23. Maeve #3
He settles between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider apart.
He looks up at me, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals my breath.
And then he lowers his head. The first touch of his tongue against my swollen, dripping cunt is a revelation.
It’s not tentative or gentle. It’s a firm, possessive stroke, a claim.
He licks me from my hole to my clit in one long, slow movement, and my entire body convulses. A cry tears from my throat.
He does it again. And again. He establishes a rhythm, a slow, maddening torture.
His tongue is a masterful instrument, exploring every fold, every ridge.
He circles my clit, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves without ever quite touching it directly.
My hips buck, trying to force the contact, but his hands hold me down, his grip firm and unyielding.
He is in control here, and the knowledge is a dizzying rush.
He spreads me open with his thumbs, his tongue delving into my hole, fucking me with it.
The wet, obscene sounds fill the room, mixing with my desperate pants and moans.
Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he finally closes his lips around my clit and sucks.
Hard. The world explodes. A blinding white light flashes behind my eyes, and a scream rips from my throat as my orgasm crashes through me.
It’s a violent, shattering thing, ripping me apart from the inside out.
My cunt clenches and spasms, gushing juices against his mouth.
He doesn’t stop. He drinks me down, his tongue lapping at me, prolonging the pleasure until it’s almost pain.
I’m limp, boneless, when he finally rises over me.
His face is slick with my cum, his expression feral, triumphant.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving mine.
He reaches between us, his fingers fumbling with the button of his trousers.
The sound of his zipper lowering is loud in the sudden quiet.
He shoves his trousers and boxers down his hips, and his cock springs free.
He’s magnificent. Long and thick, with a heavy vein that pulses along the underside.
The head is flushed a dark, angry purple, already leaking pre-cum.
He wraps his hand around his shaft, stroking it once, twice, his eyes locked on mine.
It’s a possessive, primal gesture. This is what he does to me. This is what I do to him.
He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against my still-spasming hole.
He doesn’t push in. He waits. His eyes are searching mine again, looking for something.
I see it then. The question. The last, final boundary.
I reach up, my hand cupping his cheek, my thumb stroking his dimple.
I hold his gaze, refusing to close my eyes, refusing to hide from what this is, what he is.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him toward me, an invitation, a surrender, a demand all at once.
He pushes in.
The stretch is incredible, a slow, relentless burn as he sinks into me.
He fills me completely, stretching me to my limits until I feel him in every part of me.
He’s so deep, so impossibly deep. He stills, buried to the hilt, giving me a moment to adjust. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my chest, can feel the tremor in the muscles of his arms as he holds himself over me.
And then he begins to move.
He starts with a slow, deep rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, a long, powerful stroke that grinds against my clit with every thrust. It’s a claiming, a branding.
Each thrust is a wordless sentence, a promise.
Mine. The pleasure builds again, a slow, inexorable tide.
It’s deeper this time, more profound. It’s not just a physical sensation; it’s an emotional one.
It’s the feeling of two broken pieces clicking together, the feeling of coming home after a lifetime of being lost.
His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding.
The bed creaks in protest, the sound of our bodies slapping together, wet and obscene, fills the room.
His name is a litany on my lips, a prayer, a curse.
"Declan, Declan, Declan." I hold his gaze, my eyes locked with his as he fucks me. I see everything in their depths—the pain, the passion, the fierce, terrifying love he’s never been able to say. And I know he sees the same in me.
The pleasure crests, a massive wave gathering force. It’s bigger than the last one, more terrifying. I try to pull away, to close my eyes against the intensity of it, but his hand cups my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "Stay with me," he growls, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Look at me."
The wave breaks. It’s a cataclysm. A scream is torn from my throat as my orgasm rips through me, more powerful than anything I’ve ever felt.
My cunt clamps down on his cock, milking him, and my vision whites out.
I shatter, my body convulsing, my mind going blissfully, wonderfully blank.
His name is the last coherent thought I have, a final, desperate cry as I fall over the edge. "Declan!"
He follows me over. With a guttural roar, he buries himself deep inside me one last time.
I feel his cock jerk, and then a hot flood of cum fills me, spilling out, coating my thighs.
He collapses on top of me, his full weight crushing me, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
His body is trembling, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps against my skin.
My hands grip his shoulders, my fingers digging into his flesh, holding on tight.
We lie there, tangled together, a sweaty, sticky, breathless mess.
The city lights twinkle outside, oblivious.
The fire in the marble fireplace crackles, casting dancing shadows on the wall.
My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, slowly, slowly beginning to calm.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, there is no part of me, no cell, no instinct, that is preparing to leave.
There is only the solid, heavy weight of the man on top of me, the feeling of his cum dripping out of me, and the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that this is exactly where I am meant to be.
I stroke his sweat-dampened hair, my fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos, and I wonder what fresh hell tomorrow will bring, knowing only that I will face it with him.
His fingers trace slow lines along my spine. No alarm sounds. No encrypted device interrupts us. The silence feels strange after days ruled by murder, abduction, and war.
“I love you.” I say it against his skin because the words no longer require a crisis. “Not because you protected me. Not because you gave me freedom. I love you because you finally understood I needed both.”
Declan turns onto his side and studies me. “Marry me.”
I stare at him. “That sounded less like a proposal than a scheduling demand.”
“I am Irish. Romance creates suspicion.”
“You introduced me as your future bride before asking.” I press one finger against his chest. “Ask me properly. Preferably without making it sound like an execution order.”
His expression changes with the slow arrival of intent. Whatever he is planning will involve excessive security, criminal resources, and enough arrogance to disturb several governments. I should be alarmed.
Instead, I smile.
“Give me twenty-four hours,” Declan says.