Chapter 19 #2
How she'd taste flooding my mouth when I push my tongue inside her, when I suck her clit until she's writhing.
The gorgeous sight of her back bowing off the bed, her thighs trembling against my shoulders as I hold her down and make her take it.
How she'd come on my face, clenching and pulsing and crying my name, while I lick her through it and then keep going because once won't be nearly enough.
Not after six years of dreaming about this exact moment.
I'd make her come on my tongue until she begged me to stop. I'd worship every inch of her until my jaw ached and my cock throbbed, until she was boneless and sated and finally, finally mine in every way that matters.
Six fucking years I've waited for this. Six years of wanting her so badly it physically hurt, of turning down every other woman because they weren't her, could never be her. And now she's here, kissing me like she means it, and I want to take everything she's offering and more.
Christ . I need to fucking stop .
“But—” She bites that fucking lip again. “Can we just… do this? For now?”
“Aye. Of course we can.”
Then I'm kissing her again, and she's responding like she's been waiting for this too. Her hands are on my head, her body pressed against mine, little sounds escaping her throat that make me want to throw her over my shoulder and take her like a goddamn caveman.
But I won't. She needs gentle. She needs intimate. She needs me to prove I can give her this without taking more than she's ready to offer.
I've waited six years. I can wait a little longer.
And when I finally have her, when she's begging for me, it needs to be because she' s sure.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her hair a mess from my hands. She looks thoroughly kissed and absolutely beautiful.
The way she's looking at me, like I'm not a monster, makes my chest tight.
“Bed,” I say roughly, because if she stays out here much longer, I won't be able to control myself. “You're exhausted. We can talk more in the morning.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“Couch.”
“Ashland—”
“I want you to be sure.” I force the words out, even though every instinct screams at me to take what I want, to make her mine, to close the distance between us in every possible way. “I don't want to push you into anything you're not ready for.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for… what? A lie? A trap?
“But make no mistake, lass.” I let my voice drop lower, rougher, and let my eyes burn into hers so she can see exactly how much I want her. I don’t want her to entertain the thought for even a second that I’m rejecting her because I can already see the hint of fear in her eyes.
“When you do decide, when you come to me because you want this, not because you're scared or confused or trying to figure out what's real, I will worship every inch of you. I will make you feel things you didn't know you could feel.” I lean in just enough that she has to tilt her head back to hold my gaze. “And when that time comes, I promise you… you’ll beg.”
The way her breath catches, the way her pupils dilate, the subtle press of her thighs together—aye, she likes that. Likes when I'm commanding and dominant.
Good, because that's the only way I know how to be.
But I still step back and give her some space.
“The choice is yours, Bianca. It's always been yours, even when you didn't know it.” I run a hand over my head, feeling the roughness of stubble. “I'll wait as long as you need. A day. A week. Forever, if that's what it takes.”
I mean it, even if it kills me.
She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression I can't quite read. Then she takes a step toward the bedroom and pauses, her hand on the doorframe.
“Ashland?”
My name in her voice still does things to me. “Aye?”
She doesn't turn around. “Will you… I don't want to be alone tonight.” It’s so quiet I almost miss it. “Just to hold me. Until I fall asleep.”
Christ .
“Are you sure, lass? ”
She nods, finally looking back at me over her shoulder. “Please.”
I'm off the couch before I can think better of it, following her into the bedroom.
I give her one of my T-shirts to wear, and she climbs into bed.
I settle in behind her, pulling her back against my chest. She fits perfectly in my arms. Those curves I've memorized from a distance are now pressed against me, soft and warm and real.
Her hair smells like the vanilla shampoo I bought for her. Her breathing gradually slows as she relaxes into me.
“Thank you,” she whispers after a moment.
I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing her in. “Always, love.”
She shifts slightly, getting comfortable, and the movement sends a fresh wave of want through me. But I force myself to stay still, to just hold her… to give her the safety she's asking for.
Her hand finds mine where it rests against her stomach, and she laces our fingers together. For the first time in six years, I feel something like… peace .
I stay awake long after her breathing evens out into sleep, cataloging every detail. The way she curls into me. The little sighs she makes. The trust it took for her to ask for this.
