by Mia Sheridan
"Put your tits in my mouth, Lydia," Brogan said, and I moaned again, my skin prickling as I scooted up his waist and leaned until my breasts were right at his face and he sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, giving it a hard pull. I cried out loudly, pleasure arcing from my breast to my clit as I squirmed on top of him. He gripped my ass with one hand as he licked and sucked at my nipples, using the other hand to run one finger up and down the crack of my ass, spreading the slick wetness from my core. It felt like my eyes were going to roll into the back of my head as I rocked on top of him, his mouth and his hands working magic on my body. After a few minutes, an orgasm slammed into me so intensely I arched my back and screamed with pleasure, collapsing on top of him and whimpering softly, overcome and shocked by the intensity of my climax. He hadn't even touched me between my legs. Holy hell. How had that happened?
"Put me in, Mo Chroí," Brogan said, sounding like he was barely able to form the words. He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom. He ripped it open with his teeth and then reached behind me. I looked over my shoulder fascinated and turned on by the sight of him sliding the condom quickly over his erection.
I scooted back a little and lifted myself up slightly and wrapped my hand around his cock, fitting it into the wet opening of my body. Oh God, yes. I moaned at the feel of him entering me, my vaginal muscles leaping in a small aftershock.
"Oh Brogan. God, God," I murmured, pausing and riding out the small, unexpected burst of bliss that the contact of our most intimate parts had brought on.
"Mo Chroí, I'm gona die a brutal death if I don't get in ya," he groaned out. I let go of his shaft and sunk all the way onto him, impaled completely as I leaned back and began to move slowly, letting out a satisfied sigh.
He gripped my hips and exerted pressure until he was moving me the way he wanted—slow at first and then faster as his head went back on the pillow. His skin flushed, his lips falling open, the muscles of his arms and chest taut with strain and glistening with perspiration, the rippled muscles of his abdomen flexing as he made masculine sounds of pleasure. So incredibly sexy. His erotic male beauty was utterly mesmerizing, and I sucked in a breath, wanting to memorize the way he looked in that moment. I was doing that to him.
As I moved, he muttered words in Gaelic, words I didn't understand but thought I knew all the same. Yes, yes, don't stop, please, oh God, I imagined was what he was whispering in that beautiful, mysterious language.
Brogan moved me faster and faster, his cock sliding into my drenched core over and over, his hips pumping from beneath until he slammed into me one final time, yelling out and arching his head back deeper into the pillow beneath his head.
I collapsed on top of him again, and he brought his arms around me, holding me as we both trembled, drifting back to earth, our breathing slowing, our thundering hearts finally returning to normal.
In a haze, I used my fingertip to trace a vein under the skin of his bicep and made a deep, satisfied hum in my throat, finally raising my head to look at him.
He looked drowsy and half drunk with pleasure. "That was . . ." He trailed off, not seeming to know how to continue.
"I know," I said sleepily, smiling against his skin.
After a few minutes, I attempted to sit up, our slick bodies peeling apart. I felt boneless and heavy limbed. Brogan scooted out from under me, moving me gently onto the pillow as he got up and went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom, I assumed. A minute later I heard the bath running and a few minutes after that, Brogan came back into the room, picking me up and carrying me to the bathroom where he deposited me in a tub of warm, bubbly water. I sighed out, leaning my head back.
The nurse, Margaret, had said to keep my stitches dry for twenty-four hours, but it'd been longer than that. I smoothed the waterproof Band-Aid down anyway, to make sure it was secure. It was obviously healing well—I hadn't thought of it once in all our . . . maneuverings.
"Are you going to join me?" I asked, my lids heavy.
Brogan dropped the towel he'd wrapped around his waist and stepped in, leaning back against the opposite side. For a minute we simply watched each other, something intense and erotic leaping between us. This was the most intimate moment I'd ever experienced. Brogan ran a wet hand through his hair, leaving it tousled and standing straight up.
I smiled. "You are so handsome," I said. He gave me a crooked, shy smile and I felt butterfly wings stir in my stomach. I tilted my head. "You must know."
