Page 48 of The Irish Redemption

I arch forward with a cry and my entire body jolts like the crack of a whip. I squeal and moan, suspended in a rigid position for a few long seconds as pleasure pours through me like liquid gold. My core throbs under Cormac’s tongue, then I flop back onto the bed, panting harshly.

“Holy… shit,” I gasp.

Cormac is above me suddenly with one hand on my ribcage. His beard glistens from my juices and there’s a soft look around his dark eyes. “Too much?”

“No,” I gasp, lifting one hand and cupping his cheek. “Not at all.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes dart back and forth as if he’s taking in every detail of my face, then his lips twitch as if a smile sits just out of reach.

“So sure.” My thumb skims over his cheekbone. “That was amazing.”

“I’m not finished.” Cormac leans down and kisses the very tip of my nose, then he vanishes from view and settles back down between my trembling legs.

He draws me to a second orgasm as the sun sets outside my window. He’s slower the second time, taking his time and letting pleasuresimmer in me until I’m desperate and begging to be tipped over the edge. Only then does he let me come, and it’s the second-best orgasm of my life.

Sleep comes easily after that, once Cormac’s looked me over to make sure our activities haven’t affected my stitches in any way. I sleep soundly, completely at peace for the first time in months, and I don’t wake until late the next day. Cormac is right there with breakfast and medication and then he stays with me the entire day. I mostly sleep, letting the painkillers do their thing, and each time I wake up, Cormac is there with a meal ready for me and a few light discussions either about the news or some random fact he wants to share. It’s oddly domestic for someone so large and dangerous, but he means it when he says he’s going to take care of me.

It lasts until late at night when Cormac wakes me gently and cups my face. “I have to leave,” he says in a low voice. “But Dale is here and I have people stationed outside.”

“Will you be back?” I ask sleepily, struggling to gather my thoughts through a painkiller-addled sleep.

“Yes,” Cormac says, then his beard and lips brush against my forehead. “Sleep.”

I do, and I dream of Cormac and I living in some nice house somewhere with a garden and a dog running around. My dreams last until pain from my surgical wound wakes me late the next morning. There’s no breakfast to greet me this time, but Dale is there with a fresh pot of coffee and it will have to do.

“Where’s Cormac?” I ask, accepting the steaming cup from Dale.

“Busy.”

“He said he’d come back.”

“He’s not finished yet,” Dale replies. “But he has a message for you.”

“Oh?” My brow lifts slightly. “Which is?”

“Pack.”

“Huh?”

“He’s going to take you somewhere safe to heal.”

“I told him I’m not going anywhere.”

Dale smirks. “Trust me. You’ll want to pack a bag. And bring your pillow.”

19

CORMAC

“Cormac! Get your filthy boots off my chair. Don’t make me come over there!”

The sharp, throaty tones of Hazel, owner of The Black Ox, drift over from the bar, and I immediately retract my legs from the chair on which they are resting.

“Sorry, Hazel!” I call. She shoots me a sharp look over the edge of the glass she’s polishing and abruptly turns away.

“Careful,” warns Saoirse. “You don’t want to piss her off or you’ll have more than just Russians to worry about.”

“You remember when I chipped the bar?” Cian groans softly. “We kill people nearly every weekend and yet Hazel with a wooden spoon was infinitely scarier.”

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