Chapter 27
Sorcha
Axl finds me face down with my arse in the air, my jeans bunched around my ankles, the same way that Cillian took me, dripping cum like a whore.
I want him to feel like I’m here for him.
A sweet pussy to bury his cock into, and then he can walk away.
I won’t become the little wife, the dutiful Lady of Shitshire who drinks tea and insists on missionary with the lights off.
Never.
I will keep him on his toes. Spice it up. Roleplay so that he never gets bored with me or wants to divorce me after all this sinks in and the action dies down.
For all my protests, I want to stay his wife. I have something that’s mine and I want to keep it.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his posh accent making my nipples pucker against my bra. “Little whore, just for me.”
I don’t say anything, but make a show of pulling a pillow over my head.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “A makeshift gloryhole. Sunshine, you have just upped the ante.”
I hear the soft clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zip. His hands grip my hips, his thumbs pressing into the bloody initials Cillian carved there. A sharp, stinging pleasure shoots through me, and I gasp into the mattress. He doesn’t comment on them. He just accepts them. He accepts us.
His cock, hard and thick, nudges my pussy, slick with Cillian’s cum. He pushes in slowly, stretching me, filling me in a way that’s all Axl—possessive, deliberate, a fucking claiming.
I rock back into him, my muffled moan lost in the bedding. He takes the invitation, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. “Wet little girl,” he murmurs, stifling his groan. “Used and wrecked.”
Saying nothing, I let him fuck me. He slaps my arse and I bite my bottom lip, not making another sound.
The slap stings, a perfect handprint against my skin, and a jolt of pure pleasure lances through me, coiling tight and hot in my belly.
Unable to help it, I push back against him, a silent, desperate demand for more.
He understands. His cock pounds into me, a brutal, punishing rhythm that rattles my bones and erases every thought from my head.
This is what I need. Not softness. Not fucking romance.
Just this. Raw, possessive, a claiming that obliterates the fear and the waiting.
Axl withdraws completely before slamming back into me, rocking me forward. “That’s it, take it rough,” he rasps, slapping my arse again.
His words are a fucking match to petrol.
My cunt clenches around him, milking his cock with every brutal thrust. This is our language.
Not pretty words or empty promises. Just this.
Skin on skin, a battle of wills where we both fucking win.
He’s taking me apart, piece by piece, and I’m letting him, because I know he’ll put me back together again, stronger than before. He always does.
My orgasm crashes over me without warning, a tidal wave of pure, white-hot pleasure that steals my breath and makes my vision go black at the edges. I scream into the bedding, my body bucking against him, my walls clamping down on his cock in a desperate, greedy rhythm.
“Little whore is getting off, is she?” he murmurs, slapping my other arse cheek. “Such a greedy girl.”
He spreads my arse cheeks and spits on my rear hole. It makes me jump, but he presses his finger inside me, stretching me, prepping me.
I tremble on the bed, gasping for air as the pillow cuts off my regular supply. But I’m not pulling it off. Let him have this fantasy. Both of us. It’s turning me on in ways I didn’t think possible.
He spits on my arsehole again as he withdraws his fingers and grips my hips. He grunts and shoots his load deep inside my pussy, but he withdraws quickly and guides his cock into my back passage, still unloading, still jerking inside me.
“Christ,” I mumble around the bedsheet.
He shoves deeper into my arse, a stretching pressure that makes me cry out.
He’s still fucking coming, hot cum spilling inside me as he fucks me, messy and desperate.
It’s filthy. It’s perfect. My body is a fucking playground for him, and I love every second of it.
He rides out the last of his orgasm deep inside my arse, “Fucking hell, wife. You’re going to kill me. ”
He thrusts one last time and finishes using me as his cum dumpster. He withdraws and zips up his pants.
I remain exactly where I am, wondering if he will walk away or say something else.
He does neither.
Instead, he slides his fingers through the mess of cum, pinching and twisting my clit. I quiver, so ready to come for him again, but he removes his hand. “Little whores don’t get to come again,” he murmurs.
I hear him doing something, but I have no idea what it is. Then the door opens and closes. I peek out from under the pillow and gasp at what I see lying next to my head.
“You dick!” I scream, snatching up the five twenty-euro bills. “Is that it? A hundred euros? You fucking cheapskate!”
His chuckle is dark and amused on the other side of the door. “If you hadn’t come, it would have been double.”
“Noted,” I grit out and, with a smile, roll over and pull my jeans and knickers up, not caring that I’m gushing cum like a well-used slut.
I’m their slut, and that’s all that matters.
I shove the notes into my pocket and stand up, hoping that Alex will call soon and I can step foot back on St. Bart’s property as its new owner and show these fuckers exactly who they are trying to take down.
I walk back into the living room, feeling the satisfying crinkle of the money in my pocket.
“Feel better?” Axl asks, his voice laced with amusement.
“One hundred euros richer,” I shoot back, patting my pocket.
He holds up his hand. Nestled between his fingers is a stack of bills thicker than a hundred euros.
“You want to go again?” I ask.
“Quality over quantity,” he says. “That was a quality fuck, sunshine. You deserve to be compensated.”
“That is really insulting,” Cillian murmurs.
“Who cares?” I say and snatch the money. “After killing drinks are on me.”
“In that case, better give her some more,” Ciar says. “I could drink enough to drop an elephant.”
“Better yet,” Axl says. “We will raid the staff offices. I bet they have some pretty decent booze stashed away.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, pocketing the cash. It’s a ridiculous, morbid conversation, but it feels right. It feels like us. Planning a victory party before we’ve even fought the fucking battle.
We freeze as Axl’s phone rings.
Every eye is on the phone as it vibrates against the wood of the coffee table.
Axl picks it up, his movements slow, deliberate. He glances at the screen and then meets my gaze, answering it and putting it on speaker.
“It’s done,” Alex’s voice is clipped, efficient, and the most beautiful fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
“As of two minutes ago, Lady Sorcha Gannon-Rhodes of Bamburgh is the sole proprietor of St. Bartholomew’s College and all associated lands.
Congratulations. The vultures are officially circling the old board members. A few have already resigned.”
Time seems to stand still. The only thought that bounces around my head for a few seconds before I focus is Bamburgh. Where the fuck is that?
Axl ends the call without a word.
“Let’s go evict the squatters,” I say as all the blood rushes to my head. It’s time to show Reginald Kavanagh what happens when you try to take on a Gannon girl.