Page 22 of The Heir's Defiance

The words sound more like a threat than his emotions coming out, but I see the way he looks at me, feel the way his body tenses and slows each time he pulls back only to thrust in again.

“Who says I don’t mean it?” I ask him, and I feel the defiance rising up in my chest. This moment with him feels more right than a thousand I’ve lived before. I don’t want to start a war. I just want my heart to never feel anything but what it feels right now.

“Shit,” he hisses, kissing me again. Then his kisses trail down my jaw, along my neck, down my collar bone. He lets go of my hands and takes a nipple into his mouth to suck, and I press on his shoulders, urging him lower. “I’m gonna fecking destroy your pussy,” he grunts as I guide him lower still, across my navel, to where my thighs can squeeze his head.

Connor's tongue feels like pure sin as it teases me, flicking over my sensitive clit, driving me higher and higher. My head arches back against the couch cushion, and I bite my lip to muffle my moans. This is what it should feel like, this skin on skin, mouth on mouth, the dizzying sensation of Connor's touch making me question my own sanity and morals.

"Connor," I pant, arching into him, desperate for more contact, more of whatever he will do to me next. His mouth leaves a trailof fire where it goes, his fingers replacing his tongue between my legs as he slides two inside me. My nails claw at the couch leather as he curls them inside me just so, sending electric shocks straight to my core.

"God help me," I moan, not caring who hears. His lips wrap around my clit, and he begins to suck so intensely, I think I’ll lose control of my bladder.

Connor's tongue and fingers work a devious magic, bringing me to the brink of climax in seconds. Moans pour from my lips, unable to be contained any longer. "Yes," I manage to gasp out as he sucks my clit hard into his mouth, sending me flying over the edge into orgasm. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over me, each more intense than the last, until I'm trembling and boneless beneath him.

Gasping for air, I look up at Connor, who's watching me with a feral grin on his face. "You taste even better than I imagined," he growls before returning to suck more. I’m jolting, twitching with a stupid grin on my face as I grab a handful of hair and pull him upward.

His kisses leave sloppy wet marks on my skin—partly his spit, mostly my juices. He sucks a nipple on his way back up before his dick is lined up with my entrance again.

Connor's voice is rough against my ear as he slides inch by aching inch inside me, stretching me in the best possible way. "Feels like you were made for me," he growls, and I believe him. We fit together like pieces of a puzzle, no awkwardness or hesitation. His hips grind against mine with a desperation that matches my own as we find our rhythm, our bodies moving as one to an ancient, primal beat.

"Mmm," I moan into the crook of his neck, my nails biting into his back as the first wave of pleasure starts to build deep in my core. "God, Connor…"

Connor's response is a grunt as he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his hips picking up speed. "Feck, Nora…”

I arch my hips upward, meeting his every thrust, greedy for more. Every time he bottoms out inside me, white-hot pleasure surges through my veins. My climax is building again, even though it feels like just seconds ago that I came apart in his mouth. "Yes! Connor, harder," I moan breathlessly.

His teeth sink into my shoulder, leaving teeth marks I know I'll wear with pride tomorrow, as he slams into me even harder. Faster. The couch beneath us creaks in protest, but he doesn’t slow down, and I don’t stop panting. My legs hook around his hips, and the angle sends me over the edge again, spasming and jolting around him until he’s grunting too and heat floods my core.

Connor doesn't pull away. He wraps his arms around me and holds me like I might disappear if he lets go. His breath is still fast against my neck, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

"You know what this means now. If we keep doing this—if anyone finds out—your father will come after me. He’ll kill me, Nora. He won’t just make threats. He’ll make a point."

His words cut through the fog of release, landing hard. He’s right. We both know it.

"And Ronan—your family—if they think I’m manipulating you…" I push my hair back from my face and look at him—really look at him.

"I know what I’m doing." Connor searches my eyes like he’s trying to find a crack, a hesitation he can wedge apart. But I’m steady.

I draw in a slow breath. "I think I just declared war on my family."

13

CONNOR

The table in the strategy room is older than any man in the house. Deep gouges run through the oak from knives and bullets, a living record of every poor decision and desperate deal made in this family’s name. The air hangs heavy, dense with old tension and the memory of too many closed-door meetings.

I stand at the far end while Ronan and two of his lieutenants argue over a map covered in creases and coffee stains, worn thin from overuse. The lines are drawn in black marker, each boundary drawn to stake a claim and issue a warning. Fitzpatrick territory bleeds east, far enough to brush the edge of what used to belong to the Russians.

“This is a mistake,” Killian says, voice low and bitter. “The Fitzpatricks don’t push this far unless they’re backed.”

“Backed by who?” I ask. “Russians haven’t moved on our ports in two years.”

“They don’t have to move,” Ronan says. “They just have to sit still while the Fitzpatricks do the bleeding.”

He stabs a finger at the edge of the docks on the map. “This shipment—twelve crates, offloaded at Pier 7. It’s not ours. But we’ve confirmed they’re moving it with Fitzpatrick trucks. So either the Russians are laundering through Irish muscle or the Fitzpatricks are baiting us.”

I cross my arms. “You want it intercepted.”

“I want it gone,” he replies. “Quietly—no fireworks.”

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