Page 147 of Brutal Vows
I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me. This is the way I go out, flat on my back with my legs spread in the honeymoon suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel as a crazy Irish gangster showers me in filthy words like a smut baptism.
At least I’ll die happy.
Making circles with both fingers, he flattens his tongue anddrags it up and down my engorged clit, faster and faster, until I’m groaning and bucking and out of my goddamn mind.
I climax with a primal scream.
He finger fucks me through my orgasm, reaching up to yank aside the neck of my dress and pinch my throbbing nipple. I thrash against his mouth, sobbing incoherently because it feels so intensely, insanely good.
He surges up from his knees and falls on top of me, kissing me ravenously on my mouth, neck, and chest, dragging his beard over my sensitive skin. I taste myself on his lips and can’t decide if I should cry or laugh maniacally.
Rearing back onto his heels, he grabs the neckline of my dress and rips it apart with one savage pull. The sound of tearing fabric and the sight of my breasts spilling out seem to flick on his caveman switch.
His eyes flare wide. He snarls, baring his teeth.
Then he tears the rest of the dress off my body, ripping it to shreds like a tissue.
He throws the shredded remnants to the floor, yanks down the zipper on his trousers, fists his erection in his hand, and falls back on top of me, taking my mouth again as I clutch his hips and raise my own.
He embeds himself inside me with a brutal thrust.
Delirious, I cry out. He bites my neck, laughing.
“You’re gonna take it hard, sweetheart, and you’re gonna fucking love it. Wrap your legs around my waist.”
Disobedience is not an option. Even if I wanted to, my body has surrendered completely to his control. The moment the command is past his lips, I bend my legs and wrap them around him, hooking my ankles together in back.
He growls, “Good girl.”
I almost pass out.
His first thrust makes me groan. His second makes me whimper.Then, when he starts to fuck me hard, plunging into me over and over as he snaps his hips and growls something in Gaelic, I lose the ability to make a sound altogether.
All I can do is feel.
His hard chest against mine. The smooth fabric of his shirt dragging against my tight nipples. His hot breath on my neck and the cool leather of his belt biting into my thighs.
His beard on my skin.
His voice in my ear.
His rough moans of pleasure, all over me.
I hear a chant from somewhere far away, a raw and plaintive repetition ofplease, please, please. It takes a moment before I realize it’s coming from me.
“I love it when you beg for me,” Quinn says hotly, squeezing my breast. He pulls on my nipple, chuckling when I plead for his mouth.
He lowers his head and sucks hard on my rigid nipple, then slides his hand down my hip and under my bottom. He strokes my ass as I buck and moan underneath him.
I come, crying out his name.
“Aye, baby. Tell me who you belong to. Say it again for me, lass, and make me believe it.” His hips thrust harder. His voice drops until it’s nothing but a deep, resonant command.
“Make me believe you’re mine.”
In that moment, it’s all I want. It’s everything I’ve ever lived for. I claw his back and cry his name and give him every part of me, body and soul, holding nothing back as I convulse around his cock and hear his words of praise that blend together until they’re only sound, husky noises of approval and adoration.
I don’t have to speak the language to understand what they mean.