He cupped a handful of water and brought it to his face, sputtering slightly and smiling at me, teasing. "The only woman I'm interested in appealing to is you," he said, his expression suddenly serious.
I gazed at him for a moment wondering how it was that this beautiful, complex man wanted me, wondering what it was about me that made him desire me the way he seemed to. "What does neeus mo mean?" I asked.
Brogan grinned. "It's spelled n-í-o-s m-o," he answered. It means more." He raised an eyebrow. I used my hand to swirl the bubbles in front of me, and he glanced down at one of my nipples poking through the water, his gaze darkening.
"What about ledehull?"
"It's three words, l-e d-o t-h-o-i-l. It means please." I licked my lips and his eyes moved to my mouth. So I'd been right about what he was saying. "I'm going to have to be careful what I utter around you," he said, a teasing gleam in his eye. "I'm far less safe than I thought."
"Far less," I agreed, smiling back. I sat up, moving toward him until I was lying over him, my face in front of his. His hands went to my ass and he rubbed it gently, bringing the water up and over my skin. "Teach me how to say something in Gaelic."
He considered me for a moment, moving a damp piece of hair behind my ear before saying something that sounded like, "Iss le Brogan may." I repeated it and his eyes moved over my face, his gaze somehow soft and intense at the same time, his lips tipping up as if very pleased. He leaned forward and kissed me softly, uttering something that sounded like, "Iss latsa mo chree."
"What did you have me say?" I asked, nuzzling my nose along his and letting out a small moan as his fingers massaged up my back.
He leaned toward my ear. "I had you say, I love Brogan's large, extremely competent penis." I let out a surprised laugh and shook my head, pinching his nipple lightly.
"Ow."
I laughed again, raising a brow. "And what did you say back?"
"I wholeheartedly agreed with your assessment of my penis."
I continued to laugh, even though I suspected he was lying because the name he called me—the word that sounded like mo chree—princess, had been on the end of his statement. I brought my lips to his, kissing him as he smiled against my mouth. "Someday I'll learn Gaelic, and then I'll know all your secrets," I whispered before licking along the seam of his mouth. He moaned and opened to me.
We played in the water for a little while longer until I was squirming again and Brogan was hard. He got out and toweled himself off, his erection jutting out in front of him. He helped me out, drying me thoroughly and applying a new Band-Aid before lifting me and carrying me back to the bed as I laughed.
"I can walk, you know."
He placed me on the bed, following me down, rubbing his hard cock on my thigh. "Not after tonight," he said darkly, nipping at my neck as I laughed and squealed for mercy. He kissed me thoroughly then and the mood changed. He made love to me slowly and sweetly this time and I fell asleep in his arms, not waking until the sun was lighting the room in a soft, golden glow, welcoming us to a brand new day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brogan
The next few weeks went by simultaneously in a haze of bliss and a blur of regret.
Lydia came to work with me every day, exerting her feminine charm in situations I would have handled completely differently, and astounding me with the ease in which she achieved the positive results that likely would have taken Fionn or me weeks or months. She was that bright hummingbird I remembered—flitting everywhere, coloring my days
with spirit and vibrancy, completely in her element.
And the nights . . . the nights were filled with bliss beyond my wildest imagination. Lydia learned what I liked as if my body was the subject and she was the most committed student who ever lived. I began to trust her in a way I didn't think was possible to trust a woman, which in turn allowed me to relax and enjoy the sensations she aroused in me. She always seemed to know when something was bordering on too much or when there was room to push me to greater heights, and I in turn, learned my own limits through my surrender to her. She had never been with anyone else, but in some ways, neither had I. In bed, I had never known true surrender, I had never known joy.
I felt hunger in the way I'd known hunger before, only this time I was even more insatiable. I knew I'd never be satisfied, never have enough, never be filled no matter how much I partook. She was a buffet of the finest delicacies life had to offer me, and I wanted to binge and devour every luscious morsel. I wanted to be sure that what I needed and wanted so desperately would always be available to me—I didn't want to feel this faint panic after every time we made love, the way I'd felt before when I’d had to scrounge for every small meal.
