Chapter 17
Sorcha
Acousin.
I stare at the dead phone, my knuckles white where I grip the cracked screen.
A whole other family tree full of spies and impatient English wives, watching me like I’m some kind of reality TV show.
Fucking creepy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But he gave me a name. Reginald Kavanagh.
A king to checkmate. Robert and his little fiancée are simply pawns being moved around like me.
Dropping the towel, I step into the shower.
The shower’s hot water does little to wash away the feeling of being a specimen under a microscope, but it sluices the grime and the shock from my skin.
I move on autopilot, towelling off as my mind races.
A convenient engagement to unite two families who lost Ardal’s game.
It’s a fucking coup, and we walked right into the middle of it.
Wrapping the towel around me again, I slip out of the bathroom and into the only bedroom. I search through the cupboards and drawers until I find an old tee of Cillian’s and put it on. It’s hardly appropriate if Alex is still here, but I get the feeling he took off to do whatever it is he does.
I walk slowly back out to the living room, the borrowed fabric soft against my skin.
Alex is gone, as expected. Ciar is propped on the sofa, looking less like he’s about to die and more like he’s just contemplating it.
Axl is still slumped into the armchair, eyes closed, while Cillian stands guard at the window.
They look over as I enter, their gazes sweeping over me, taking in the t-shirt that’s more of a suggestion than actual clothing.
“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” I say, my voice steady, colder than the knot of ice in my stomach.
“Did you know my dad had left?” Axl asks, raising his eyebrow at my attire.
“It was an educated guess,” I say. “But shut up and listen. I know who the caller is. Thanks to his wife.”
I lay it all out for them. Ciarán. My cousin. His impatient English wife. The whole insane story of a trunk full of secrets buried in a garden. I tell them about Reginald Kavanagh and about the convenient engagement to Robert, the alliance of losers trying to reclaim a prize they never won.
When I finish, the room is fucking silent. The air crackles, thick with a new, sharper tension. It’s not just blind rage anymore. It’s focus.
“Kavanagh,” Axl spits, the name an insult. “Should have stayed irrelevant.”
“He’s the puppeteer,” Cillian says, turning from the window. “Brady, Robert, his daughter and god knows who else are the fucking puppets.”
Ciar pushes himself up straighter, ignoring the wince of pain. “I don’t mean to sound like the voice of doom, but do you trust him?”
“Who Ciarán?” I ask, sliding onto his lap with a slow smile.
He returns it and places his hands on my thighs. “Do you?”
“It’s hard to say. He has been watching me this entire time, which is creepy as fuck. He knows people have tried to kill us and not stopped them directly. He plays the mysterious caller but caves when his wife tells him to. I don’t know what to think.”
“He’s playing the game but not getting involved enough to become a target,” Cillian says. “It’s smart.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, dropping my hand to squeeze Ciar’s cock through his joggers.
He needs a distraction, and I need a good fuck.
Ciar groans as I slide my hand past his waistband and wrap my fingers around him, feeling him harden under my touch.
I shift on his lap, grinding down just enough to draw a low growl from deep in his chest. This is what I need.
Control, connection, something raw to drown out the chaos.
I lean in, my lips brushing Ciar’s ear. “You up for this?” My voice is husky, laced with the edge of everything we’ve lost today. He answers by gripping my hips harder, pulling me flush against him, his cock pressing insistently against me.
“Fuck yes,” he rasps, his hands sliding up under the t-shirt, palms skating over my bare skin. I rock against him again, teasing us both.
Ciar’s hands move to my thighs, spreading them wider as I straddle him fully now, the t-shirt riding up to expose me. I gasp as Ciar’s fingers slide over my clit, stroking with deliberate pressure that makes my head fall back.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Ciar mutters, his voice rough as he slips a finger inside me. I moan, grinding down onto his hand, my body taking over. He adds a second finger, stretching me, and I bite my lip to stifle another moan. His thumb circles my clit, building that tight coil of heat.
Ciar thrusts his fingers deeper, twisting them just right, and I arch against him. He pumps steadily.
“Need you now,” I gasp, gripping him and rising up away from his fingers.
He doesn’t stop me. He drives into me in one deep thrust, stretching me wide open. I shatter around him almost instantly, the orgasm ripping through me like fire, my pussy clenching his cock tightly. He holds still, letting me ride it out, his hands bruising on my hips.
Ciar thrusts, slow and deep, before he picks up the pace, slamming into me harder, his control fraying. I meet every thrust.
“Close,” Ciar grits out, his muscles tensing under me.
