Page 83 of One Night in Glasgow
“Please,” I whispered against his lips. “I need you inside me.”
“Say it again,” he commanded, positioning the head of his cock at my entrance but not pushing in. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need your cock,” I said, my voice breaking with desperation. “Please, Sean. Fuck me!”
With a groan that sounded like it was torn from the depths of his soul, he pushed into me in one slow, inexorable thrust, stretching me around his considerable girth until he was seated to the hilt. Painfully tight, but almost amazingly filling.
“Christ, Beth,” he panted. “You feel like heaven. So perfect around my cock.”
He began to move, slow, deep strokes that had me gasping with each thrust. His eyes never left mine, the connection between us so intense it was almost frightening.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. “This isn’t just fucking. This is something else.”
I nodded, unable to deny it, unable to look away from the raw truth in his eyes.
“Say it,” he urged, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s everything,” I whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. “You’re everything.”
His control seemed to snap at my words. His thrusts became harder, deeper, his hands firm on my hips to hold me in place as he pounded into me. The headboard slammed against the wall with the force of his movements, but I didn’t care. I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his hand sliding down to circle my clit. “Say it, Beth. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I gasped, feeling another orgasm building impossibly fast. “Oh god, Sean, I’m going to come again.”
“That’s it, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”
My inner walls clamped down on him as pleasure exploded through me for the third time. He followed me over,his rhythm faltering as he buried his cock deep and let go with a hoarse shout of my name.
For long moments, we lay tangled together, his weight a comforting pressure on top of me, his cock still pulsing inside me. When he finally rolled to the side, he took me with him, keeping us connected, his arms tight around me as if he couldn’t bear to let go.
“What was that?” I whispered against his chest, my voice shaky.
“That,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, “was what happens when someone takes the time to love you properly.”
Later,as we sat cross-legged on the plush hotel bed, surrounded by the remnants of a room service breakfast, the heavy manila envelope Fury had given him lay between us like an unexploded bomb. The explosive intimacy of the morning had evaporated, replaced by a tense, nervous energy.
“Are you sure you want to see and read all this?” Sean asked, his voice gentle. “I can just give you the highlights. It’s… ugly.”
I shook my head, my resolve hardening. “No. I need to see it all. I need to know exactly what kind of game they were playing.”
He nodded, understanding. He slid the dossier out of the envelope. It was thick, a hundred pages at least. He didn’t just hand it to me; he sat beside me, his shoulder pressed against mine, a silent, solid presence as he walked me through it. He was my partner in this, not just a spectator.
The first few pages were corporate headshots andprofessional histories. Garrett Reeves. Kyra Monroe. They looked so polished, so respectable. Then came the evidence. The hotel receipts from Miami and the Hamptons, cross-referenced with foundation expense reports signed off by Kyra herself. The dinners for two, the spa treatments. The sheer, blatant audacity of it made me feel sick. They had been funding their affair with money meant for charity, for children, for people who had nothing.
“Like their own personal bank,” Sean explained, his voice a low, angry growl as he pointed to a highlighted spreadsheet.
Then came the emails. Sean had printed out the most damning ones. They were sickeningly sweet on the surface, full of corporate doublespeak, but the subtext was crystal clear. “Confirming our strategy session for the Miami conference…” followed by a hotel confirmation for a single king suite. It was a tangled, ugly web of lies and entitlement.
But it was the last section that made the air leave my lungs. Fury’s hacker, Gianni, had recovered a string of deleted text messages from the night of the gala. I read them, my hands trembling.
Garrett:Are you insane? I just saw the post. You leaked the photo. After everything I told you, you actually did it.
Kyra:I saw how you were looking at her all night. You were all over her on that balcony. What was I supposed to do?
Garrett:You were supposed to trust me. This jealous, psycho act is exactly why we’re done, Kyra. It’s over. Stay away from me and stay away from her. My business with her is my own.
Kyra:Over? What are you talking about? After two years, you’re throwing us away for some little rich-girl tramp? I love you, G. Don’t do this.
