Chapter 19
Dervla
My breath catches so hard it hurts.
He is big. Heavy on my tongue. Hot. The taste of salt and skin and the sharp edge of blood still in the air sends a filthy pulse straight through me.
I brace one hand on his thigh and take him deeper, because backing off now would feel like losing, and I am not losing anything to this man. Not even on my knees.
His hand fists in my hair.
Not cruel. Controlled. Guiding.
“Fuck,” he says, low and wrecked, and the sound goes right between my legs again.
I look up at him as I take him. His chest is rising hard. His eyes are on me with a focus that is nearly violent. Blood is still sliding down his forearm in thin lines over the carved letters of my name, and the sight of it should repulse me.
It doesn’t.
It makes me wetter.
I hollow my cheeks and drag my mouth up him slowly, then take him back down in one smooth movement. His fingers tighten in my hair. His control slips for one second.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Good girl sucking my cock like you need it. Greedy fucking sweetheart.”
The moan that rips from my throat is humiliating. But it affects him in ways that arouse me far beyond anything I’ve experienced before, as his whole body reacts like I’ve handed him a reward.
His grip shifts, guiding the pace while I take what I can and then more than that, because pride is a stupid thing to bring into this, but I bring it anyway. His cock hits the back of my throat, and my eyes water. He watches every second of it.
“Look at you,” he says, rough and pleased and completely deranged. “On your knees for me.”
I pull off him just long enough to breathe. “Don’t get cocky.”
His mouth curves. “Too late.”
I stroke him once, hard, and his eyes close for half a beat. There. That. That tiny crack. I go back down and use it against him, taking him deep until his breath goes uneven.
He likes control. Fine. So do I.
I slide my hand down to his balls and cup them, and the sound that tears out of him is almost ugly.
Real. It shoots straight through me. My pussy twitches.
I’m still sensitive from his mouth, still wet enough I want more, and kneeling here with him bleeding my name and breathing like he’s barely holding himself together is doing something terrible to my brain.
“Fuck, Dervla.”
There’s something about my name in his mouth when he sounds like that. I take him deeper again, and this time he thrusts, fucking my face for a few seconds before he pulls out abruptly and his hand clamps around my throat to drag me up.
“I’m not coming in your mouth,” he growls.
“Better find somewhere else then,” I rasp as he slams me up against the door, his hand dropping from my throat to my hip. His other hand grips me tightly, and he lifts me.
I wrap my legs around his waist as my back hits the wood again. Hard. The impact knocks a breath out of me. His mouth is on mine again, kissing me like he means to shut me up and ruin me at the same time. His cut arm braces beside my head. Blood smears on the door near my ear.
He pulls back slightly. His eyes go dark. He slides one hand between us, grips himself, and drags the head of his cock over my pussy once, twice, making me jerk and gasp.
“Still wet,” he says, like it means something to him.
Then he pushes inside me.
I swear against his mouth. He fills me in one hard thrust that makes my legs clamp around him, and my nails scrape down his back. He groans, forehead dropping to mine for one second while I adjust to the stretch. My body is still loose from my orgasm, still sensitive.
It’s too much and not enough when he starts moving. There is nothing gentle in it. He fucks me against the door in brutal, steady strokes that make the door rattle behind me, and every hard drive of him hits somewhere that makes my vision blur.
I grip his hair and kiss him back with no finesse at all. I can taste myself on his mouth. It is filthy and wrong and exactly what I want.
He splits me open and holds me off the ground with one hand under my arse and the other braced by my head. My right hand is useless for gripping, but my left digs into his back, leaving marks. He seems to like that. His breathing gets rougher. His thrusts get harder.
The door bangs softly with each movement. My head brushes the wood. My thighs tighten around his waist.
He pulls back enough to look at me. His eyes are wild in a way that should make me stop this and shove him away and lock myself in my room.
Instead, I drag my nails down his chest and say, “Is that all you’ve got?”
His face changes. Not anger. Not exactly. Something harsher.
“You’re asking for trouble.”
“I’m asking you to keep up.”
He laughs once, sharp and filthy, and then his hand slides between us. The first stroke on my swollen, oversensitive clit nearly folds me in half.
I gasp into his mouth and bite his lower lip hard enough that he grunts.
He takes it like he takes everything else, with that vicious little spark in his eyes that says pain only makes him worse.
His thumb keeps circling, brutal and exact, while he drives into me with enough force to make the pictures on the wall tremble.
“Fuck,” I choke out.
“Greedy little sweetheart.”
I hate how pleased he sounds. I hate more that my body answers him anyway, tightening around his cock, dragging another rough sound from his throat. He kisses me again, messier this time. I can feel how close he is by the way his rhythm starts to break. Harder. Rougher. Less controlled.
