Page 15 of Irish Daddies
I stand awkwardly in the foyer until he says, “Tea? Wine? Something stronger?”
“Tea,” I answer, surprising myself.
He disappears into the kitchen. I take a slow walk around the living room. There are no family pictures. No clutter. Just smooth surfaces and shadows.
He returns with two mugs. Hands me one. The ceramic is warm against my palms.
We sit on the couch, a respectful distance apart.
“You can relax,” he says gently. “You’re safe here.”
I nod, not quite believing it. Not quite caring.
We sip in silence. Eventually, I say, “I don’t really do this.”
“Do what?”
I laugh slightly, like he doesn’t know he’s going to get some. “Aren’t you coy?” I say into my mug, letting the hot drink catch my words.
He sets his mug down. Turns to face me fully. And shifts closer. The heat of his body seeps into mine. His hand finds my knee, gentle and still. A question, not a demand.
When I don’t pull away, his thumb strokes once across my skin.
He leans in slowly, like he’s giving me time to change my mind.
I don’t.
His lips brush mine. Soft. Barely there. And then firmer.
My breath catches as I kiss him back. I pull away slightly, too caught up to remember the steps, the next motion. I cover my face and almost whimper, “I mean, Ireallydon’t do this.”
His hands cover mine, pull them from my face, and cup my jaw. “You have before,” he says simply. “I’ll lead, and you follow.”
His hand slides up my arm, and I close my eyes, giving in. Following. His palm slides over my shoulder. His mouth finds my neck, kissing a line of fire along my skin.
When our mouths meet again, I gasp against his tongue and wrap my arms around the back of his neck, my fingers finding his hair.
His hands move underneath my thighs, and he lifts me like I’m nothing, standing up and bringing me with him, draped around his waist. Being held this way awakens a long-dormant animal in me, and I moan as my kiss becomes more fervent. I grind against his hard cock, his bulge pressing against my wanton slit through two pairs of jeans.
Warm hands paw at my waist, needing to be against my skin, before he crashes through a door with me still around him, still kissing him. He sets me down on the bed, and I have only a second to look around at the again astoundingly empty room before his hands are on my cheeks, swiping the hair from my face, and our eyes are looking back and forth, searching for answers. I feel like I’m in a movie, like we’re the leads and us finding our way to each other is all that matters.
He reaches for the hem of my shirt and whispers, “Is this okay?” When I nod, he pulls it up over my head, and I reach for his belt buckle, tugging at it, the angst growing in me.
But Paul shakes his head with a sly smile, murmuring, “Dirty girl,” and sinking to his knees. He unbuttons my jeans, and the excitement slides down my stomach, locking into place when I feel the pressure of his hands so near where I want him.
He pulls my jeans down my legs, kissing my thighs as he does so, and one of his fingers slides down the center of my underwear. He pushes just knuckle deep into my warm center from outside my panties, and I gasp, surprised by how much I like the small contact. Automatically, my legs open for him, like muscle memory.
“You’re soaked already,” he groans, and he bends his head between my thighs, plunging his tongue into me, still from outside the thin cotton. Even through it, the sensation of being filled is a bit of relief for the longing, and I wrap my legs around his shoulders. He grips my ankles for a second before rubbing my legs as he starts to nibble on my clit.
Gasping, I beg him, “Paul, please, I want it.”
Leaning back on his heels, he looks at me and grins. “You what?”
I smack him with my shirt. “Quit.”
“No, say it again,” he says, but this time his voice is firmer. A jolt of electric excitement and a tinge of fear run through me.
“Who are you?”
