Chapter 26 Aoife
AOIFE
“I’m tired, Declan,” I say, the words spilling before I can stop them. My voice is thin but steady. “I’m tired of running. Tired of fighting you when all you have done is try to love me in the only way you know how.”
My chest heaves, my hands fisting in my dress. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “I choose you. Not because I have to. Because I want to.”
Something cracks in him. His jaw works once, twice. He does not speak. He just crosses the space in two steps and kisses me like a man who has been holding his breath for years.
The kiss is not gentle. It is starving, fierce, desperate. His tongue slides against mine, his teeth catch my lip, and I moan into him as my body caves. He cups my face, then my neck, then drags his hands down to my waist, gathering the silk until it pools around my hips.
He undresses me slowly, reverently, peeling the straps off my shoulders, tugging the fabric down inch by inch until I am bare before him. My breath comes fast. His eyes linger on every curve, every mark he left earlier, his hunger dark and bottomless.
When he presses me back onto the bed, his hands do not stop moving. They roam over my breasts, squeezing, thumbing my nipples until they harden. They slide down my belly, spreading me open, stroking the wet heat between my thighs until I gasp and writhe.
“Fragile,” he mutters against my mouth, even as his touch is rough, greedy. “Eternal.”
I drag him down with me, clawing at his shirt until the buttons scatter, baring the muscle I ache to touch. My nails dig into his back, raking lines down his skin, and he groans into my throat, sucking hard, leaving another hickey blooming there.
“Declan,” I whisper when his mouth latches onto my nipple, tongue circling, sucking deep. The word spills broken, a plea and a surrender.
He grins against my breast, biting lightly, then harder, making me arch.
His other hand finds the tray on the nightstand—a plate of fruit and cheese, leftovers from hours ago.
He takes a slice of strawberry, presses it against my nipple until the juice runs, then licks it away with slow, filthy laps of his tongue.
“Sweet,” he growls. “But not as sweet as you.”
I moan, my thighs clenching. He drags the fruit lower, trailing sticky juice down my belly, between my legs, smearing it over my clit before his mouth follows. His tongue is hot, hungry, licking the sugar and my slick in one long stroke that makes me cry out.
He eats me like he cannot stop, groaning into me, slurping, making wet sounds that fill the room. My hands knot in his hair, dragging him closer, my hips grinding against his mouth. When I come, it is sharp, jagged, my cry muffled by my hand over my mouth.
He does not let me come down. He climbs back up, lips wet, tongue tasting of me and strawberries. He kisses me, grinding his cock against my slick folds, not entering yet, just teasing, torturing, dragging me higher again.
When he finally pushes inside, it is slow, deliberate, a claiming. I gasp, nails clawing his back, pulling him deeper until he fills me completely. He holds still, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard.
Then he moves, slow at first, drawing it out, making every stroke deep and unhurried. His hands never stop—palming my breasts, stroking my face, gripping my hips. I arch into him, moaning his name over and over until it is the only word left in my mouth.
The hunger takes over. The pace breaks. He fucks me harder, faster, teeth dragging across my throat, his groans spilling filth against my ear. I claw at him, bite him, wrap my legs tight around his waist, grinding, writhing, riding every thrust like it will split me in two.
“Mine,” he growls, his mouth wet on my breast, his hand pinching my nipple until I scream.
“Yes,” I whisper, breaking apart beneath him. “Yours.”
And when I come again, gasping his name, he holds me like I am both fragile and eternal, his cock still driving into me, his body unrelenting, his love the only anchor I have left.
Declan does not let me breathe. He shifts, rolling me beneath him, then pulling me up with an urgency that feels both tender and wild. My body trembles, still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he lifts me easily, his cock slipping free only long enough to sit back against the headboard.
His hands grip my waist, turning me, guiding me until I straddle him backwards, my chest facing the tall mirror across from the bed.
The sight makes my breath catch—my own flushed skin, my breasts swollen and marked, the bruises dotting my throat and chest like evidence of everything he has claimed.
His cock presses heavy against me from behind, teasing the slick folds of my pussy.
“Look at yourself,” he orders, his voice low and wrecked. His hand comes up to palm my breast from behind, thumb rolling my nipple until I moan. “Look how perfect you are, riding my cock. Open yourself for me, Aoife.”
I do as he says. I spread my thighs wide over him, sinking down onto him with a cry that echoes in the quiet room.
