Chapter 17 Kieran
Kieran
“We rule the hearts of mightiest men.” Edgar Allan Poe
The door snaps shut behind me with a finality that makes her world and mine collapse together.
The dim amber glow of the candlelight paints her in gold, flickering across her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the defiant gleam in her eyes.
The soft light tracing the curve of her throat, the swell of her breasts beneath that too–big sweater, the tremble on her lower lip.
My heart hammers so loud in my ears, I’m convinced she can hear it.
I press my shoulder into the door, jaw locked.
“You really shouldn’t have provoked me out there,” I growl, as I slowly peel off my coat. The roughness in my voice is a promise, not a warning.
Her eyes twinkle at the sight. Then in true Deirdre fashion, her lips part in that slow, damn–you–to–hell smirk that has me unraveling inside. “Maybe I am tired of waiting.”
Waiting. The word guts me.
As I continue to walk toward her, I unbutton my shirt, pull it from my slacks, and let it fall to the floor. She licks her lips in response, and fire flashes in her eyes.
Fuck. I’ve missed that look.
For seven sleepless nights, I waited and watched her lie pale and broken in that hospital bed.
For five more weeks, I’ve swallowed down the ache every time her eyes fluttered in my direction, every time her trembling fingers brushed mine.
Six weeks of sleepless nights imagining me inside her, alive and wanting me.
And now—now she stands in front of me, alive, strong, daring me to claim her, challenging me with that fierce light in her blue eyes.
Unbuttoning my slacks and letting them fall to the ground, I step out of them and stalk forward, and she backs up instinctively until her calves bump the edge of the bed, the space around us crackling with hunger. Her gaze hungrily travels down my body to my hard cock, that is pressed between us.
My hands cage her hips, my thumbs brush over her warm skin, feeling the shift of muscle beneath. “You know what you’re asking me, Deirdre?”
“Yes.” Her voice trembles but doesn’t break. “I need you to show me I’m still yours. Completely.”
That’s all the invitation I need. The control I’ve been clinging to cracks like glass.
My fingers dive under the hem of her sweater, dragging it over her head in one brute tug.
She stands revealed in a lace bralette that does nothing to hide the curve of her breasts, her hard nipples pebbling with anticipation.
I groan low in my throat as my hands ghost over her ribs, relearning the ridges of her hipbones, the hollow above her collarbone.
Her skirt follows slowly, settling at her ankles.
She’s small and perfect and achingly real—skin glowing in the amber flame.
She whispers my name, and the single word unthreads my control.
I lower my mouth to hers, pressing my lips and tongue into hers.
She clings to me, nails biting into my skin as if she might vanish if she lets go.
I respond, my teeth grazing the tender flesh behind her ear as I moan against her throat.
When I pull back, we’re both heaving. I catch her gaze—her pupils dark and wild in that wavering light—and there’s no denying the need pooling between our bodies.
“You don’t know how many nights I wanted this. How many times I almost lost control just watching you breathe.”
Her hands graze against me, my skin hot and slick, fingers nimbly tracing every muscle of my torso. “Then don’t hold back.”
I scoop her up and lay her gently onto the bed, the silk sheets cool against her flushed skin.
My hands pause at her wrists—so fragile—then bind them with the satin ties.
I taste her anticipation in the quick hitch of her breath.
Ankles follow, secured just wide enough to expose her center.
I lean in, brush her lashes with the blindfold, and the world narrows to the brush of breath at her neck.
“One word, Deirdre, one word and I stop.”
She trembles in response before whispering fiercely, “Please.”
Grabbing the pinwheel I left on the nightstand, I glide it along her flushed skin.
Tiny spikes of cold fire skate along her belly drawing a gasp that vibrates through me.
Following the familiar path down her lower abdomen to the tops of her legs, I press it firmly along her inner thigh.
The shock makes her legs clench around nothing, and a sound like a prayer escapes her lips.
My own need claws at me. Her breathy moans continue to fill the room as I kneel between her legs.
My fingers find her slick entrance instantly—warm, wet, beckoning for me.
I stroke her folds, teasing her clit until she’s writhing and desperate.
Her pleasure echoes off the walls. I lean down, take her nipple between my teeth, my tongue flicking in gentle worship while my fingers begin to curl inside her, stretching, rolling, drawing out her cries.
