22. Ruairí
RUAIRí
H er voice is a low order, and it burns through me.
I feel her fingers pulling at my shirt, and the quiet certainty in her eyes tells me there is no room for distance tonight.
I do not ask again.
I scoop her up in my arms, one hand gripping the soft curve beneath her thigh, the other braced around her back, holding her close as if someone might try to take her from me even now.
She tastes like heat and defiance when I kiss her again, slow and rough, my mouth claiming every breath she tries to take.
The rain still clings to my hair, to my clothes, dampening the heat rolling off my body, but she is warm against me, already arching into me as if she cannot get close enough.
I carry her to the bed, feeling her nails graze my neck as she drags me down with her, the mattress dipping under our combined weight.
I sit back for a moment, straddling the edge, my hands on her knees, forcing them apart as I look at her.
She is already flushed, her lips swollen from my mouth, her chest rising with shallow, impatient breaths.
I like seeing her like this, undone but still in control of her own fire.
I peel her blouse open one button at a time, slow enough to hear her breath catch.
My thumb brushes the bare skin beneath, tracing the line between her ribs and waist, a silent tease before I slip the fabric off her shoulders.
She moves to do the same to me, but I catch her wrist and shake my head.
"Not yet," I murmur, leaning down to kiss the curve of her collarbone, my teeth grazing lightly as my tongue follows.
She shivers beneath me.
My hands slide over her hips, finding the zipper of her skirt, drawing it down with unhurried precision.
The sound of it unfastening feels too loud in the quiet room.
I tug the skirt off her legs, dragging my palms along her thighs as I go, feeling every inch of her smooth skin under my calloused hands.
When I lower my mouth to her stomach, she lifts slightly, her fingers tangling in my hair.
I let my lips move slowly, tasting her, breathing her in as I press kisses along the dip of her waist.
She sighs, low and throaty, and I feel the tension gathering in her muscles as I take my time, as if we have all night to learn each other again.
"Ruairí," she whispers, and there is something raw in her tone, a plea that makes my blood pulse harder.
I drag my hands up her sides, my thumbs brushing the swell of her breasts over the lace that barely covers her.
I lean in and catch one taut peak between my lips, sucking slowly through the fabric, my teeth grazing lightly until she gasps.
Her hand tightens in my hair, urging me closer, but I lift my head just enough to look at her.
"You taste like trouble," I say, my voice rough, and then I hook a finger under the lace, pulling it down to free her.
I lower my mouth again, this time on bare skin, tongue circling until her breath breaks.
Her hands tug at my belt, frantic now, and I let her unfasten it, sliding out of my shirt when she pushes at it.
My chest is bare, marked with the scars she knows too well, but her hands move over them like they mean nothing, like they are hers to claim.
"Slow," I tell her, even though I am the one barely holding back.
I kiss her again, deep and hard, our mouths colliding with the heat of everything unsaid, and my hand slides between her thighs, just enough to feel the heat there, to press against the damp silk of her underwear.
She moans into my mouth, and I smile against her lips.
She's soaked through.
I can feel it as I press my fingers more firmly into the silk between her thighs, the heat of her blooming against my hand like she's been aching for me since the moment I left.
I drag the fabric to the side and stroke her slowly, just the barest touch over her folds, not giving her enough, not yet.
She writhes beneath me, but I hold her down with my other hand spread flat across her stomach.
Her skin is warm and tight under my palm, rising and falling with the rhythm of her shallow breathing.
I hook her underwear with both hands and pull them down her legs, letting them catch at the knees for just a second before stripping them off entirely.
She spreads for me without needing to be told.
I slide two fingers through her pussy, parting her with a slow roll of my wrist that makes her eyes flutter shut.
"I want you loud tonight," I murmur, voice thick.
"I want them to know who you belong to."
Her hips buck, trying to force me deeper, but I pull back just enough to make her groan in frustration.
I like her like this—needy but proud, trembling on the edge and still trying to glare at me through it.
I move down the bed, spreading her legs wider as I go.
I kiss the inside of her knee, then the soft skin of her thigh, watching her squirm with every pass.
When I finally press my mouth between her legs, she gasps so loud I have to grip her hips to hold her steady.
I lick her with long, slow strokes, drawing shapes on her until her fingers are yanking at the sheets, her back arched off the mattress.
