shadows.

He’s worked a condom out of its foil and rolled the rubber over his cock. He’s pressed himself against me, against my clit, against my pussy that still flutters with electric aftershocks.

There’s no way I can come again. I might never have another orgasm in my life.

When he fills me, my entire body stretches. My lips open, eager, wanting, and I didn’t know I needed to kiss him until his mouth covers mine. He moves inside me as our tongues meet, slowly, effortlessly, opening new paths to bliss.

I’m bound. I can’t clutch him. I can’t rake my fingernails down his back. I can’t dig my fingers into the muscles of his ass, speed him up, slow him down, do anything to make this right.

I’m helpless.

But the ocean waves rise from somewhere deep inside me. They’re a slow roll, a deep flex, something calmer and more profound than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.

Patrick breaks our kiss, but his lips stay close enough to mine that I feel him form the words: “You’re incredible,Scáthach.”

I fold around him.

This isn’t an orgasm like any I’ve had before. This is perfect balance, perfect ease. I’m not falling, because he’s already caught me. I’m not soaring, because he’s already gathered me close.

And this time when I come, he does too. His body tightens. His mouth melts against mine. He pulses inside my body, binding us, merging us in the darkness.

He calls meScáthachagain, and then he speaks in Irish, soft words, sweet words, words my soul already knows. And even before he comes back to English, I know I’ll do anything to be his little girl forever.

20

PATRICK

After I ease out of Fiona, I unfasten my belt from the headboard. I help her to lower her arms, making sure she doesn’t move too fast, doesn’t set off waves of cramps in her toned, stretched arms. The knots around her ankles take more time; she’s pulled them tight by straining against the bed.

She’s still dazed, but she’s free and curled onto her side. It’s safe for me to go into the jacks, to take care of the johnny. Back in the bedroom, I pull my last pair of boxer briefs from my duffel. That’s enough clothes for me to head into the kitchen.

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