Page 26 of Sins of Arrogance

When her moans fade to whim­pers, I pull out, flip her onto her back, and thrust in again.

I need to see her.

Her eyes are glassy, lips parted, flushed and swollen and per­fect.

“More,” she whis­pers. “Please.”

God help me.

I fuck her slow and deep now, grind­ing in cir­cles with ev­ery stroke. I watch her un­ravel. Watch her melt un­der me. Her breasts bounce with ev­ery thrust, and I can’t stop touch­ing them, squeez­ing them, suck­ing on them un­til her back bows and she claws at my shoul­ders.

I hold her like she’s frag­ile even as I drive into her like she’s the only thing keep­ing me grounded. Be­cause she is.

She comes again, this time silent. Just her mouth open in a sound­less cry and tears leak­ing from the cor­ners of her eyes. She clings to me like she’ll drown with­out some­thing to hold on to.

I let go.

My cli­max tears through me, white-hot and bru­tal. I bury my face in her neck and groan as I pulse in­side her, my cock jerk­ing with ev­ery spurt.

We stay tan­gled like that for a long time. Her breath is ragged. Mine is worse.

And the mon­ster in­side me?

Still there.

Still hun­gry. Al­ways feckin’ hun­gry.

For her.

Chap­ter 8: Mo Chuisle, Mo Dhi­ab­hal

KARA

He col­lapses on top of me, his weight press­ing me into the mat­tress like he’s try­ing to fuse us to­gether. For a few sec­onds, I can’t breathe. Not be­cause it’s too much, but be­cause it’s not enough.

I don’t want him to move. Not yet. I want this. All of it.

The stretch, the sore­ness, the wet heat be­tween my thighs. The scent of sex and sweat on my skin. The way his heart pounds hard against my chest, like maybe – just maybe – it beats faster for me.

He calls me mo chuisle. His pulse.

That means some­thing, right?

His breath is hot against my neck as he whis­pers words I can’t quite make out. Not Eng­lish. Not Gaeilge ei­ther.

Just Mick. Raw. Bare. Un­masked.

He doesn’t say any­thing else. In­stead, he presses a kiss to the side of my throat, then an­other to my col­lar­bone, and an­other, softer still, right over my heart.

My eyes burn.

Be­cause this? This ver­sion of Mick – the one who touches me like I’m break­able and sa­cred all at once – only comes out af­ter he’s been in­side me. Af­ter I’ve been wrung out and made to take ev­ery inch of him. Like now.

I stroke his back with trem­bling fin­gers, feel­ing the ten­sion slowly drain from his body. He’s al­ways so tightly wound. So ar­mored. But af­ter sex, when he’s empty and sat­is­fied, the mask slips. And for a few pre­cious min­utes, I get to see the man I want to be­lieve is hid­ing un­der­neath.

“Stay,” I whis­per, my voice barely au­di­ble.

He stiff­ens just a lit­tle, barely no­tice­able. But I feel it. I’m tuned to him like I’m a Mick-re­ceiver.