“Wet,” I murmur around a mouthful of lace and breast flesh. My fingers slide along her slick lips, seeking out the swollen nub of her clit.
Has it only been a day since I had her? Feels longer.
Without ceremony, I yank her panties down and then fumble with the waistband of my pants.
“Raoul, you have stitches!” I hear her object. I growl in response, ignoring the annoying twinge as I heft her up, spread her thighs over my hips, and position her over the head of my cock. Any resistance she may have evaporates as I lower her down the length of my shaft.
“Ahhh…sweet Jesus,” I groan past clenched teeth. “Like coming home…every fucking time.”
She clings to my shoulders. “Please…you’re going to hurt yourself!”
“It hurts more when I’m not in you.” I close my mouth over hers, shutting her up as I angle my forearms under her knees and begin thrusting into her in earnest. Pretty soon, she’s lost all reservations, writhing and jerking as I skewer her to the hilt.
“Fuck yes!” she gasps as I finally release her from the kiss. Her hand snakes down between us, and I watch in fascination as she finds her clit and begins to rub in time with my rough thrusts.
“Jesus, that’s so fucking hot,” I grind out. I can see my thick flesh pistoning into her as she keeps up the friction of her fingers. The wet sounds of our bodies slapping together are joined by the stickiness I can feel trickling down her thighs. I’m going to drink her dry once I’m done pounding her. But first, I need to slake this need. Feeling her clinging to me awkwardly, I carry her across the hallway until the wall provides some support, and I use it to slide her up and down my length with increasing force. By the time I’m nearing the edge, her eyes are rolling back, her mouth slack as she bucks against me.
“Yes! Oh God, yes!” she gasps out. “Harder! Fuck me harder!” Nails claw into my shoulders through the fabric of my shirt, and I feel myself surge in response.
“Come for me, Buttercup,” I grit out, desperate to watch her lose all control. It doesn’t take further prompting; her voice comes out in a guttural cry that has my balls tightening, and then I’m releasing in a rush as I bust my load into her.
“Fuck!” we both choke out in unison, then our eyes meet through the lust haze, and I’m laughing, and so is she. Reluctantly releasing her splayed legs from the crooks of my elbows, I let her slide down the wall against me, stopping when we’re nose to nose.
“That was…fucking awesome,” she chuckles, pecking a kiss onto my lips.
“Ya think?” I laugh back. “Just wait till you find out what else I have in store for you.”
“Don’t be nuts; you need to rest,” she objects, then sucks in a breath when she sees a smear of red across her ribcage as she rearranges her clothing.
Nuts. I tore a stitch.
Or five.
“Raoul, dammit!” She lifts my shirt, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of the blood-soaked dressing. “I need to get you cleaned up.” Her hand closes around my forearm firmly as she begins to lead me into the apartment. “Where’s the first aid kit?”
“I’m fine.” I try to dismiss it, then change my mind. I kind of love this fiercely protective side of her. It’s something I’m not used to. I take a faltering step, and she spins to face me.
“You’re not fine, you daft nonce!” she snaps, and I stifle a grin. It’s as close to an endearment as I’ve ever had from her.
“I guess I could probably take a load off,” I say, my mind spinning through the possibilities of her playing Florence Nightingale for me. The nurses at the Emergency ward left me cold, but the thought of my little Buttercup tending to me?
Yeah, that could work.
I watch the sweet sway of her hips as she guides me to the bedroom and feel a swirl of contentment push aside my plans of vengeance.
The war can wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 6
Emma Caraldi
“Emma, lass,” my father opens the door to greet me himself, almost surprising the fury out of me. “Good to see ya, darlin’. Are ya well? You look well.”
I barge into the vast entrance hall past him, spinning on my heel to face him. My hands are on my hips. My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. It’s mid-morning, and I waited for Raoul to head to the office before storming here – the hours of keeping my suspicions from my husband have left my temper roiling. Now I’m ready to explode.
“Was it you?” I snarl, trying not to splutter with rage.
“Me? I dunno what yer talkin’ about, Em,” he replies blithely. As usual, Murphy, my father’s redheaded muscle-head shadow, is lingering not far off, and I glare at him, daring him to interfere somehow. The man has the good grace to step back.
