They ran hot and fierce, coaxing out every last bit of strength they had in their bodies to ride the pleasure of being in one another… around each other… touching belly to belly, hands tangled together and thrusting. The bed squeaked and rocked, its headboard slamming against the solid wall in booming ripples of sound deep enough to rattle Rafe’s teeth.
It was all Rafe could do to hold on. And he held, wrapping Quinn up in his arms, and rocked, pistoning his hips forward in sharp snaps, thrusting in time to Quinn’s mewling, primal cries.
His shoulders stung, bruised from Quinn’s punishing grip on them, but Rafe continued, throwing his head back when Quinn bit down on his neck. There was a taint of copper in the air, and his throat grew hot, its skin painfully raked as Quinn bit again to get a better purchase. Rafe rode the pain, letting it shock him from the edge. With Quinn’s hard cock trapped between them, he rolled his hips, rubbing his belly against Quinn’s shaft.
“Come for me, baby,” he rasped, torn between reaching down to stroke Quinn off and holding Quinn’s hips up so he could hit the spots of pleasure he’d found in his lover’s clench. Quinn ended the debate with a gasping shudder, his body stiffening as his eyes rolled back in his head.
Rafe felt the splash of hot seed hit his chest, and he was done for. He poured himself into Quinn, wishing he could fill every bit of emptiness inside of him, washing away the awkward disjointedness Quinn felt whenever he opened his eyes. He longed to cradle Quinn, holding him in synch with the people and things around him.
But if he did, Rafe’s heart whispered, Quinn would no longer be Quinn. No longer the magpie caught up in the flashy silver of his next thought. There’d be no more journeys into mystical places of unexplored dreams and certainly no babbling streams of Irish-brewed imaginings, laden heavy with rainbows and the most secretive of stars.
Quinn made Rafe’s world explode with experiences—from the notice of a dew-jeweled spiderweb while walking for coffee to the wonderment of the city’s bedazzling cloak of lights, a garment she could only truly don once all of the penthouse’s lamps were doused. He’d learned the magic of a melting tiny marshmallow on his tongue right before it slagged into a mug of butterscotch-schnapps-dosed hot chocolate from Quinn.
Just as he’d caught a glimpse of heaven buried in Quinn’s body and was splatted by Quinn’s come.
His body folded in on itself, pouring out every bit of Rafe in its gush to fill Quinn. Rafe panted, resting his weight on Quinn’s heaving chest as he was wrung dry by Quinn’s asscheeks squeezing around him. It took a few seconds for the drunken, drowned feeling to subside, leaving only the sticky salt of their sweat and come. Rafe tried to catch his breath, giving in when he realized how silly he sounded trying to control his heaving intakes. Quinn sighed, grunting slightly when Rafe slid off of him so Quinn wouldn’t be crushed by his weight.
When Rafe felt himself pull free of Quinn’s rim, he mourned their parting, his cock bright with sensations. He needed to get the condom off. It only seemed important because the latex slithered around his cock head, its blood-flushed skin too prickly to be handled with anything other than the gentlest touches. Still, Rafe tugged the sheath off, then slid it onto the remains of Quinn’s boxers on the floor.
Sliding his arms around Quinn, Rafe felt his bones droop, liquefied in the soft afterglow of sex. His neck ached, probably torn open by Quinn’s teeth, and he wasn’t totally certain his shoulders weren’t black and blue from Quinn’s powerful hands, but Rafe didn’t care. He’d take the pain. The pleasure of having Quinn in his life… in his heart… was well worth it.
Clearing his throat, Rafe tried out the one Gaelic phrase he’d worked hard to learn, hammered into him by Kane as they waited for Quinn to return from seeing Brigid. Pushing Quinn’s damp hair from his strong features, Rafe whispered, “Tá tú iontachá lainn.”
He must have come close, because Quinn’s lips parted in surprise, and his eyes misted, folding a hazy lace over the green. “Ach, Rafe. Oh… tá mo chroí istigh ionat. Truly.”
“Sorry, Q, but that’s the only sentence I know,” Rafe replied ruefully. “You’re going to have to teach me what you just said. ’Cause other than telling you that you’re beautiful, the only other Irish I know has to do with fucking and asses.”
Quinn’s bark of laughter was loud enough to scare the cat out of the bathroom, and Harley tore through the room, launching herself off a corner of the bed to trebuchet herself through the open door and out into the hallway.
“Not to worry, a ghra.” Quinn teased Rafe’s mouth with a simmering kiss. “Those are words I can work with.”