But that was the way of hunger, wasn't it? Even as it was being satisfied, there laid the knowledge it would need to be satisfied again . . . and again.
So I studied her body, too, worshipping every inch of her skin night after glorious night, learning the scents and textures of every part of her, not satisfied until she had an orgasm so intense she screamed my name. And then we'd sleep wrapped in each other's arms through the night.
And I knew I loved her. Deeply. Intensely. I had always loved her, even when I hadn't wanted to. But now it was different. I had wanted to give her the world when I was seventeen, and now I could. I had wanted to give her my heart, and now I could. I would. Every part of my heart.
And yet . . . I was still in the midst of cleaning up the mess I myself had created. I had Fionn take Lydia to dinner under the guise I had more work to do while I repaid her brother's debt to the mob in the form of illegal number crunching.
I hated it—it made me feel owned and powerless, and yet it was the price I had to pay to make up for the situation we were in. I just didn't want Lydia to know. I didn't want her to be burdened with the information, I didn't want the knowledge of illegal activity to put her in any more potential danger, and truthfully, I didn't want her to feel less about me. I was not the stand-up businessman she thought. And when we worked together at my office, solving a problem for a family who had no one else to turn to, she looked at me as if I were some sort of hero. I didn't want to tell her I wasn't. I was just a man who was still scrabbling and cheating and trying to justify the means to an end I was dreaming about so hard it felt like an obsession.
I wanted Lydia. I wanted her forever. And I ached for her to want me back. I wanted her to admire me, to respect me. I wanted her to love me. Me. She had loved me. Would she now? And sometimes, as I gazed at her in the moonlight of my bedroom, our limbs tangled together, our bodies intimately connected, I dared to hope she might.
I knew that once I finished this final job, Lydia wouldn’t be in danger, and realistically, she could safely move back to her own apartment. Yet, I wanted her with me. She didn't seem in any hurry to leave, which gave me further hope she didn't want our time living together to end either.
We had both been distracted by everything going on and hadn't remembered to send someone to get more clothes for her, and so after work one day, I accompanied her to her place so she could pack a few more things.
I'd seen her apartment from the outside, a modest brick building in Brooklyn, but the inside was even more modest than the outside. When I saw the difference between where Stuart and Lydia lived, I wanted to beat Stuart De Havilland's arse even more than I had before.
What kind of arsehole let his sister live in a small, run-down studio when he lived in luxurious high style? I thought about Eileen and how I'd kick my own arse before I'd watch her struggle if I could do anything about it, if adjusting my lifestyle meant making things better for her. Then again, I'd done things I'd regret forever to make things better for Eileen. Maybe there was some sort of happy medium. Fionn enjoyed telling me I didn't always need to be so extreme. And yet I wasn't sure how to be anything else. Extreme had gotten me where I was today.
"Do you think we could spend the weekend in Greenwich?" she asked as she packed.
"Sure," I said distractedly, tracing a large crack in her wall with my finger and frowning. "Why?"
"I just thought it'd be nice to get out of the city, enjoy some sunshine," she said. She came up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and laying her head on my back. I dropped my hand from the wall and looked at her over my shoulder.
"Anythin' you want, Lydia," I said, my voice cracking before I cleared my throat. She smiled and pulled away.
I walked to her refrigerator and pulled the freezer open, noting two piles of Budget Gourmets and two ice trays, nothing more. I stared glumly at the small boxes of frozen food. Budget frozen food.
The first time I'd seen Stuart after I'd decided to take over his company, he'd been dining at one of the most expensive restaurants on Madison Avenue. I'd wanted to get a fix on him, find out what kind of life he was leading, how much he might be tempted to lose to me in a poker game. I'd found out he was already addicted to the lust of the game. I just hadn't delved any deeper into Lydia's life. If I had . . . would it have changed my mind? Would it have caused me to change course? I wanted to believe it would, but I wasn't so sure . . .
This though, right here, this was the life I'd interrupted. This was the life I'd set out to ruin.