Her thighs clamp around my head, but I press them open again, sliding one hand under to cup her ass and lift her into my mouth.
"Fuck, Ruairí," she breathes, her voice hoarse, her thighs trembling.
I hum against her, letting the sound vibrate through her body.
I alternate between slow, lazy laps of my tongue and sharp, focused flicks that make her sob my name.
I slide one finger into her, then two, curling just right, learning again what she responds to, what makes her fall apart.
But I don't let her fall.
Not yet.
I pull back just as she's about to come, her breath caught in her throat, her whole body taut.
I kiss the inside of her thigh again, slow and soft, and when she opens her eyes and glares at me like she might kill me, I grin.
"You hate me a little right now, don't you?" I say.
She growls, grabs my wrist, and bites the base of my thumb.
"I'll hate you more if you stop again."
I shift us easily, pulling her toward me until she's on her knees, back arched, hands gripping the headboard.
I move behind her, running my hands down her spine, watching the way she shivers as I kiss the small of her back.
I don't go straight in.
I want her desperate.
I want her begging.
"Say it," I whisper, dragging the head of my cock slowly along her soaked entrance.
"Say you want me to ruin you."
"I want you to fucking ruin me," she spits out, half-snarled, half-moan.
I grip her hip with one hand, the other sliding around to press between her thighs again as I push just the tip inside .
She cries out, rocking back into me, but I hold steady, sliding in slow, inch by inch, letting her feel every part of it, every stretch, every burn.
When I bottom out, she's panting, fingers curled into the wood.
I start to move, slow at first, then harder.
The sound of us fucking fill the spaces in-between as I reach up and wrap my hand in her hair, pulling her back against me.
I fuck her deeper, making sure every thrust hits the spot that makes her cry out like she's breaking.
She doesn't ask me to stop.
She doesn't want soft.
When I feel her start to shake, I pull out again.
She swears like she might stab me, but I flip her over and pin her wrists above her head, pressing down until she's spread out beneath me, flushed and wild-eyed and glistening with sweat.
"You look so fucking good like this," I growl, kissing her hard, grinding against her without pushing in, letting her feel how ready I am, how close.
Her legs hook around my waist, pulling me back in, but I hold just out of reach, dragging the head of my cock over her slit, again and again.
"Ruairí," she begs, voice shaking.
I sink into her again, slow and deep, until we both groan.
I don't thrust yet.
I just stay there, buried inside her, letting the weight of it hang between us.
I peel her top over her head and watch her arch beneath me, bare to the waist, the swell of her breasts rising with each breath.
I don't touch her right away.
I look and let her squirm under the heat of it, her skin flushed, nipples peaked, her thighs shifting restlessly as she waits for my hands and gets only my gaze.
When I finally lean in, I take one nipple in my mouth and suck slow, rough, until her back bows and her hips lift off the mattress, her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging like she wants it harder, faster, rougher.
I bite just enough to make her gasp, then soothe it with my tongue.
I push her skirt up inch by inch, not fast, not sloppy, but slow enough to make her beg.
The fabric pools at her waist. Her thighs part and I groan low as I see the mess I've made of her.
She is soaked, everything hot and swollen and desperate.
I stroke one finger down the damp center and watch her shudder, then do it again, slower this time.
"Ruairí," she breathes.
"What?" I murmur, trailing my mouth down her stomach, licking the curve of her hip. "Tell me."
"Stop teasing."
I settle between her thighs, shoulders braced against her knees as I taste her for the first time.
She cries out, head thrown back, one hand fisting in the sheet, the other clamped over her mouth like she's afraid someone will hear.
I flatten my tongue against her and lick upward in one long stroke, ending with a flick to her clit that makes her twitch.
I do it again, then again, then suck her into my mouth and grind the flat of my tongue in slow circles until her thighs start to shake.
The sounds she makes are the kind of thing that stays with you.
Not pretty, not polite, but raw and cracked open, little half-sobs of pleasure that thicken the air and make my cock throb against the mattress.
I slide two fingers inside her and curl them just right, hitting the spot that makes her choke on my name.
Her hips buck hard, riding my hand, and when I feel her tighten around me, I pull back, lips wet, chin slick with her.
"No," she whines, reaching for me.
"Not yet," I rasp, climbing up her body.
"You'll come on my cock. "