Chapter 31 Sorcha
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SORCHA
I wake to pale morning light filtering through the curtains and the warm weight of Ciar’s arm draped across my waist. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I ended up here.
How I went from a dingy flat to being wrapped around a MacMahon like he’s my personal body pillow.
The cramps in my stomach have eased to a dull ache, and I know the worst is over.
I don’t bleed for long. A couple of days at that, for which I’m eternally grateful.
My head throbs from the vodka, a punishment I probably deserve.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake Ciar, but his arm tightens around me.
“Don’t even think about it,” he rumbles, his voice rough with sleep.
“I need the bathroom in more ways than one.”
He releases me immediately, and I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. In the bathroom, I take care of business and turn on the shower.
Ciar is in the bathroom like a shot fired and glares at me. “I can do that.”
“You don’t need to compete with Cillian,” I murmur.
“Why does it have to be a competition? Why can’t we all take care of you?”
His gaze is probing, making me uncomfortable because I’m not used to having people strip back my layers to see my soul.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight.
“Because I’m not used to it,” I admit quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not used to people wanting to take care of me without expecting something in return. ”
His expression softens, just a fraction, but enough that I see it. “We do expect something in return.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”
“We expect you to let us.” He moves closer, his presence filling the small bathroom. “That’s the price, Sorcha.”
The words hit me harder than any bullet could. “I don’t know how,” I whisper.
“Then learn. We’ve got time.”
Do we? But I don’t say that. Instead, I nod, just once.
“I’ll help,” he says, and before I can protest, he’s already reaching for the hem of my pyjama top.
I let him. I let him strip me bare, and then he opens the cupboard under the sink. “Cillian bought these when he went to the shop yesterday. Put it on.”
I raise an eyebrow at the plastic covering to keep my injured arm dry. Ciar helps me secure it over the bandage on my arm, his fingers gentle but efficient. “Now get in the shower.”
“Yes, boss,” I mutter, annoyed with his order.
But I step under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over my aching body.
The heat works magic on my aching head, and I close my eyes, breathing in the steam.
I hear the bathroom door click shut, and when I open my eyes, Ciar is leaning his raised hand on the open shower door and watching me like a hawk.
“I’m not going to disappear down the drain,” I say.
“I wouldn’t put it past you to try to escape,” he says dryly.
“If only I had superpowers.”
He snickers. “And that’s what you’d pick? Being able to disappear down drains?”
“Maybe. Never really thought about it. What would you pick?”
“Mind reading,” he says without hesitation. “Would make my job a hell of a lot easier.”
I tilt my head back under the spray, letting the water run through my hair. “That’s boring. You could pick anything, and you pick something practical?”
“What’s the point of a power you can’t use?
” He straightens up and yanks his tee over his head with one hand, revealing his chest in all its inked glory.
He strips off his pants and climbs in. I try to avoid looking at his cock, but fuck…
there is no missing it, no ignoring it. It’s semi-hard, and I bite my lower lip.
With a smirk, he reaches past me for the shampoo, and after a second’s hesitation, I move slightly to let him pick it up.
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that does things to my insides I don’t want to examine. “Turn around,” he murmurs.
I do as he says, trying this not-fighting thing. It doesn’t mean I’m obeying his orders, it just means I’m compromising, that I’m not fighting.
His fingers work through my hair, massaging the shampoo into my scalp with a firmness that’s just shy of painful. It feels incredible, and I have to bite back a moan.
“You’re too tense,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into the base of my skull.
“Someone keeps shooting at us. Tends to make a girl a bit on edge.”
“Fair point.” He guides my head back under the spray, rinsing the shampoo out with careful efficiency. “But you’re safe here. With us.”
“Until the next bullet comes through the window.”
“They aren’t shooting to kill.”
“That makes it so much better,” I bite out.
His fingers drift lightly over his name carved into the top of my spine. His low rumble of approval vibrates through his fingers, making me shiver. He turns me around, gripping my chin tightly, tilting my head back. His gaze is heated, full of lust. His cock bounces, and I lick my lips.
