Untamed (Hearts 3)

He sucked on my clit, slid a finger inside of my body, and I moaned high in my throat, my hips searching for the right pressure, the right angle, trying as best I could to have more. To get more of him.

“Fuck, yes,” he said, and I looked down to find him looking up at me, his mouth wet, his body at my feet. His hand was buried between my legs. And maybe there was a disconnect for him between the word love and what he felt for me, but I saw it in his eyes as he watched me fucking myself against his fingers. Naked against a window, spread open and so mad for him I didn’t care about anything but him. But us. This is how I know, I thought. Because you are what matters most to me.

And he looked at me the same way.

“Yes,” I moaned, my fingers in his soft hair. He put his mouth back on me, messy and wild, and I exploded in orgasm. I lost myself in it. In him. My brain was empty, my body full of starlight. I was made of pleasure, and when my legs buckled, he caught me. I put my mouth to his, catching my breath by taking his. And of course, he gave it to me. He would give me anything. Everything. That’s how I know.

“Please,” I whispered, my hand finding the hard length of his cock. I gripped him in my fist until he bit my name out through his teeth. I needed more. I needed everything. And I needed it until I couldn’t take any more.

That’s how I know. He stood up, my strong gorgeous Ronan, swinging me into his arms.

“Ronan, you’re hurt—”

“Not enough to stop.”

His mouth was on mine as he walked us into the back bedroom with its giant bed and soft sheets. He laid me down in the middle of it and I pulled off his shirt. His skin was soft and warm and I traced the muscles of his back as he flexed, lifting himself onto one hand, magically getting rid of the last of his clothes. He took care of everything, this man. Sandwiched between him and the bed, I eased down as best I could, kissing his chest. His hard nipple. The soft hair down the center of his belly. For such a hard man, he really was so soft.

“Poppy,” he groaned, shifting away from me. “Ya can’t.”

“Well, we both know that’s not true.” I kissed his chin. The skin beneath it—also soft. The edge of his ear.

“I want to fuck you, lass,” he said in my ear, making goose bumps ripple over my skin. Over my heart. I spread my legs, letting him between my thighs. The hard length of his cock fell against my wet pussy and we both groaned and shook. I slipped my fingers around him, pressing him harder against me, lifting my hips higher until I felt the head of his cock at the entrance of my body. He kissed me again and again. Hard kisses. Clumsy. His nose bumped mine. His teeth cut the edge of my lip and I realized he was barely in control.

Ronan. My Ronan, who had spent every moment we were together under almost perfect control was losing it. Never in my life had I felt so gorgeous, so loved. Sweating, with my own come slick on my thighs. This terrible haircut and undoubtedly raccoon eyes. He was shaking with desire for me. “You make a mess of me, Poppy. The second I’m inside you, it’s going to be all over.”

“Ronan,” I groaned, dying for him. For this version of him. I pressed him against me again, arching my hips so he hit my clit and got messy with my come. Our breathing was ragged and I could feel him shaking. “I love you, Ronan,” I said, smiling into his harsh beloved face. “I dream of having your babies—”

He shifted me, pulled me, and in a breath was so deep inside me I screamed. He stopped again. His hands cradling my face. “A chuisle, I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Good,” I gasped, though it stung deep inside and I felt like I’d been impaled to the bed. But from one heartbeat to the next, the sting eased and I was just so full. Stretched and full. Of him.

“It’s so good,” I said, stroking his face. Tears burned in my eyes, not from the pain of loving Ronan. Always from the pleasure. I arched against him and he pressed his head to my neck and eased himself out of my body. I shook and shuddered against him. I could feel the tremors in his body. The muscles of his back. His arms where he was braced by my shoulders.

So much control. In every situation. So much so he never let himself bein fear of losing that control. In fear of pain. That he was hanging by a thread with me felt miraculous. Felt like a gift.