Page 185 of Sins of Arrogance

“I will na hurt ya.” Mick’s Irish brogue is so thick it would take a knife a lot sharper than the one in moma’s box to cut it.

“I know you won’t. You didn’t hurt me on the he­li­copter.” My in­ti­mate flesh can still feel the hard use he gave it, but I like the ache.

It’s a con­stant re­minder that with me, this man with nearly su­per­nat­u­ral con­trol, loses it. And only with me.

“Do what­ever ya want.” Mick’s hands fist in the du­vet.

I smile in­side, but keep it off my lips. My preda­tor doesn’t need to think I’m chal­leng­ing him.

I’m so not. I’m chal­leng­ing us.

To be what I need us to be as a cou­ple.

When I lean in and press my mouth to his tip, he groans and lets his head fall back.

Salty and hot, he tastes like power, like pos­ses­sion, and I want all of it.

Fan­tasies I’ve had about this over the past seven years run through my mind like a mon­tage. One in par­tic­u­lar play­ing over and over again.

Act­ing on it, I lean for­ward and drag one of my tight, aching nip­ples up and down the length of his thick, puls­ing shaft.

It feels so good, I moan.

He does too, only his sounds more like a growl – low and raw.

I do the same with the other nip­ple, the sen­sa­tion streak­ing through me like light­ning, a di­rect line from the tip of my breast to the hot, des­per­ate ache be­tween my legs.

“I like this,” I mur­mur, breath­less.

“I feckin’ glory in it,” he rasps.

I smile, then do it again. It feels even bet­ter the sec­ond time, but it’s not enough. I want more. I want con­trol.

I want to sur­round him.

I press my breasts to­gether around his thick erec­tion, the weight of him nes­tled be­tween them as I start to slide them up and down the length of him.

One hand lands on my shoul­der in a tight grip and his hips jerk up­wards, not let­ting me draw too far away.

“Fuck my bod with those big baps, mo chuisle!” he de­mands.

The need in his tone mixed with the heavy Irish brogue ex­cites me as much as our bod­ies touch­ing in this in­ti­mate way.

“You en­joy­ing this?” I tease, just be­fore dip­ping down to lick the vis­cous fluid beaded on the an­gry red tip of his pe­nis on the next stroke.

Salty, like tears, but there’s sweet­ness too. Unique. In­tox­i­cat­ing.

“Aye! Feckin’ hell, Kara, do it again!”

I do. This time I let my tongue swirl over his crown, tast­ing more of him and pro­long­ing the plea­sure for both of us.

His fin­gers clamp onto my nip­ples, tug­ging, fondling, as I stroke him with the tun­nel of my breasts. My hips rock back and forth in need, but there’s no re­lief in empty air.

Each time his broad head brushes against my lips, I linger longer, lick­ing, teas­ing, learn­ing what makes him moan, what makes him shake. He starts mov­ing in sync with me, his ur­gency grow­ing by the sec­ond.

I want that ur­gency as un­bear­able as mine is. I need it.

I kiss him again, let­ting my parted lips linger over the head of his cock, be­fore re­leas­ing my breasts. Wrap­ping my now free hands around his strain­ing flesh, I lower my mouth over his head, stretch­ing my lips wide to take him in.