Page 15 of Legacy Of Ashes
His fingers work the clasp of my grandmother's emerald necklace while I stand frozen in my childhood bedroom. The brush of his knuckles against my nape sends fire racing down my spine. When he steps closer, I feel the hard length of him pressed against my back through his suit pants.
"Conall," I breathe.
"I know." His voice comes out strained. His hands settle on my bare shoulders, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. "I can smell how wet you are for me."
Heat floods between my thighs at his crude words. In the mirror, I watch his eyes darken as they trail down my body in the black dress that leaves little to imagination.
"We should go," he says, but his hands don't move. "Your family's waiting."
"Let them wait." I lean back against him, feeling his sharp intake of breath when my ass presses against his hardness. "Touch me."
"Saoirse—"
I reach behind me, palming him through his pants. He's thick and hard and I want him so badly I ache. "Please."
His control snaps. One hand slides down to cup my breast through the thin fabric while the other grips my hip, grinding me against him.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he groans against my ear. "How many nights I've fucked my fist thinking about you."
The confession makes me moan. His thumb finds my nipple through the dress, circling until it peaks. I'm so wet I'm probably dripping.
"I want your mouth on me," I whisper. "Everywhere."
He spins me around, backing me against the dresser. His eyes are wild, predatory. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"I mean every word."
His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and desperate. I can taste the whiskey on his tongue as he devours me. His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, and I spread my legs for him without shame.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he breathes against my lips when his fingers find the wet silk between my legs. "All for me?"
"Only you."
He strokes me through my underwear and I cry out, gripping his shoulders. I'm already close, wound so tight I might shatter.
"Conall, please?—"
A car horn blares outside. He freezes, then pulls away like I burned him.
"Christ." He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving. "We have to go."
I want to scream in frustration. "Now?"
"Yes. Now." But his eyes linger on my swollen lips, my peaked nipples visible through the dress. "Fix your makeup. You look thoroughly fucked."
The crude assessment sends another wave of heat through me. I use concealer to hide my flushed skin, but there's nothing I can do about the wanting in my eyes.
The ride to dinner is torture. Every time we stop at lights, Conall's hand drifts to my thigh. Never touching, just hovering close enough that I feel the heat of his skin. My underwear is ruined, and he knows it.
"Stop looking at me like that," he warns.
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to pull over and finish what we started."
I do. God, I do.
Dinner feels like performance art. I sit in Dad's chair while my family discusses business, but all I can think about is Conall's fingers inside me, his mouth on my neck.
