“Mine.” He breathes against my lips between kisses. “Say it.”
“Yours, Ashland.” The words come out broken and desperate. “Yours. Now you tellme.”
He groans as if I've wounded him. “Bianca.” He sighs, deep and affected. “I’m yours, lass. Yours. Christ, woman, look at you. All the things I want to do to you…”
“Do it.” I arch into him and feel his sharp intake of breath. His forehead drops to mine in surrender, trembling, before his hand cups my face with a gentleness that contradicts the violence in his kiss.
“I don't think you know what you're asking for,” he whispers.
I look into his eyes and see it. The obsession. My monster.
My savior.Mine.
“Teach me,” I whisper.
Then he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, like he's drinking me in. As if he's memorizing every gasp and whisper.
I taste his surrender and mine. His hand slides under my shirt, his fingers skating across my ribs, and I arch into his touch. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire. I can feel myself swollen and slick and panting. Every thought in the world narrows to the head of a pin, one defining moment that erases all other consciousness. His mouth. His hands. His body pressing me into the mattress.
“I'll ruin you,” he warns against my lips, his Irish accent making the words sound like a promise.
“I'm counting on it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from our kissing, his chest heaving.
He looks wrecked. “There's no going back after this, lass.”
“I don't want to go back.” I pull him to me again. “I want you, Ashland. All of you.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a growl.
All I needed was one night with my monster of a fiancé to see that Ashland has always told me nothing but the truth. “All I need is you. Maybe that's selfish. Maybe I?—”
“No. Shh,” he whispers, one thick finger coming to my lips and silencing me.
“Not another word like that, lass. Not another word. Do you understand me, Bianca?” I nod and give him exactly what he needs.
“I'm done running. I'm done chasing other people to get an ounce of attention. I want what you have to give me, Ashland.Make me yours.” He undresses me slowly, reverently, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
He reaches the bottom of the tee and lifts it up. “Fuck,” he breathes out, panting, his hands shaking.
I'm nervous. My hands cover his, and I slow the trembling. “It's alright. Let's do it together,” I whisper.
My fingers meet his, and we lift the fabric together, baring me to him. “Christ, lass,” he growls. “How are you so perfect?” His voice trembles as he looks at me. And I know, down to my toes, that he likes what he sees.
His eyes widen when he touches my skin, the contrast stark—my softness against his scars, his tattoos. His rough hands on my soft, ivory skin. My hands on his—darker, rougher, calloused.
“I want to know the marks on you, Ashland. Every scar, every tattoo, every piece of what makes you…you.” He slides the top up further.
When he reveals another expanse of skin, he bends down and brushes his lips over it… as ifworshippingme.
“Ashland…”
“Shh… I waited years for this. Let me take my time.”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt, which is up to my breasts. I nod, not trusting my voice, as he slowly peels it off. His knuckles drag against my stomach, and I shiver.
Goose bumps erupt across my skin. “Are you cold, lass?” he whispers, concerned. “Do you need me to?—”
