Chapter 25 Ciar
Ciar
The drugs are good. I can feel the pain receding more every minute that passes. My head swims slightly and I realise I only had a slice of pizza last night. I need more fuel, and then I need a fucking shower. I stink.
“Food,” I murmur, hoping someone else will get it for me.
Sorcha jumps up immediately, and I smile to myself. She is a perfect woman in every single way.
Moments later, she returns with a plate of warmed-up slices, and I open my eyes to take it from her. She also hands me a coffee from the to-go cups my dad brought. “You are a queen.”
“I know,” she says smugly, sitting back down and nicking a piece of pepperoni from my pizza. I let her. She can eat it all if she wants to, but she sits back and I tuck in, suddenly ravenous for the first time in days.
I polish off the pizza quickly, and Sorcha is there with the box of pastries, knowing I need to eat.
“I’ll run the shower and help you,” she says, getting up.
I don’t stop her. Fuck, I’m not going to stop her from putting her hands on me in any respect. I may not be able to pick her up and slam her against the tiles this time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
I follow her down the short hall, each step a calculated movement. My body protests, but the fire in my chest has been banked to a dull, manageable ache. The sound of the shower starts, a hiss of steam filling the small, sterile bathroom.
She turns to face me, her expression determined.
She reaches for the waistband of my joggers, her fingers brushing against my skin.
This is a fucking test of my control. Needing help is a weakness I can’t afford, but having her this close, her focus entirely on me, is a drug more potent than anything my dad injected me with.
Her touch is careful as she eases the joggers down my legs, her eyes tracing the lines of my body. There’s no pity in her gaze. There’s heat. There’s possession. She still sees the predator, not the patient. Fucking good. My cock stirs, a slow, heavy pulse that she notices.
She guides me into the cubicle, the hot water a shock against my skin.
She strips off and steps in with me, the water sluicing over her body, plastering her fiery hair to her skin.
Her ice-blue eyes are dark with intent. She takes a flannel, lathers it with soap, and starts washing my back.
Her movements are efficient, firm, not gentle.
She’s not nursing me. She’s claiming me.
Every slow, deliberate stroke of the cloth over my skin is a mark of ownership.
She turns me, her hands moving to my chest, her touch careful around the waterproof dressing, but her gaze is locked on mine.
“You reek,” she murmurs, her voice a low purr that vibrates right through me, her fingers gliding over her name carved into my skin.
“I fucking know,” I rasp back.
She giggles and lifts my arm to wash my armpit.
If that’s not love, I don’t know what the fuck is.
Her hand moves down my chest, over my stomach, and I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from groaning when her fingers brush the head of my cock. She wraps her hand around me, her touch firm, possessive. My hips buck into her hand instinctively. I’m hard as fucking stone.
She washes me with a slow, deliberate care that’s pure torture, then rinses me off.
The sudden silence when she kills the water is a fucking shock to the system.
She steps out first, wrapping a towel around her body before turning to me, another towel in her hands.
She helps me out and then dries me with the same infuriating efficiency, her gaze never leaving mine. It’s a challenge. A promise.
I brace a hand against the cool basin, my head swimming. The drugs are making the world soft at the edges, but the desire for her is a sharp, jagged point in the centre of the haze.
She drops the towel and then drops to her knees with a slow smile.
She grips my cock and opens up. Her mouth is a hot, wet sheath, taking me deep.
My free hand tangles in her damp hair, gripping the fiery strands as she bobs her head, her gaze locked on mine.
She’s a fucking queen, kneeling at my feet, taking what’s hers.
The pain in my chest is a distant echo, drowned out by the roaring in my blood.
Every pull of her lips, every flick of her tongue sends a jolt straight to my soul.
I let my head fall forward, giving myself over to the sensation. She controls this, and I fucking love it. She knows what I need, the raw, possessive claiming that strips away the weakness, the fucking vulnerability of being injured. With her, I’m not broken. I’m a king.
A low growl rumbles in my chest as my climax builds, a tight, coiling knot of heat deep in my gut.
My grip on her hair tightens, a silent command.
She takes the hint, her pace quickening, her throat working as she takes as much of me as she can without choking.
I fuck her mouth, a single, desperate buck of my hips, and my release floods her, hot and thick.
She doesn’t pull away. She swallows, her eyes never leaving mine, a silent declaration that she’ll take every part of me, broken or not. She’s my fucking reason for not submitting to the weakness.
She rises slowly, a single drop of my cum clinging to her full bottom lip. She licks it away, her smug smile a fucking challenge. “Better?” she asks, her voice a low purr.
“Perfect,” I growl, pulling her in for a hard, bruising kiss that tastes of me. It’s a fucking brand, a claim. I own her, and she owns every fucking piece of me. She makes me fucking invincible.
Pushing her up against the basin, I drop my hand between her thighs and pinch her clit.
She mewls and spreads her legs wider, giving me access.
I shove two fingers inside her pussy roughly and finger fuck her until she is panting my name.
She soaks my hand, and when I press my thumb on her clit, she squirts.
I rub her through it, keeping my gaze on hers as she shatters into a million pieces from my touch.
That is power.
I pull my fingers out of her, slick with her cum, and watch her lean back against the basin, her body trembling with aftershocks. The sight is a fucking drug. Her, undone by me, for me. It erases the last trace of weakness the injury tried to brand on me.
She pushes off the basin, her legs still a little shaky. “We should probably get dressed.”
I nod and take her hand, letting her lead me to the bedroom where fresh clothes thankfully await.
She helps me put on my black tee and black combat pants.
My uniform is back on, and it feels good.
She dresses in black jeans and a long-sleeved tee, and I follow her back into the living room, my body a finely tuned weapon again.
The pain is a ghost, a whisper I can ignore.
The drugs hum, but the real fuel is her.
Grabbing another pastry, I shove it into my mouth and demolish it in two bites.
“He’s back, lady and gents,” Axl comments.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mumble around a hazelnut chocolate croissant.
Sorcha watches me with a heated gaze. I know she was worried, but she can see I’m back and I’m not letting this wound slow me down anymore.
If I die fighting for her, then so be it.
But I won’t go out on my knees. Axl’s right.
I am fucking back. More than back. I’m a loaded gun with the safety off, and my target has a name.
Reginald Kavanagh. I watch Sorcha as she leans against Cillian, the two of them a silent study in lethal stillness.
My woman. My fucking reason. Kavanagh is a dead man walking.
The arrogance of the man is a fucking death sentence.
Cillian leads Sorcha silently away so they can be alone, and that’s fine. The memory of her mouth wrapped around my cock is still close, the feel of her squirting her pleasure all over my hand is still warm. I grab the gun I took possession of earlier and sit, waiting for the call.