The stretch is thick, filling, my cunt swallowing him whole as my reflection moans back at me, head falling back against his shoulder.
He groans when I clench down, his teeth grazing my ear.
“Good girl,” he growls, rocking up into me. “Bounce. Grind. Show me every filthy thing you want.”
I rise and fall, hips snapping, the sound obscene as his cock drives in and out of me. The mirror shows everything—the way my ass slaps against his thighs, the way my pussy glistens as it takes him, the way my breasts bounce under the grip of his hands.
He palms them greedily, tugging my nipples, pinching until I gasp and arch.
His tongue drags over my neck, sucking another mark into my skin, and his other hand slides down, stroking over my clit as I ride him.
The friction is unbearable. I writhe, grinding down in slow, sinuous circles, my body coiling like a snake on his lap.
Then his hand trails lower, slipping between my cheeks, pressing where no one else has ever touched me.
“Open it for me,” he murmurs, his voice raw. “Give me everything.”
I gasp, shuddering, but the sight in the mirror holds me captive—my body spread wide, his cock buried in my cunt, his finger pressing at my tightest place. I nod, desperate, my hands reaching behind to clutch at his thighs as I rock harder on him.
He spits into his hand, slicks his fingers, and presses again, pushing inside slow, stretching me as he fucks up into me at the same time. The sensation rips a cry from my throat, high and wild, and he groans against my ear.
“Christ, Aoife, you’re perfect. Taking me in both holes, milking me like you were made for it. Look in the mirror. Watch yourself give me everything.”
I do. I watch the way my mouth falls open, the way my body shakes as his cock drives deep and his finger stretches me from behind. My pussy gushes around him, the squelch filthy, my ass clenching on his finger as I ride faster, harder, every thrust dragging me closer to the edge.
He bites my shoulder, his hand twisting my nipple until I scream, and then I break again, my orgasm tearing through me. My cunt and ass clamp down at once, squeezing his cock and his fingers, milking, shuddering, soaking his lap.
The mirror shows me ruined, trembling, sobbing his name as my body gives him everything.
Declan groans, grinding up into me, his cock throbbing inside my cunt. “I’m close, Aoife. You want it? You want me to flood every hole you’ve given me?”
“Yes,” I sob, watching myself beg in the glass. “Give it to me. Fill me. I want every drop.”
The first push has me nearly breaking. My mouth opens, soundless at first, before a ragged cry rips through my throat.
The burn is sharp, slicing through my nerves, the ache making my hands claw at the sheets for something to hold on to.
Declan’s arm stays locked around my waist, anchoring me to him, his chest pressed hard to my back.
His other hand cups my breast like it belongs to him, his thumb dragging over the nipple until it stiffens against his rough skin.
He does not let me escape the stretch. Inch by inch, he forces me to open, his groans guttural, breaking in my ear. The mirror shows me taking him—my body trembling, my ass straining to swallow his cock, the wet shine of him slipping deeper into a place I never thought I could give.
“Christ, Aoife,” he mutters, voice fractured. “So fucking tight. You’re squeezing me like a fist.”
I shudder at the filth, at the rawness in his tone.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, streaking down my face, but the sight of him in me—his cock buried where no one has ever been—makes me moan through the pain.
The mirror does not lie. It shows me wrecked and open, stretched wide, my body claiming him in the filthiest way imaginable.
When he bottoms out, seated fully inside, I feel every inch of him. The pressure is overwhelming, full, unbearable, and yet perfect. My breath is ragged, caught between sobs and moans. My ass clenches around him, involuntary, and his growl tears through the room.
“Don’t squeeze me like that unless you want me to come inside you right now,” he grits, his teeth grazing my ear.
I whimper, grinding against him anyway, desperate for more. The burn starts to ease, turning into a deeper ache that throbs with want. His hips roll once, slow, deliberate, and the sensation makes me cry out, high and raw.
He starts to move, grinding deep, slow thrusts that drag every nerve raw. My body jerks forward with every push, my breasts bouncing in the mirror, my slick dripping down my thighs. The wet slap of skin fills the room, obscene, every sound amplified in the quiet.
Then he goes harder. His cock pounds into me, stretching me again and again, each thrust forcing a sob from my lips. His hand slides down between my thighs, fingers finding my clit, rubbing rough circles that make my hips buck and my body seize.