His hands slide down my sides until they are resting on my hips, and then with a wicked smile, he reaches between my legs, grips the tampon string and yanks it out.
“No!” I say as horror floods my veins. “What are you doing?”
“Taking what’s mine,” he says. He opens the shower door, flings the tampon into the basin, and then shuts it, picking me up and pressing me against the cold tiles.
“Ciar, no,” I say, shaking my head, even as my hands pull him closer.
“Have you never had sex on your period before?” he murmurs, taking one of my hands and wrapping it around his cock.
“No,” I croak.
“Then I get to take you in a first for you, Sorcha.” He pushes my wrist lower.
My breath catches. I rub the head of his enormous cock over my clit and tremble. It’s my imaginary porn show come to life.
His eyes are locked on mine, dark and intense, and he takes over, ramming his cock into me in one brutal stroke.
I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders. The stretch is intense, painful, but fuck if it doesn’t feel incredible at the same time.
His rhythm is punishing, each thrust driving me harder against the tiles. “Mine,” he grunts, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise.
His pace increases, brutal and relentless. One hand moves to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there as a reminder of his control. My body is on fire, every nerve ending singing. My period is forgotten, the vodka hangover erased by the sheer intensity of him inside me.
I gasp, my head slamming back against the tiles as pleasure coils tight in my core. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t show any disgust or hesitation. He just takes what he wants from my body like it’s his right.
And I let him.
My legs tighten around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, a raw, primal sound that echoes off the bathroom walls. The angle shifts, and he hits something inside me that makes me cry out.
“Ciar,” I gasp, my voice echoing off the tiles.
“Say it again.” His hand tightens fractionally around my throat. “Say my name.”
“Ciar.” It comes out as a moan, broken and desperate.
He slams into me harder. My orgasm builds like a tidal wave, cresting higher and higher until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along my jawline even as his cock drives into me relentlessly. “Let me own you, Sorcha.”
I come apart, shattering into a million pieces as the orgasm rips through me. My vision whites out, my pussy convulsing around his cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only feel him everywhere, owning every inch of me.
I want more. I want everything he can give me. It’s like a fucking epiphany. This strong, brutal man wants to care for me, wants to give me his soul, and I keep fighting him like a spoiled bitch.
No more.
He wants me, he can have me. He wants me to want him, I will.
“Fuck,” he growls, his rhythm faltering as my walls clench around him. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”
His words push me higher, extending my orgasm until I’m trembling in his arms, completely wrecked. He drives into me twice more, three times, and then he comes, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me with his release. The warmth spreads through me, marking me from the inside out.
My legs are shaking, barely able to hold on around his waist. He keeps me pinned against the tiles, his forehead resting against mine.
“You okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. I’m more than okay. I’m devastated in the best possible way.
He pulls out slowly, lowering me to my feet with careful hands. My legs nearly give out, and he steadies me with a firm grip on my hips.
“That was a first for me, too,” he murmurs, cupping my face.
“How was it?” I ask, knowing I have no other words for his admission that he has just had period sex with a woman for the first time.
“Like everything I’ve been looking for and never been able to find.”
“You’re a giant teddy bear, really, aren’t you?” I mock him gently, because I don’t do emotions. I deal in sarcasm.
He smirks, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. “A teddy bear with a body count.”
“My favourite kind,” I breathe, and I mean it. The realisation settles over me like a warm blanket. I’m not scared of what he is. I’m drawn to it.
He reaches past me and turns off the water, then grabs a towel from the rack. Instead of handing it to me, he wraps it around my shoulders and starts drying me off with the same methodical care Cillian showed yesterday. I stand there, letting him, my brain trying to process what just happened.
I just let Ciar MacMahon fuck me on my period in the shower. I let him pull out my tampon and claim me in a way that should horrify me, but instead makes my stomach clench with residual pleasure. I’m losing myself in them, piece by piece, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I don’t know if I want to stop it.