So then why do you want him to do it again?
Because she was fucked up, that’s why. Good girls—normal girls—wouldn’t like it. But she wasn’t either of those things, so there was no use dwelling on it.
He reached down with one hand and grabbed her ass. She palmed his erection over the fly of his jeans. He hissed in a breath and bucked into her hand. “Fuck, baby.”
She whimpered as her hips rocked back and forth of their own volition, her body clenching on an emptiness that made her want to cry.
“Shh, I know. A little at a time, sweetheart.” Irish pressed one of his thighs between hers. Her pelvis rolled forward yet again, but this time she rode the unyielding muscle against her core. She gasped as the friction and pressure eased an ache inside her while igniting an entirely new one that tightened by fractions deep in her belly.
He rucked up her tight skirt and pulled the elastic waistband of her thong down so it hooked beneath her ass. His talented tongue continued to distract her from her fears as he cupped her bare flesh, each of his large hands encompassing a cheek with his fingertips tucking into her crevice. Wanting to assure herself she affected him as much as he did her, she ran the heel of her palm down the length of his rigid cock. He groaned in her mouth and his hands squeezed reflexively, pulling her ass apart and stretching the delicate skin between.
She inhaled sharply at the slight sting and cried out as her womb clenched even tighter and trickled more liquid heat onto his leg.
He buried his face in her neck with a mumbled, “Jesus Christ.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He pulled back enough to look at her. “In fact, something’s very right.” She furrowed her brow, not understanding. With the pad of his thumb, he smoothed the worry from her forehead. “Stop worrying. Your body’s just telling me what it likes, is all.”
“It is?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yeah, it is,” he said with a quirky smile. “And the last thing it said was wicked pissa.”
Okay, she knew in Crazy Boston Speak “wicked pissa” somehow meant “awesome,” but how could Irish know what she wanted when she didn’t have the first clue?
“Well?” she prompted a tad impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what exactly it is it’s saying?”
“No.”
No? “Why not?”
“Because we’re taking things slow, remember? And that,” he said with a nip on her lower lip, “is nowhere near slow.”
She huffed at the shit-eating grin on his face. He merely chuckled. “I can tell you that your body says it wants me,” he boasted before latching those magical lips to her neck again.
Kat knew pride was about to make her eat her size seven shoe, but like a runaway train, she couldn’t stop it. “I suppose that’s possible. Or maybe,” she taunted even as she had to choke back a moan when he hit some special spot below her ear, “I’m just really good at faking it.”
He eased back, his eyes narrowed to slits, and she swore she heard a growl. “Oh, it fucking wants me, all right. There’s no faking the way your sweet nipples harden every time I touch you.”
Proving his point, he dragged his callused thumbs over her shirt-covered, distended buds. Her traitorous body arched into his touch and that sensation of a band twisting in her core tightened.
Irish licked the shell of her ear and nipped the edge. The gravel in his voice tumbled through her body until she settled her weight on his muscular thigh. “And you can’t fake how hot and wet you get for me—only me, kitten.” He reached between them and deftly slipped past the silk, doing little more than stamping a damp triangle on his thigh. “Right…” The twisting got tighter and tighter. “…here,” he finished as he dragged a thick finger through her soaked slit and glanced over the sensitive nub at the top. She cried out his name and lost the thread as he kept up the assault.
With every passing moment, Kat lost herself that much more. Her body felt flushed, covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and her panties were soaked through. Her skin was so sensitive, like her nerves were exposed, and every little sensation was hard-wired to her sex in a strange pleasure/pain. She writhed in frustration. Was she doing something wrong? Maybe part of her really didn’t work right. This needing something was making her fucking crazy!
“Make it stop, Irish,” she begged. “Oh, God, I can’t take it, please make it stop.”
He froze. “Make what stop, Kat? Does something hurt?”