I pull my mouth free and whisper against his lips, “Don’t you dare come yet.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Bossy.”
“Unfinished.”
That gets me another one of those sharp, dirty laughs. Then he changes the angle, lifting me higher on his cock, and the next thrust hits deep enough that my whole body jolts. My head knocks back against the door.
Cormac’s mouth drops to my throat. He bites, then licks over it, his breath hot against damp skin while he opens the door and braces as I fall back slightly.
He walks us to the bed as I ride his cock, and then he lifts me off and turns me around.
I crawl onto the bed, and he shoves back inside me from behind, slapping my arse hard enough to make me yelp.
“Fuck!” I cry out as he goes deep. The sting blooms hot across my skin, and instead of shoving him off, I push back against him and give him more.
His hand lands again, not as hard, a possessive warning more than punishment, and I gasp into the sheets because the mix of pain and the thick, relentless drag of his cock inside me is enough to make my eyes roll shut.
He fucks me harder.
Every thrust jolts through me. The bed gives beneath us in a brutal rhythm, and I claw at the sheets with my left hand, my right useless and aching near my face. My body is already oversensitive, already worked open by his mouth, and he uses that against me with zero mercy.
My orgasm crashes over me so hard I nearly bite through the sheet.
My cry is muffled and wrecked, every muscle locking around him while he keeps fucking me through it, not letting up, not giving me a second to come back to myself. My thighs shake. My stomach goes tight. Heat tears through me in brutal waves, and all I can do is take it.
“Yeah,” he says behind me, voice ruined. “That’s it. Come for me again.”
Again.
The word alone nearly finishes me.
He grips my hip with one hand and reaches around with the other, fingers finding my clit, rubbing in hard, filthy circles that make me jolt forward on the bed. I try to crawl away from the intensity and get nowhere.
“Cormac,” I gasp.
His name comes out broken. He makes a sound that’s both pleased and gone at the same time.
“Say it again.”
I do, because I can’t help it. Because he’s splitting me open from behind and dragging pleasure out of me in rough, relentless pulls that leave no room for pride.
His hand slides down my spine, over the curve of my back, over the fresh sting on my arse where he hit me. Then his palm spreads there, soothing once before he grips again and drives into me harder.
The bed knocks against the wall.
I’m going to die of humiliation when I have to see the other two downstairs.
The thought barely forms before it gets blown apart by another thrust that punches a sound out of me. I bury my face in the sheets and bite down. He just reaches around again, catches my jaw, and pulls me up, his hand dropping around my throat.
“No hiding,” he says, breath hot at my ear. “Not from me.”
“You are such a cunt,” I pant.
He laughs, low and rough. “And you’re soaked.”
I try to tell him to fuck off, but he shifts his hips and hits that spot again, and my whole body answers him with a violent clench that makes him swear.
His pace stutters. Just for a second. Then he gets it back under control and fucks me even harder as he chokes me just the other side of gently.
When he comes, it’s like a fucking detonation.
He slams deep and goes rigid, his hand tightening at my throat and hip as he comes hard inside me with a broken swear against my neck.
I feel every pulse of him. Every hot, thick thrust of it, every harsh breath he can’t seem to control.
It drags another orgasm out of me, smaller but vicious, my whole body tightening around him.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
Then he eases his hand from my throat and drags it down my chest, my stomach, my hip, like he’s checking I’m still here.
I am. Barely.
He presses a kiss between my shoulder blades and pulls out slowly, and I hiss at the loss and the oversensitive ache of it before I collapse face-first.
He steps back. I push up onto my elbows and look over my shoulder. He is standing at the edge of my bed, chest heaving, joggers shoved low on his hips, my name carved into his forearm and his expression somewhere between satisfaction and violence.
“Happy now?” I ask, voice wrecked.
“No,” he says, and that almost makes me laugh. “Nothing will ever live up to that.”
Pleasure, hot and dirty, shoots through me. “Best fuck you’ve ever had?” I taunt.
“You have no fucking idea,” he mutters and pulls his joggers up before he moves to the en-suite.
I hear the tap run and shiver, crawling up to the top of the bed to curl up.
He returns with a sponge and rolls me over, parting my legs.
He cleans me up methodically before drying me off and pulling the sheets up.
“Do something with your arm,” I yawn, snuggling deeper under the covers.
“I will, sweetheart. Sleep now.”
“How do you go from being a dickhead to being sweet?”
“Natural talent,” he chuckles and backs out. “We’re here if you need us.”
“Yeah, I know,” I grumble and close my eyes, ready to crash out for another twelve hours if the sleep gods let me.