I love you and you were living here and I hate myself for it. How can you not hate me, too?
If only I'd walked up to her at that party, like I'd mentioned to her in Greenwich. If only I'd found a way to let go of the past and returned to her and begged her . . . but no, I'd never beg. I'd promised myself I'd never beg again. And yet for Lydia . . .
"Are you hungry?" she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I slammed the freezer door closed. "No," I said. "Ready?"
The expression on her face was mildly confused, but she smiled and we left her apartment and returned to mine. That night I made love to her three times, unable to get enough, unable to quench the longing, knowing somehow I was at risk of losing her, of being left hungry forever, and not being able to figure out why I was so gripped by fear.
**********
When the concierge at Stuart's apartment building called his line to announce me, the pause was so long I thought I was going to have to grab the phone and threaten Stuart to let me up. But just as I was about to do so, the concierge looked at me and nodded toward the elevators.
A few minutes later I knocked on Stuart's door and he answered as if he'd been standing right behind it waiting for me. "Stuart," I greeted, working not to grimace at the foul odor that permeated his apartment. God, had something died in here?
"What do you want?" he asked sulkily. I narrowed my eyes at him as he closed the door. He looked awful, far worse than he had the last time I'd seen him. Either this situation was severely stressing him out or he was consuming more drugs and alcohol than I'd imagined. Maybe all of the above. "I'm busy."
"No, you're not. Your only job these days, evidently, is drinking and doing a fuck ton of nothing."
A muted sort of anger took hold of his expression, as if it was the best he could muster at the moment and under the influence of whatever he might currently be on. "You're the one who told me to lie low," he growled.
"Lying low doesn't mean sinking into a state of utter uselessness," I shot back. "If it hasn't occurred to you, you have some decisions to make with your life."
"Fuck off."
"I plan to." I wouldn't stay a moment longer than necessary in this cesspool-smelling hellhole. Then it hit me: Stuart De Havilland had probably thought the same thing when he'd come to visit me
in my own personal hellhole all those years ago. The circumstances were different and Stuart's hellhole was one of his own making, and still featured one of the best addresses in the city. And yet . . . it was a hellhole all the same. A pit of despair. I hesitated. "But first, I came to let you know your debt's been paid off. You're off the hook. And the men with whom you took out credit will kill you before they extend more, is that clear?"
He regarded me suspiciously. "You paid off my debt? I thought you were going to buy me more time."
"What good would that have done?" I asked. He kept staring at me, the wheels in his head turning as fast as they were able. "You'd never be able to pay them. Especially not at the rate you're going."
"You did this for some reason," he grated. "What is it?"
I stared at him, tamping down the anger his reaction evoked. I was fucking whoring myself again for this bastard, in a manner of speaking anyway, and the best he could give me was suspicion. I hadn't expected a thank you, but even so . . . "I did it for your sister," I said honestly. "I did it because I care about her. And for some reason, she cares about you. And if you have any decency at all, you'll take this second chance and get your life together, for her, if not for yourself."
"You've got something up your sleeve, you Irish fucker."
I let out a weary sigh, glancing around at his trashed apartment, noting there were napkins and magazines and receipts littering the table surfaces and even some floor space, all of them featuring drawings and doodles. I looked more closely at the swirls and small pictures. I envisioned him sitting alone in his apartment, in a drug-and-alcohol-induced state, obsessively creating art anywhere and everywhere. It was odd and unsettling. And yet, it wasn't only amateur doodling, it was . . . good. It was really good. "You could go back to school and study art," I murmured, almost to myself. "It seems like—"
A look of rage so sudden and intense came over Stuart's face that it startled me. He barreled toward me, his fists flying. I easily sidestepped him, but he seemed to be possessed by something stronger than himself as he came at me again. I ducked and then struck out with my fist, connecting with his jaw as he let out a loud grunt and whirled backward, falling onto his couch, the anger seeming to drain from him as he gripped his jaw. "You asshole," he choked. "I will fucking kill you someday." He kept rubbing at his jaw, looking strangely lost now. Despite the threat, the only thing I felt was pity.