I should feel victorious. Satisfied.
Instead, I'm terrified I'll fuck this up. That she'll wake up tomorrow and realize what a mistake she's made. That she'll run again, and this time I won't be able to stop her.
Because I meant what I said—I won't chase her again. I won't drag her back, kicking and screaming. She needs to choose this. Choose me.
Even if letting her go destroys me.
Even if letting her walk away is the hardest thing I've ever done.
But right now, in this moment, she's here, safe in my arms and choosing to stay.
And I'll take whatever she's willing to give me.
I wake before dawn, an old habit from years of training and discipline, and I know immediately I won't be going back to sleep.
She's here. Under my roof. Safe.
But for how long?
I need to work off this energy before I do something stupid, like crawl back into her bed and wake her with my mouth between her thighs.
Christ, the things I want to do to her .
I pull on shorts and trainers and head outside to the heavy bag I’ve got suspended in a clearing at the back of the cabin. The morning air is cool and sharp. Good. I need the cold to clear my head.
I start slow—jabs, crosses, working up to combinations. But within minutes, I'm going full force, imagining Crowning's face with every punch.
The bastard put his hands on her. Hurt her. Threatened her.
I should have fucking killed him. Should have beaten him until there was nothing left.
But I didn't. I couldn't. I had to stay loyal to my family, and killing him on the spot would've meant a war we're not prepared to win.
And I didn't want Bianca to see me become a complete monster.
Not yet.
The bag swings wildly under my assault. Sweat pours down my back despite the cool air.
I haven't told my family about her yet. They don't know I've potentially started a conflict we can't afford right now, not with everything else they're dealing with.
And here I am, absent when they need me, obsessed with a girl I should've let go of six years ago.
And Christ, what happens when Crowning realizes she's missing? When he figures out a McCarthy took her? I might've just painted a target on my entire family's back because I couldn't keep my fucking hands to myself.
I slam my fist into the bag harder. The chain rattles.
I should warn them. Should tell Da that trouble might be coming. Should at least give Seamus a heads-up that I've complicated things.
But then I'd have to explain why. I’d have to admit I've been watching her for years, then see the judgment in their eyes when they realize how far gone I am.
The bag sways and bulges.
I've been celibate for years . Years spent working off my obsession with her in the ring, on bags, in brutal fights, where I could channel all this need into violence.
Now she's here, sleeping in my guest room, and I can't have her.
Not yet.
Fuck .
I land a particularly brutal combination, and something in the bag gives way. Sand starts pouring out onto the ground.
Well, crap.
I step back, my chest heaving, hands on my hips. That’ll need to be fixed.
That's when I feel the weight of being watched. I turn and look at the cabin. She’s at the window… watching me .
Our eyes lock, and even from this distance, I can see the heat in her gaze. The way she's looking at me—taking in my bare chest, my sweat-slicked skin, the violence in every movement.
She wants me.
She may not be ready to admit it yet… not ready to act on it.
But she wants me.
I smirk, and she jerks away from the window, disappearing from view.
Little lass got caught watching. Adorable.
Good. Let her see what she does to me. Let her see the violence I'm capable of, that I keep leashed for her sake.
I head inside and wash the blood from my knuckles at the kitchen sink. I reopened the splits from the other night. Worth it.
“You're going to need new bandages.”
Her voice from the doorway makes every muscle in my body tense. I glance over my shoulder.
She's wearing the tee I gave her last night. It hits her mid-thigh, and her legs are bare. Her hair is messy from sleep, and she looks soft and rumpled and so fucking beautiful it hurts.
“Couldn't sleep,” I say, turning back to the sink.
“Nightmares? ”
I shrug, shut off the water, and reach for a towel. “Of what could have happened if I'd been five minutes later last night.”
I feel her move closer.
“But you weren't,” she says softly.
“But I could have been.” I turn to face her, and the concern in her eyes nearly undoes me.
“You didn't lose me.” She reaches up and cups my face. Her palm is soft against my stubble, and I have to fight not to turn into her touch like a starving animal. “I'm right here.”
My hands go to her waist automatically. She's so small in my hands. So breakable.