It’s like my first bites of food when I sit down for a meal. I want to savor it. Savor him.
I shudder and push down an inch, and holy fucking God, the exquisite molten slide is whoa. My inner muscles contract and relax, trying to accommodate him, and the stretch is almost painful. Almost. And so it’s also so so delicious.
Conor’s head is thrown back, his neck muscles stretching, his biceps bunching and flexing as he grips my hips, his fingers digging into me, but restraining from pushing me down fully like he obviously wants to.
I drag upward, the friction making me tremble. The truth is, he’s so huge, I need adjustment time, but God, the friction is making me antsy, the ache inside now a greedy throb.
I suck in a deep breath, readjust my knees, and just go for it. I impale myself fully down, and he bows upward. “Fuck!”
I still, gasping sharply. His hands dive into my hair, and he’s kissing me as I feel him thicken. I still can’t move because, ohmygod, but the sensation of him seated fully inside me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
The hollow ache that was waiting to be filled is not satisfied—it’s now urging me to move. I grip his shoulders, and, still kissing, I slide up and back down. He groans into my mouth.
Soon my movements are so frantic we can’t kiss anymore without injury, and I throw my head back, all of my consciousness zeroed in on how he feels inside and against me—the heat, the friction.
Holy shit. A rare, sex-induced orgasm barrels toward me, making me desperate to grab it.
But before it can overtake me, he pushes me onto my back. Pulls out, and thrusts back into me.
“Yes!” But damn, I hope that wasn’t my last chance at that orgasm. An orgasm with Conor.
I grip his athletic ass—God, he has such a firm ass—and urge him deeper on each thrust.
On the next plunge, he arches up, whips his arms behind him, and grabs my wrists. The strength required to basically do a plank above me? Whoa.
Inside me, his girth is hot and thick, my blood pounding in my ears and in my clit. He puts my hands over my head, holding them both in one of his, while his other arm draws up one of my legs, looping it over his forearm.
“Holy shit,” I gasp as he drags out and slams inside me even deeper. He pounds into me, and even though he has my wrists constrained above my head, I’m so lost in the feeling of him moving inside me, I don’t care that he’s taken control.
All the while, his mouth is ranging over every inch of skin he can reach, pattering me with kisses and tiny bites and curses.
That orgasm that was just out of reach before, the one I was desperately chasing because of its rarity, blasts through me with no warning, the tug and bliss and heat so powerful, I actually scream out his name.
I’m jerking, the aftershocks causing me to buck and writhe against him. He releases my wrists, thank God, and I latch them around his torso and hold on as he drives into me with more urgency.
And…whoa another orgasm builds. Am I a greedy person for wanting it too before he finds his pleasure?
I’ve never had a double orgasm from sex.
I grab his ass, urging him onward, greedily grinding him into me. He shifts the angle of his hips, rising partway up but somehow making his pubic bone press against me with each thrust. His whole body is one giant hunk of tension and muscle and maleness as he pumps into me. He does a little twist of his hips, and that gluttonous part of me is like fuck yes, because I explode in another searing orgasm.
Holyshitholyshitholyshit.
He thrusts inside once more, holds still, and because I’m like a stretched glove around his thick hardness, I can feel him kick inside me with his release.
Oh wow.
He drags out slightly, pushes in again, and I clamp down on him tightly, my body still wracked with aftershocks. He collapses on top of me shuddering, his breaths sawing in and out near my ear. Mine is too. Our hearts are beating so hard, I can feel its thumps everywhere we’re touching. Every. Where. Even deep inside.
We’re slick with sweat, and I’m holding on to him tight, my mind blissed out as I slowly piece myself back together.
Holy shit.
What was that?
Oh, just hot-as-sin sex with fucking Conor McDaid. I skim my hands all over his slick skin and try to get my breathing under control. Outside, it’s prematurely dark from the storm, the rain drubbing against the windows in spurts, as if being thrown against it over and over. The candles are still alight, their flickering shadows playing across the ceiling.
“I must be crushing you,” he groans.
He rolls to the side, taking me with him. I let him and snuggle up against his chest, unwilling to leave the moment. Because when I do, reality will return, and I really, really love this unreality.
Wow.
My breathing calms, and I keep my head on his chest, savoring this moment until it inevitably ends.
Chapter 11
Claire
We’re mostly cooled off, though the room’s still muggy from lack of A/C and our, er, exertions. Our heart rates have returned to normal, and it’s…nice. Good nice. We’re comfortable, and we’re not feeling awkward. At least, I’m not.
A ringing sound jolts us.
Conor groans. “My mobile is bleeding after me.”
“Can you let it ring?”
“That’s the tone for work.”
The way he says it, I know he can’t let it go to voice mail, so I ease off him. He levers up and snatches his jeans, fishing out his phone.
“Yeah?”
His body stiffens. He stands and strolls to the kitchen, holding the phone to his ear and listening to whatever bad news he’s getting. He’s not saying anything, but his body language says it’s not good.
His hand tunnels into his dark red hair and clenches.
“And wasn’t I telling Steven himself that code needed looking at again. Too many bugs showing up in the initial testing of it.” His accent thickens as his frustration mounts.
Another pause.
“Yeah. I’m on it.”
He ends the call. “Fucking hell. Ain’t that a savage dose.” He marches into the bathroom, and the toilet flushes. He comes back out sans-condom and calls someone else.
I’m feeling exposed, lying on the floor. The post-coital buzz has definitely packed up and vamoosed.
Since it’s evening, I pad into the bathroom and clean my face and brush my teeth. Then I don my sleepwear, the fresh scent of the detergent we used today filling my nose as I pull the T-shirt on over my head.
Holy shit. It hits me. I just had sex with Conor McDaid. Hot, sweaty, oh-my-God sex.
In a way, the interruption is a blessing—it doesn’t let me read into it more than what it is. A hookup.