When she claws the sheets, hips lifting, I slide one thick finger out and replace it with two, then three, each thrust deliberate and more ravenous than before.
I revel in the sight of her walls stretching around my fingers.
Leaning closer once more, I swipe my tongue from her entrance to the tip of her sensitive clit.
She tastes like home. I rise on my knees, align myself, and push into her in one hard, searing motion.
Her gasp is music to my fucking ears. I fill her, let her take me in, every inch, every hungry shudder.
She grips the sheets as I pull back, then drive forward again. Our flesh sliding against each other, slick and desperate. Candlelight dances over our bodies as we move together, time dissolving into a rhythm of thrusts and gasps, of murmured names and ragged breaths. Her walls clench around me.
Her blindfold slips with the force of her movement, and for a second her eyes are visible—glazed with desire, locked onto me. The sight nearly unravels me completely.
“Look at me,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I need you to look at me.”
“Kieran!” She thrashes against the sheets, pulling at the ties on her wrists.
“That’s my good girl. So tight, needy, and so fucking perfect.” My words are punctuated with more forceful thrusts. With each movement, she tightens around me, and I lose myself in the feel of her, in the sound of her voice breaking into a plea.
I follow her over the edge, her name tearing from my throat in a roar.
Our release crashes through us like a wave, bright and holy.
My arms begin to shake as I slowly lower myself on top of her, chest heaving, and sweat slick between us.
As I continue to throb inside of her, I try to catch my breath.
My orgasm feels less like a release and more like claiming what was always mine, what I almost lost, what I will never let go again.
Leaning over her, I untie her wrists, and instantly her hand finds mine in the dim glow; instinctively, our fingers entwine.
This—this is our salvation.
The echo of her release still hums through her body, her thighs trembling around me, her breath ragged against my ear.
I hold myself inside her, unwilling to let go, unwilling to put even an inch of space between us.
It feels as if I move too soon, she might vanish—like all of this might collapse into another nightmare where I wake up alone in the stairwell with her broken in my arms.
But she’s here. Warm. Alive.
I press my lips to her temple, sweat mingling, my chest heaving against hers. My hand finds her cheek, forcing myself to look into her eyes even as mine blur.
“You’re mine, Deirdre. Always.”
Her answer is a whisper, but it sears me more than any scream. “Yours. Always.”
It nearly unravels me all over again.
Carefully—like she’s porcelain I might break—I examine her wrists where the satin had been tied.
It left faint marks that I brush with my thumbs, kissing each one as if I can erase the memory of restraint.
She watches me silently, eyes glassy, lips swollen from the kiss I lost myself in moments earlier.
When I free her ankles, she instantly curls into me, wrapping herself around me like she needs to fuse us together.
I sink onto the mattress with her half on top of me, pulling the loose blindfold free from her neck and tossing it aside. She buries her face into my throat, still trembling. My arms cage her close, one hand grazing up and down her back, the other cradling her head.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment. Only our breathing fills the space—hers uneven, mine still ragged.
Then her voice rings out, muffled against my skin. ”Are you okay?”
The question startles me. After everything she’s been through, she’s worried about me. My chest tightens almost painfully. I shift just enough to look at her, brushing damp strands of hair back from her face.
“I’m better than okay,” I murmur. “But I didn’t want to hurt you. I wasn’t sure I could…hold back enough.”
Her eyes flicker, searching mine. She cups my jaw, fingers trembling but sure. ”Kieran…you didn’t hurt me. You could never. I needed this—I needed you.”
Her certainty cuts through every doubt I’ve been carrying. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in like oxygen, letting the weight of her words steady me.
We stay tangled together like that, the scent of sex and candle wax still heavy in the room, our bodies slick but unwilling to separate. She hums satisfied when I stroke her hip, and I feel it vibrate through me like a thread stitching all the broken pieces back together.
For the first time in six weeks, I feel whole again.
I’m still holding her, still trying to steady my breathing, when she stirs against me. Her fingers drag lightly across my chest, tracing idle patterns over the sweat-slick skin, and when I glance down, her eyes are no longer rife with exhaustion but glittering with mischief.
“Deirdre…” I murmur, already catching the shift.