A long moan seeps from my lips when he moves behind me, pressing his chest to my back and coasting his lips across my shoulder, scraping and nipping at the sensitive skin.
We fall to the bed, molded together, all kissing and whispering and sliding caresses. Every nerve ending is awake and alive and pleading.
Yes, there.
Please, like that.
Don’t stop, never stop.
And the need weaves around us both—the craving for closer and deeper and more. To take and keep, ruin and wreck, forever and always.
My back arches from the bed when he glides his thick fullness inside me. It’s been so long, but there’s no pain—only the snug, pressing surge and the thrill of being filled and connected to him in every way.
My breasts tingle where they rub Tommy’s chest as he moves above me, over me, steadily stroking the swollen pleasure points within me. I lift my hips, rotating in that matching rhythm; I grasp at his back, holding him tenderly, and press my lips into his hair.
“I missed you,” I whisper, my voice reedy. “I missed you so much.”
Tommy straightens his arms, drawing my eyes to his, keeping the smooth pace of his pushing and retreating hips. And his face is filled with such affection—so much tender, sweet adoration—my vision goes blurry with tears.
Because no one has ever looked at me like that before. No one has ever made me feel all the things he makes me feel. My heart pounds and my breath races with the joy of it. Of being cherished and wanted—and I know he sees those same emotions reflected in my eyes.
The swells of Tommy’s arms tighten with exertion and his thrusts turn more demanding. I run my palms down his biceps—because they’re beautiful—he is beautiful like this. Lost in the moment, in the thunder of this passion.
I scrape his waist with my nails, making him groan, and the pure masculine sound makes my muscles contract, squeezing around him.
And I feel it building inside me, heavy and full and blindingly good.
“So good,” I pant, “so close . . .”
But I don’t have to tell him; he already knows. He feels it too.
Tommy dips his head and takes my mouth—harsh and ravenous—devouring my lips. I grip his sides and angle my hips for his pounding thrusts. I press my knees against his rib cage and lock my legs around his lower back—pulling him in—needing more and more and all of him.
With a final push, he plants himself in deep and the dam breaks. Waves of wet, white pleasure crash over us, through us. I go limp, drowning in the ecstasy, letting the current take me. Tommy tilts his head back, his perfect face twisting with carnal rapture, rasping my name like a hallowed prayer.
“Abby, Abby, Abby . . .”
* * *
The next morning, after the deepest, deadest sleep I’ve had in three months, I open my eyes to the sight of Tommy Sullivan gazing down at me. His smile is tender—making him look young and handsome and boyish, like a lad who got exactly what he was wishing for all year for Christmas.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I reach up, scratching my palm against the morning bristles on his jaw. Then I tell him the truth, and nothing but the truth.
“My grandmother’s going to try and ruin you. That’s what she said—why I kicked you out that day.”
I cover my face with my hands. “God, saying it out loud makes it sound like some bad reinterpretation of a Shakespearean tragedy.”
I relay the whole conversation to him, how she came to my flat, how I tried to sway her but couldn’t manage it.
Tommy stares down at me, processing all I’ve told him.
“So you ended things between us . . . because you were trying to protect me?”
“Yes, I did. Are you angry?”
He snorts. “No—I think it’s sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“Adorable.”
“Tommy—you’re not taking this seriously.”
He rolls over onto me, nudging my legs apart and settling his hips between my thighs—rubbing that thick, relentless hardness against me.
“You feel that? I told you before, I take my hard-ons very seriously.”
“But—”
“Abby, look at me.”
I lift my eyes to his as he strokes my hair with the pads of his fingers. “Except for my sisters, no one’s ever wanted to protect me before. That’s usually my job. And it means something that you did—it means a whole lot.”
He kisses me softly, slow and sweet.
Then he shifts us to our sides . . . and smacks my arse. Hard.
Whack.
“Ow!”
“But you should have told me. Instead of leaving me marinating in misery for the last three fucking months.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t think you were all that miserable.”
“You’d think wrong.”
“I saw you . . . through the window at Paddy’s. You were with your partner and his wife. But there was another girl there—blond and pretty—you had your arm around her.”