Page 12 of Christmas with the Irish Devil
She whimpers, that needy, broken sound that goes straight to my cock, and arches into me, grinding herself on the thick length trapped against my thigh. I let go of one wrist and drag my hand down her body, slow, so I can feel every tremor. I palm her breast, squeeze, my thumb rolling over the peaked nipple until she gasps. Her head tilts back against the glass, lips parting, eyes half-lidded.
“Open your eyes,” I tell her, and when she does, she catches her reflection in the black mirror of the glass, her face flushed, mouth wet, pupils blown wide. I watch her watch herself as my hand slides lower, over the flutter of her belly, into the soaked lace between her thighs. She’s so wet it’s obscene, the fabric clinging, sticking, and I hook a finger in to push it aside.
The heat of her bare and dripping is enough to make me bare my teeth. I drag two fingers through her slit, slow, just to feel the way she shudders. Her clit is swollen, needy, and when I circle it with the pad of my thumb she lets out a high, desperate sound that has me pushing my fingers inside her before she can catch her breath.
“Christ, Aoife,” I rasp, curling them deep, feeling the way her body grips and pulls at me like she’s trying to drag me deeper. “You’re fucking soaked.”
She tries to move her hips, to ride my hand, but I pin her harder with my weight, pressing her into the glass so her breasts flatten against the cool surface. Her breath fogs the windowin hot, shallow bursts. I keep my thumb working her clit, my fingers stroking the spot that makes her knees tremble.
“Say you want it,” I tell her.
“I want it,” she gasps, almost sobbing it, and I reward her with a sharper thrust of my fingers.
I pull out and drop to my knees, yanking the lace down her legs. She’s bare for me now, dripping, and I hook her thighs over my shoulders, lifting her enough to get my mouth on her. The first taste of her has me groaning, the slick heat and salt of her flooding my tongue. I eat her like I’ve been starving for it, sucking her clit into my mouth, rolling it between my lips until she’s shaking against the glass.
Her fingers claw into my hair, her hips grinding down like she can’t help herself, riding my face. Every moan is hotter than the last, little broken hums that hitch into whimpers when I fuck her with my tongue, pressing it deep before sliding back to lash her clit. She’s loud now, wet sounds filling the space along with the muffled slap of her thighs against my cheeks.
“Declan—fuck—don’t stop.” She’s babbling, breathless, and I don’t. I keep her right there, tongue working her, sucking until her whole body locks tight and she cries out, coming hard against my mouth. I lap her through it, savoring every twitch and tremor until she’s boneless in my grip.
When I stand, my mouth is wet with her, my cock aching. She turns and her hand wraps around me, warm and tight, stroking slow as she looks up with that dazed, fucked-out expression that could undo a better man. I let her push me back a step, dropping to her knees. Her tongue is on me in seconds, licking a slow stripe from base to tip before sucking the head into her mouth.
“Fuck, Aoife…” The sight of her like this, eyes up, lips stretched around me, has my hand in her hair, guiding her down until her nose brushes my skin. She gags lightly, pulls back with a wet pop, saliva stringing from her lips to my cock. Then she’sback on me, sucking hard, twisting her hand at the base while her mouth works the rest. Every slick, obscene sound echoes in the quiet, mixing with my ragged breathing.
I let her work me until I’m close—too close—then I pull free, my cock wet and throbbing, and haul her up against the glass again.
“You’re getting fucked here,” I tell her, lining myself up. I push into her in one slow, deep thrust that has both of us groaning. The stretch of her around me is tight, hot, perfect. I pin her wrists again, fucking her against the glass, the city spread out in lights behind her.
Her moans are sharp now, every thrust forcing them from her, her breasts bouncing with the motion, nipples dragging faint streaks on the cold glass. I pound her harder, the slap of skin on skin and the filthy wet sounds of her taking me filling the space. She’s grinding down to meet every thrust, mouth open, tongue lolling a little as she rides the edge.
“Declan—yes—fuck—” she’s gasping, nails digging into my shoulders when I let her hands go to grip her hips. I drive into her until her voice breaks, her orgasm ripping through her with a sharp cry. The way she clamps down around me nearly pulls me over the edge, but I hold it, dragging it out until I can’t anymore.
She’s screaming for me now, raw and breathless, and I can feel her shuddering through another climax. That’s when I let go, burying myself to the hilt and spilling into her with a groan that rakes through my chest. I hold her there, both of us panting against the glass, the city lights and the rain wrapping around us like we’ve just claimed the whole damn world.
I keep her there until the shiver in her thighs turns to a lazy tremble and our breath stops fogging the glass, then I ease out and gather her in, kiss the corner of her open mouth, feel the aftershocks ripple under my palms like the last rings on a pond after a stone disappears. She laughs, small and helpless, thesound pressed into my throat because she has nowhere else to put it.
“That was,” she says, and lets the rest break apart into a soft, incredulous sound.
“Public service,” I tell her, and she snorts against my jaw.
“You think the city left us a good Yelp review,” she murmurs, turning to glance at the rain-slick pane that still holds the ghost prints of her hands. “We are absolutely responsible for some neighbor’s existential crisis.”
“I will send flowers to the building across the way,” I say, half serious. “With an apology card and a confidentiality clause.”
She nudges my ribs with her heel, still trying to catch her breath. “You make everything sound like a contract.”
“Only the things I intend to repeat,” I answer, and watch her mouth curl, bright and wicked even while sated.
We stand there another long moment because neither of us seems ready to admit the window is cold and our knees might hate us in an hour, then I hook an arm under her thighs and another at the small of her back, lift her clear, feel the way she folds against me without thinking as if the blueprint for this existed long before tonight. The bed receives her with the soft exhale of linen taking weight. I straighten the coverlet she wrecked earlier, draw it over her hips, pause when she catches my wrist.
“I am not made of glass,” she says, but there is no edge in it, only fondness.
“No,” I say. “You prefer glass as a spectator sport.”
She hides a grin against her knuckles. “I hate how much I like you when you are smug.”
“That will make what comes next unbearable,” I tell her, and she tips her head, suspicious. I press a kiss to her forehead, step back, and add, “Do not move. I am committing a small culinary crime.”
Her eyes narrow, amused and curious at once. “If you touch my copper pots while naked, I will have to sanitize them with holy water.”
