I nod because I’m utterly lost for words, still spinning from that earth-shattering orgasm, yet already pining for the next one. He pushes himself into my core, stretching andfilling me one life affirming inch at a time until I’m completely full of him.
His lips fuse with mine as he thrusts into me, slowly, at first. Deliberate, devastating and utterly fucking debilitating pumps that obliterate everything else in the entire world but him. Thick fingers circle both my wrists, holding them tightly above my head as I buck back against him. Our slick, sweat-sheened torsos slide against each other as he changes the angle to hit that sweet spot deep inside my inner walls. Again. And again. And again.
The headboard pounds against the wall.
My heart pounds in my chest.
And California pounds into me.
My core contracts, tiny fluttering pulses squeeze my insides as another orgasm builds. My legs go taut. He breaks our kiss, lifts his body slightly, and continues to rut into me.
‘Look, Irish. Look how well your body takes mine.’
My eyes drop to his cock—watching as he slams into me, huge and hard. The sight, combined with his relentless assault on my G-spot, sets me soaring over the edge into another cataclysmic release. My orgasm crests, and white-hot pleasure pulses through my entire body.
‘You take me so well,’ he purrs with approval, and my stomach flips. He ups the pace, thrusting into me, chasing his own hedonistic release. ‘Fuck.’ He slumps onto my chest as we both struggle to catch our breath. ‘Are you okay?’ Those huge blue eyes meet mine with genuine concern.
‘No,’ I pant. ‘I’m not okay. I’m fucking fantastic. Can we do that again?’
A deep, throaty laugh shakes his chest. ‘Don’t come crying to me when you can’t walk tomorrow, baby, but yes, we can do that again.’
Chapter Ten
COLE
The morning sun bleeds gold across the horizon. The sea is a flat sheet of turquoise glass beneath it. I’m sitting on the terrace outside my suite with my laptop open and an espresso beside me, trying—and failing—to focus.
It was after three a.m. when I finally prised myself out of Irish’s bed. The sex was even hotter than I’d imagined—raw, unrestrained, addictive. I don’t know a damn thing about her, yet I know every inch of her beautiful body by heart.
And the worst part?
I’m already counting the hours until I can get reacquainted with it tonight.
Unfortunately, I’ve got work to do. I might be on holiday, but the work never truly stops rolling in. The Dublin project files glare back at me from the screen—architectural renderings, cost-projection spreadsheets, emails from Belle flagging investor questions about licensing laws and gaming permits. Those fucking Becketts—Dublin’s most affluent and powerful family—have done their utmost to block my new casino hotel.
It was my father’s dream to return to Dublin one day. Tobuild the biggest, best casino Ireland has ever seen. He was Irish American. He was determined to bring the Hartmann name home one day. To see it light the city skyline. A monument to everything he built.
He didn’t live long enough to make it happen.
But I will—or die trying.
Even if I have to bulldoze down every Beckett in Dublin with a fucking steamroller.
I snatch up my cell and dial Belle. She answers immediately. ‘Mr Hartmann.’
‘Did Beckett Deluxe Design accept the Dublin project?’ Using one of the Beckett Enterprises businesses was my way of extending an olive branch, despite the Beckett’s attempts to block my hotel. Our businesses are going to be a stone’s throw away from each other. I don’t want to start a war if I can help it.
But if they bring one to my door, God fucking help them.
Plus, Zara Beckett and her team are the best in the country at what they do. Last time I was in Dublin, I stayed at Varmont Castle. The décor was a flawless compilation of understated luxury. Every inch screamed precision and taste—clean lines, layered textures, and seductive lighting. When I discovered it was Beckett Deluxe Design Agency, I had Belle reach out. When they didn’t respond, I emailed her personally, and frequently, to turn up the pressure. Zara Beckett is an impossible woman to get hold of. And her PA, Nico, is like a fucking rabid guard dog.
‘They did. Final answer—if you want Zara Beckett herself,’ Belle replies. ‘It’ll be six months before she can even look at the project.’
I drum my fingers on the table, molars clanging together.
‘I suppose I can wait,’ I concede. ‘Realistically, the premise won’t be ready for design until then anyway.’ It rankles that I have to chase these people. I don’t chase. Inany other country in the world, design companies fight for the privilege of a Hartmann Hotel contract.
‘Is there anything else urgent?’ I ask, silently praying for a no but holding my breath for what I’m certain is coming.
