Page 22 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

Our sexual chemistry is as insane as the man himself. We crave each other so much that we find ourselves fucking wherever and whenever possible. No matter how often, we’re never sated for long.

It’s frenzied. It’s feral. That side of our relationship is fucking perfect.

“Eoin,” I whine. Leaning forward, I place my hands on either side of his head, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the intoxicating scent of spicy cologne and clean, male sweat.

I can taste possessiveness on his tongue the moment our mouths connect, his green gaze holding mine as I shatter around his cock for the first of many times.

He continues to ram into me, his tongue stroking deep, his hands gripping my ass as he helps himself to what he considers to be his. Every time we fuck, that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s staking his claim by bruising my flesh with his hands and mouth and coating me with his cum, inside and out.

I clench around him, and I’m rewarded with a hard slap on the ass.

“Disobedient, evil woman. How many times do I have to explain myself? You come when I decide. I come when I decide.” His arrogance is so fucking hot that it makes my clit throb with need every time he opens his conceited mouth.

I hate him. I love him more.

Flipping me onto my back with his cock still inside me, he kneels and pushes my legs against my chest before withdrawing and thrusting straight back in. I grimace at how deep he can go in this position.

Too deep. Not deep enough.

More. I need more.

I press my hands against the wall, pushing back to meet every thrust of his hips until his movements become erratic.

“Come with me.” A demand.

His cock thickens and hardens, then, with a low, feral growl, his hot release coats my insides, the sensation causing me to tighten around him once more.

He flips us over until I’m lying on top of him, and we lie there, my head tucked under his chin.

Panting, hot, sweaty, and covered in cum.

My mouth connects with his inked skin, my tongue flicking out to taste its salty surface. It’s addictive. He’s addictive.

None of my senses can ever get enough.

Lifting my head, I stare up at him. He’s so fucking good-looking, and doesn’t he just know it. Mr. Smug. Selfish. Pompous is fully aware that I’m blatantly admiring him.

“I love you.” The words fall so easily from my lips these days.

He smirks as he raises one eyebrow. “Words are all very well and good, Miss Jones.” He drags his thumb across my lower lip before pushing it into my mouth. I watch his nostrils flare, and his eyes burn green when I suck on it hard. “I’d far rather you put your cussing little mouth to better use by wrapping those pouty lips around my cock.”

I smirk at him, then, making my way down his chiseled torso, I do just that.

* * *

We liethere with our legs tangled and the cream sheets twisted around us. My head rests on his chest once more, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. His arm is wrapped around my shoulder, his fingers trailing up and down my upper arm.

Slowly but surely, the trust is beginning to rebuild between us after the shitshow that went down before. Back when I set out to deliberately fuck up his life. Back when I personally delivered him a penance for a sin he didn’t even commit.

Eoin lives with us most of the time. He gets on well with Duke. Let’s face it, his seal of approval would always have been a deal-breaker, regardless of how well-matched the suitor was. More importantly, the kids adore him, and the feeling’s mutual. He’ll make a great father one day.

Will that one day be with me? Right now, that’s anyone’s guess.

I push that thought aside for now. We’re not ready to contemplate that bridge, let alone consider crossing it. At least not from the side I’m standing on.

I’m sure he thinks we’re more than ready. The problem is that Eoin will expect me to cross over to his side. I’m not prepared to do that.

I’ve quickly realized that he’s a closet misogynist. Pregnant. Barefoot. Tied to the kitchen sink. That’s what he expects from me, even though he would deny it.

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