9. Jade #3
Loud—louder than the first, louder than anything, his name and sounds that aren't words coming out of me in the same breath.
My thighs clamp around him and my body clenches around his cock hard, gripping him in long pulses, and he groans—an actual groan, real, deep, from his chest—and his jaw locks and his hands grip the table on either side of me.
He doesn't come.
He holds on.
He drives me through the orgasm and out the other side, still moving, slower now, while I shake against him and grip the front of his shirt and try to find my way back to my own name.
My body clenches around him in long aftershocks.
He is still moving, still going, slow and deep and deliberate, and the fact that he held on while I came apart—the control of it, the patience of it—is more erotic than anything that just happened.
"Cormac." I'm wrecked. "Please."
"I know," he says.
He puts his hand flat on my lower belly.
Just below my navel, fingers spread, his palm warm on my skin. He looks down at his own hand and then back at my face.
"You're going to feel this," he says.
He starts to move again.
Slower than before. Deeper. Every stroke goes all the way—he bottoms out and stays, a beat, his hips grinding against me before he pulls back.
I feel him in every part of me. The stretch on every stroke.
The fullness when he's all the way in. His hand still warm on my belly, like he's already thinking about what comes next.
"Tell me," he says.
"Breed me." My voice has gone somewhere I don't recognize. "Please. Come inside me. Please breed me."
"Yeah," he says. Low and final.
He drives forward, once, and stays.
The warmth of him filling me is something I don't have language for.
Heat spreading through me in long pulses, deep inside, his cock pulsing against my walls with each one.
His hand pressing down on my belly. I count them.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I hold still.
I hold everything. He told me I was going to feel this and he was right and each pulse is something I have never had and have needed for two years.
His forehead drops to mine.
His breathing is loud. Not ragged—loud, controlled, the rawness under it something he doesn't put in his face but that I can hear in every exhale.
He came with his eyes open. Looking at mine. Watching me take it, watching my face while it happened, and that is what I am going to think about for the rest of my life.
"Stay still," he says. Not a command. A request.
I stay still.
His hand presses down on my belly. Slow, deliberate pressure. It's here. I'm here. Don't let it go.
I am full of him.
I have never been full of a man in my life.
I've had sex a hundred times and I have never once felt this, never once had the actual physical warmth of it inside me, the irreversible fact of it.
He came inside me. His cum is inside me.
Ryan's father's cum is inside me on the tasting table in the cellar of the house I drove four hours to and told myself it was about boxes.
I pull in a slow breath and something comes loose in my chest.
The corner of his mouth moves.
His thumb traces my jaw.
"You're staying," he says.
Not a question. He wants to hear it anyway.
"I'm staying," I say.
He presses his forehead to my temple. Still inside me. Still warm. His hand still flat on my lower belly.
I close my eyes and hold all of it.
I hear it when I'm still in his arms.
A sound from the barrel room beyond the door—the precise quiet of weight shifting on cold stone, a boot sole dragging carefully back. Not the house. Not a barrel shifting. A person who has been very still and is now, slowly, trying not to be heard.
I open my eyes.
Cormac has already gone still. His hand at my back, his head up, listening. He doesn't say it's the house. He doesn't say anything. He stands with me on his tasting table and his hand at my back and we both hold the quiet.
Ryan was right outside that door.
I don't know how long. I don't know if he came down for water and stayed, or heard something from upstairs and followed.
I don't know if he heard me beg for it—breed me, please—or heard the sound I made when Cormac first pushed in, or just heard the silence afterward and understood.
I know the sound of Ryan Flanagan trying to be small.
I spent two years learning the sounds of this family.
He stayed.
He was right there, on the other side of that door, and he didn't leave.
I file it away. I'll think about what it means tomorrow—the choosing of it, what it cost him, what he decided by staying instead of going back upstairs. Tomorrow. Not now.
Cormac's hand is warm at my back. The lamp is gold on the stone floor. I am still full of him and I am not moving and I am entirely certain—for the first time since I pulled into this driveway two days ago—that I am not leaving.
"Come upstairs," he says.
It's not a question.
"Okay," I say.
He steps back, slow. Helps me off the table. Gets my jeans. Waits while I dress. Takes my hand again, warm and dry and certain.
We go up.