He alternates, teasing one nipple with his mouth while his fingers roll the other, then switching, leaving nothing unloved. The pleasure is a rising tide, relentless and warm.
By the time his hand leaves my breast and drifts lower, I’m already arching into him, legs shifting restlessly.
He trails his knuckles along the waistband of my sleep shorts, eyes flicking up to meet mine again.
I nod, too breathless to speak.
He slides his hand under the elastic, fingers skimming over the front of my panties. Even that slight pressure makes me gasp, my thighs falling open to give him more room.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re already shaking.”
“Shut up and get to work, Kelly,” I manage.
His mouth curves against my breast, amused, and then his hand shifts, two fingers centering over me, rubbing slow, firm circles through the thin cotton. The friction is perfect, enough to make my hips move of their own accord, chasing the sensation.
“Bran,” I whisper. “Don’t tease.”
“That’s literally the point,” he says, but his fingers speed up, somehow finding exactly the rhythm my body wants.
The room narrows to touch and sound—the low rumble of his curses, my own breath stuttering, the soft slick slide of fabric against my skin. When he pushes my panties aside, presses the pad of his thumb against my clit, and slides one finger deep inside my pussy, I almost come right then.
He seems to realize it, because he pauses, his forehead dropping briefly to my chest as if he’s collecting himself.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.
“I will kill you,” I say clearly, “if you stop.”
He huffs out a laugh that sounds half wild, then pushes a second finger in alongside the first. “Jaysus, you’re so fecking tight,” he murmurs, his Irish more pronounced. “So fecking perfect.”
It’s a steady, relentless rhythm, two fingers working me, his thumb circling, his mouth back on my breast. Every stroke winds me tighter. I clutch at his shoulders, his hair, the sheets, anything to keep myself anchored as my body climbs toward the edge.
The nightmare is gone. Henry is gone. There is only this: Bran Kelly between me and the dark, giving me back my own body one gasp at a time.
“Bran—I’m—” Words disintegrate. My thighs clamp around his wrist.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my skin. “Come on, Tally girl. Let go.”
The command does something inside me. I tip over the edge with a cry, everything going white-hot, muscles clenching around his hand. Pleasure pulses through me in waves, my back arching, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.
He keeps it going—just enough, just right—riding it out with me until the tremors start to ebb. Only then does he ease up, his touch gentling, finally slipping his hand away.
I sag back against the pillow, boneless and dizzy, heart racing, breath coming in ragged pulls.
For a few glorious seconds, there’s nothing but afterglow. No fear. No guilt. Just warmth and the heavy weight of him half on top of me, his hand still stroking my hip.
Then he goes rigid.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
My eyes blink open. “What?”
He pushes off me like I’ve burned him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, shoulders tight. “This was a mistake.”
The words hit like a slap.
I push myself up on my elbows, gathering the sheet to my chest more out of instinct than modesty. “Wow,” I say, the aftershocks of pleasure souring in an instant. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Kelly.”
“That’s not what I—” He scrubs a hand over his face, jaw clenched. “You’d just had a nightmare. You were shaking. I was supposed to be comforting you, not—”
