Chapter 19
19
FIONA
“ T hat’s it,” Patrick says. “On your feet.”
I’m so stunned, I don’t know how to respond. My lips tingle, like I’ve been eating shishito peppers. My eyes are tearing because he’s just so huge, and I wipe the back of my hand under my nose.
“Come on, Daddy,” I purr, looking up at him. I don’t want to follow his order. I want to finish him off. I want to feel him lose control.
But when I raise my hand to stroke his obviously eager cock, he tightens his grip on my hair. A lightning bolt sizzles from my chin to my thighs. He angles his wrist so I have no choice but to rise from the floor.
“No,” he says. “ You come on.”
The pressure releases for a moment, just long enough for him to tug his boxer briefs from around his knees, to savagely tuck himself into his pants. Then, he’s pulling me around the kitchen counter, through the living room, and down the hall to the bedroom.
I finally realize what I said. But he was fucking close. And if he thinks I’m going to change my entire vocabulary just to keep him satisfied, just to make him think he’s the boss of me…
“Strip,” he says once we’re standing in front of the bed.
“No fucking way,” I say, because I want to know what he’ll do.
I don’t expect him to dust his palms together, like he’s finished some dirty task. “No more games,” he says, stepping back. I must make some sound of protest, because he shakes his head. “I gave you three simple rules. And you couldn’t follow them for an hour. This was a bad idea. You’re not ready to be my little girl.”
A month ago, in Madden’s apartment, if you’d asked me if I got off on role-play, I would have laughed. Mind games like that are for weak, spineless men.
A week ago, in that joke of a hotel room, if you’d asked me if I liked calling Moran Daddy, I would have shrugged. It got him hot and bothered, and after everything we’d been through, we both needed to get laid.
But right now, at this very minute, in the bedroom of Aunt S’s apartment—where I first laced up a corset and figured out the pull I could have on men—I’m devastated.
I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know who I am. But at this moment, in this place, more than anything else in the world, I want to be Patrick’s little girl.
“Please,” I say. “Give me another chance.”
I’m wearing more clothes than usual. My lace bustier has opaque cups. My silk pants cover every inch from my waist to my ankles. My satin panties hide my bare pussy far more than the thongs I usually choose.
But Patrick’s eyes are as dark as charcoal, as hard and sharp as obsidian knives. And I flinch in front of him, because I’ve never felt more naked .
“I’m sorry,” I say, “Let me make you feel good. Let me help you finish.”
I don’t say Daddy . I’m not allowed to say Daddy. Not until I’ve made this up to him. Not until I’ve proven I can follow his rules.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my lungs start to burn. I’m stretched like a rubber band, almost at my breaking point. I’m waiting, waiting, waiting.
And finally, he turns to the bed. He grabs the duvet, the blanket, and the sheet, tugging hard enough to strip them all from the mattress at once. He snaps his fingers, the same way he did in the kitchen, kindling a tiny flicker of hope inside my belly.
“Strip,” he says again.
This time, I don’t weigh whether I should be sexy or sweet. I don’t debate wriggling my hips or fingering my nipples as I free them from their lace. I simply follow his command, shoes first, corset next, pants and panties last of all.
“On your back,” he says. “Middle of the bed.”
I do it.
He straddles me then. His jeans are rough against the sides of my breasts. He’s still erect, and he gets harder as he pulls my arms above my head, as he lashes my wrists together and ties me to the iron headboard with his belt.
I raise my head, craning my neck as he steps into the closet. I hear the thud of his shoes hitting the floor, and the rasp of his zipper. I think I’m prepared when he comes back to the room naked, but then I realize he’s holding two neckties.
The black one, the one he wore to Da’s wake, loops around my right ankle, securing me to the footboard. The Fishtown one, from the funeral, anchors my left leg. He’s ruthless as he ties his knots, brutally efficient.
Muscles ripple beneath his lighthouse tattoo as he clenches his fist after a job well done. The scars stand out on his body, evidence of all the years he’s lived in the mob. His cock stands proud as he studies me from the foot of the bed .
I’m used to men staring at my body. I do everything I can to make men notice me.
But Patrick’s gaze is different from all those other men. He’s looking at something more than my exposed pussy. He’s staring into my soul.
So I’m more than a little surprised when he climbs onto the bed and kneels between my thighs. “Tell me what you did wrong,” he says.
Back in the hotel, I would have laughed. I would have said I don’t have to play by his rules. I don’t have to do anything he demands.
But now I say, “I broke one of your rules.”
“Which rule?” He strokes the insides of my thighs with his fingertips, striping me with velvet fire.
Go to hell , I could tell him. But instead I say, “I’m not supposed to swear.”
His fingers find my folds. I’m so slick. So ready. “Why aren’t you supposed to swear?” he asks.
Don’t ask me—you made the fucking rule . That’s the first thing I think. But I say, “Because I’m your little girl.”
He sinks a finger into me, and I shudder from my toes to the roots of my hair. “Who makes the rules, little girl?”
Anyone who isn’t tied to the goddamn bed! But I say, “You do.” And I swallow before I add, “Daddy.”
He gives me another finger. My hips flex, straining to take him deeper. I think he’ll ask me another question, make me pay with another truth, but I must be doing something to satisfy him, because he slips in a third finger, hooking me, stretching me.
He fucks me with his hand, and I’ve never felt anything like it before. He is absolutely, completely fixated on filling me with his fingers. My own hands and feet are tied; I can’t do anything to reciprocate, anything to escape.
No other man has done this to me before. Sure, I’ve been tied up. But that was only so someone could shove his dick down my throat. Pound my cunt. Come inside my ass.
This is the first time in my life a man has concentrated on what I want. What I need.
When I lift my head, I can see a bead of precum gleaming in the light. He’s primed. He’s ready. But he isn’t using me.
Instead, he curls his fingers. He finds that patch of nerves deep inside me, the place I can never reach myself.
He strokes me, pressing hard. My toes point. The arches of my feet scream on the edge of cramps. And then he whispers, “You’re my good girl.”
And I come. I come screaming. I come gasping. I come straining my hips against his hand, wanting his fourth finger, wanting his thumb, wanting him to fist me, but instead he says, “That’s it, beautiful. That’s right, gorgeous. You’re so tight, Scáthach. So strong.”
His words fill me more than his hand ever could. They wrap inside me, curling up my spine. They knit into my bones.
“Give it to me, little girl. Give me all you’ve got. My good, good girl,” he murmurs, and I crash into a second orgasm.
I don’t know why I need this. I don’t know what makes his words spin inside me. I don’t know how he understands exactly what to say, what to do, but he completes me in a way I can’t explain.
I think he’ll untie me, once I’ve collapsed back to the mattress. But Patrick is a man who doesn’t believe in part measures.
He cages me with his body. Squeezing my hips between his knees, he strokes my throat, from my chin to the hollow between my collarbones. He pets me like I’m an animal. I can smell myself on his fingers, as he paints with my arousal.
My lips purse. I want to be back in the kitchen. I want to feel my mouth stretched by his cock. I want to fight to swallow him.
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 me Scáthach again, 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.