“Come inside me,” I pant.
With a low groan, he buries himself deep, unloading inside me.
Cillian doesn’t give me a moment to recover. He strides over and lifts me off Ciar, so my feet are on the floor. Then he pushes me forward so my hands land on Ciar’s thighs. “Hold her while I fuck her,” he says.
Ciar’s hands clamp around my wrists. Cillian’s grip on my hips is unforgiving as his hands slide up my back, shoving the t-shirt higher to expose me completely. The blunt head of his cock nudges against my pussy, slick from Ciar’s cum.
He thrusts in deep, in one brutal stroke that steals my breath.
I cry out, my fingers digging into Ciar’s legs, but Ciar’s hold on my wrists keeps me locked in place, his blue eyes locked on mine, dark with possession.
Every inch of me feels claimed, stretched, and I love the way they take control, the way it makes the chaos outside fade to nothing.
Cillian sets a punishing rhythm, each drive pushing me forward onto my toes.
The friction is intense, building that fire low in my core again, and I arch my back, meeting him thrust for thrust. “That’s it,” he mutters, one hand tangling in my hair to pull my head back, exposing my throat.
Axl kneels next to us to rub my clit in rough circles that make my vision blur.
Pleasure spikes through me, sharp and overwhelming, and I moan, the sound raw in the quiet room.
Ciar’s grip tightens on my wrists as Cillian pounds harder, his breath coming in harsh pants.
My pussy clenches around him in waves of ecstasy that crash over me.
Cillian follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, his release hot and deep inside me.
He pulls out slowly, leaving me trembling, but before I can catch my breath, Axl is there, lifting me effortlessly and turning me to face him.
“My turn, wife,” he says, his casual tone laced with that dark edge I crave.
He sits on the sofa, pulling me down to straddle him, his cock already hard and ready.
I sink onto him, gasping at how perfectly he fills me, and start to ride, slow at first, then faster, chasing that edge again.
His hands roam my body, pinching my nipples through the t-shirt, sending jolts straight to my core.
Axl’s thrusts meet mine, his mouth claiming my neck in biting kisses.
Suddenly, he rises and turns me around to drop me on the sofa, facing away from him.
He pushes down on my back and scoops cum out of my pussy to lube up my arse, spreading it deliberately over the tight ring with slow, insistent circles.
I gasp at the mix of pleasure and anticipation that makes my thighs tremble.
He’s not rushing this, and I arch back toward him, craving more, my body still humming from Ciar and Cillian’s rough claiming.
“Relax for me, wife,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, like this is just another game we play. One finger pushes in gently, testing, stretching me open, and I bite my lip against the burn that quickly melts into heat.
Axl adds a second finger, scissoring them slowly, and I moan, pushing back onto his hand, the fullness making my head spin.
“That’s it,” he praises, his free hand sliding up my spine to tangle in my hair, tugging just hard enough to send sparks through me.
He withdraws his fingers and presses his cock at the hole, demanding entry.
I breathe deep, willing myself to open for him, and he inches in, slow and relentless, filling me in a way that’s equal parts ache and ecstasy.
“Fuck, Sorcha,” he groans as he buries himself fully.
He gives me a moment to adjust before he moves in shallow thrusts at first, building to something deeper, harder.
I rock back to meet him, the friction igniting every nerve.
Ciar’s fingers thrust into my pussy, one, two, three, until he has four fingers shoved inside me, then he fists me and I cry out, dripping cum all over his hand.
The sensation overloads me, every nerve screaming as Ciar’s fist stretches my pussy to its limit, his knuckles grinding against that sweet spot inside while Axl pounds my arse with relentless force.
I buck wildly between them, my body a live wire of heat and pressure, chasing the edge where pain blurs into bliss.
“Fuck, yes,” I whimper, my voice breaking as another orgasm rips through me, my walls clamping down on Ciar’s fist like a vice. Cum gushes out around his wrist, soaking the sofa as I squirt. Ciar’s groan of lust is a pure aphrodisiac.
Axl drives in deeper, his grip bruising on my hips, and then he slams into me one final time before he dumps his cum with a low growl.
Ciar eases his fist out slowly, leaving me empty and throbbing, my thighs slick and trembling. I collapse forward, breathing hard, but Axl’s already pulling me back up, turning me to face him. He kisses me fiercely, all teeth and tongue, his hands roaming possessively over my sweat-damp skin.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against my lips, and I manage a shaky laugh, because yeah, I feel pretty damn invincible right now, even with the world exploding around us.