Page 46 of Bloody Knuckles

His hand rises to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—feeling my pulse, asserting dominance, or perhaps simply connecting with something alive after dealing so much death.

"I felt you drive that pen into McKinney's throat," he says, voice dropping lower. "Witnessed you shoot Byrne without even a breath. Do you know what that did to me?"

My pulse jumps beneath his palm. "Tell me."

"It made me want to fuck you right there on the docks," he confesses, crude words wrapped in velvet darkness. "Blood on your hands, gun in your hand. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

The words ignite something wild within me—validation of the darkness I usually keep hidden. With Cormac, I don't need to pretend to be less than I am, to hide the parts of myself shaped by Gallagher blood and legacy.

I press against him, feeling the solid wall of his chest. "So why didn't you?"

His grip tightens slightly. "Because we had fifteen Gallagher soldiers to escape. Because your arm was bleeding. Because?—"

I silence him with my mouth, rising onto tiptoes to claim his lips. He responds instantly, arms encircling me with bruising force. The kiss is all teeth and tongue and desperate need fueled by adrenaline and bloodshed.

His hands tear at what remains of my sweater, ripping the cashmere like tissue paper. My bra follows, joining the ruined garment on the floor. I attack his tactical vest with equal fervor, releasing buckles and zippers until his upper body is revealed—sculpted muscle marked with fresh cuts and forming bruises from the dock battle.

"We should clean up," he murmurs against my neck, even as his hands work at my jeans. "Shower."

"Later." I push him backward toward the sofa, need overriding propriety. "Now I want you to deliver on that dockside fantasy."

Something dangerous flashes across his features—restraint snapping like a taut wire. He lifts me, spinning to press me against the nearest wall. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he fumbles with his tactical pants, freeing his erection.

"Tell me you want this," he demands, cock poised at my entrance. "Say it."

"I want you," I gasp, body thrumming with need. "Now, Cormac."

He enters me in one powerful thrust, the burn of insufficient preparation only heightening the sensation. My back scrapes against the wall as he thrusts with a punishing rhythm, each thrust bottoming out inside me. The delicious friction sends shocks of pleasure-pain radiating through my core, my body struggling to accommodate his size.

"You're mine," he growls against my ear. "Say it."

"I'm yours," I agree, too far gone to argue semantics. In this moment, I belong to him completely—body clenching around his cock, nails scoring his back, teeth marking his shoulder.

He adjusts his angle, hitting the spot inside that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. The head of his cock drags mercilessly against my g-spot with each thrust, building pressure at an alarming rate. My thighs begin to tremble around his waist, muscles tensing as pleasure coils tighter.

"Again," he commands, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate.

"Yours," I repeat, the word torn from me as pleasure builds to unbearable heights. "Fuck—Cormac!"

"That's it." His pace increases, driving me higher. One hand braces against the wall while the other slides between us, finding my clit. "Come for me. Show me who you belong to."

His fingers circle my sensitive bundle of nerves as his cock continues its relentless assault on my inner walls. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing me toward the edge with frightening speed. My head falls back against the wall, exposing my throat, which he immediately attacks with teeth and tongue.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, biting the junction between my neck and shoulder. "So tight. So wet. Made for me."

The possessive words combined with the physical onslaught trigger my release. I shatter around him, pussy clamping down as waves of pleasure crash through me. The orgasm is violent, robbing me of breath, of thought, of everything except the white-hot ecstasy pulsing through every nerve ending.

"Fuck—I can feel you coming," he groans, thrusts becoming erratic. "Squeezing my cock so tight?—"

He follows moments later, burying himself deep as his release pumps hot inside me. His whole body shudders against mine, muscles tensing as he empties himself with a guttural groan that sounds almost pained. I feel each pulse of his cock as he fills me, marking me as his.

We stay connected, breathing heavily as aftershocks ripple through us. His forehead rests against mine, sweat mingling, an unusual tenderness in the gesture given the violent passion preceding it.

"You could have gone with them," he says finally, voice rough. "With your brother's men. The safer choice."

"Nothing about my life has ever been safe." I trace a fresh cut along his collarbone. "Why start now?"

He withdraws slowly. His come trickles down my thigh, a visceral reminder of what just happened between us. Without the heat of passion, reality begins to intrude—the shattered glass surrounding us, my ruined clothes, the dangers still out there.

---