Page 15 of Bound

Thrusting and curling my finger, I grind the flat of my tongue over her clit until she’s riding a euphoric wave beneath me. Adding a finger, I thrust hard and deep as I kiss up herstomach. My lips crash against hers, and she rides my hand, moaning as I massage the taste of her onto her tongue.

Her tight cunt quivers around my slick fingers, and I know she’s at the edge again. She groans through her bliss, “I need you inside me.”

“I am inside you,” I tease, adding a third digit and vigorously finger fucking her until her toes are curling and her thighs are trembling in their bindings.Keeping the brutal pace, I grind my fingers into the soft spot of her walls. A gush of warm liquid floods over my hand when she lets go.

I bite my lower lip, the image of her squirting all over me causing my balls to tighten. Stilling my hand and panting, I painfully edge myself because I need more.

Holding the base of my cock, I rub the thick tip through the glistening liquid covering her thighs and pussy. I mercilessly rub it against her clit. “What do you want?”

She arches her back, desperately trying to work me toward her entrance. “Your cock. I need it,” she whines so beautifully that I’m unable to deny her. I press into her soaked cunt with ease, causing us both to groan in pleasure. Hooking my fingers under the strands of jute around her waist, I drag her over my rigid shaft as I repeatedly plow into her.

Fervently fisting my length, I imagine her screaming name. I spill over my fist with a guttural moan. “Fuck, Quinn…”

Pulling tissues from the box on my nightstand, I clean my release off my stomach and shamefully shake my head.

I shouldn’t do this…

I can’t.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

QUINN

As I slide from bed this morning, I dread stepping from this room to deal with the awkwardness that is awaiting me on the other side.

We’ve held our secret for fifteen years because it would’ve destroyed our relationships with his brothers. I’ve buried my feelings for him and put myself back together too many times because of Declan Evans. A little over a week under the same roof, andwenearly let him do it again.

Fuck, I basically asked for it.

When I came back to the States three years ago, I slipped right back into my old life. The Evans brothers took me back in without question. We fell seamlessly into our old rhythms like our friendships were simply put on pause for the decade and a half I spent in Ireland. It was like Ineverleft.

Almost.

The Evans were all exactly the same, just older and a hell ofalotbetter looking than when I left. Beards, muscles, tattoos, and even a tinge of gray at some of their temples. Each of themstill chasing women and getting into fights like they were when I left them—all except Declan.

The real reason I returned to New York.

It was a ridiculous notion, flying across the pond for him. He was my first–crush, love, and partner. What we had wasn’t healthy because any relationship you have to hide from the people you love does not end well. Twenty years, and there are still only two people in this world who know what happened between the two of us.

Three, if you count my latemhamó who probably would’ve kicked my ass before letting me board a plane for him.

Yet, for twenty years, the boy I lusted over at fifteen and gave my body and soul to at nineteenhasrepeatedly been the man no other could live up to. They might’ve treated me better and not hid me from the world, but none of them ever made me feel a fraction of what I felt when I was with Declan.

If nothing else, I figured I owed it to myself to see if I was living with some ridiculous memory of puppy-love or if what I felt for him was real.The moment I saw him, I knew.It wasn’t the gorgeous woman nuzzled against him that broke me; I’d already survived more fleeting women in his life than I could count. It was the look of absolute contentment on his face as his ring-adorned finger dusted over the chubby cheeks of the newborn in his arms. Seeing him the happiest I ever have—with the things I wanted with him—nearly destroyed me.

That should’ve been enough;I should’ve left. I should’ve gone back to Ireland and returned to the life I had built for myself. But I didn’t. Instead, I stayed and tortured myself with some warped version of exposure therapy. If I proved to myself, day inand day out, that there was no chance with him, eventually, my heart would have to heal. I’d have to get over him.And I did.Or at least Imanaged to convincemyself that I didn’t care, a notion that went completely out the window last night.

When I step out of my room, finding Declan sitting alone at the island fills me with anxiety. Walking into the kitchen, I avoid making eye contact with him as I pour myself a cup of coffee. With my back to him, I mutter, “We need to talk about last night.”

He is silent, and I find him taking a sip from his cup when I turn to face him. The room is so quiet that the light clacking sound it makes against the marble countertop when he sets it down sounds like a sonic boom. “Yes. We do.”

Leaning over the opposing side of the island, I fidget nervously with my cup as I struggle to look at him. If I fall into those deep-blue pools ofhis,I’ll never make it through this. We both speakat the same time,resulting in a mash of his “I’m sorry” mixed with my “Thank you.”

“You go,” he softly instructs.

“Thank you,” I muster. Taking a deep breath, I vomit the rest before losing my nerve. “For last night. You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate you comforting me. It’s been a while since I felt safe like that.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up my hand to stop him. “Please let me finish,” I lightly plead, trying to hide the anguish in my tone. Staying silent, he nods and grants me what I’m asking for.

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