Page 13 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

The blade moves slowly upwards, cutting through the material of my tank top, which then drops to the floor. My nipples instantly pebble. Still no words.

Anticipation.

A hot breath against my ear as two calloused hands come from behind to cup my tits, causing the nipples to tighten further, sending a message straight to my clit. Another groan, this time answered by a low growl.

He strokes the peaked tips until they ache, and I reactively press my ass backward until it collides with his groin.

He’s hard.

I hold my breath as one hand slowly circles my throat and the other fists my hair. Yanking my head back, his mouth connects with my neck, and he bites down.

Pain.

I arch my back, pressing harder against his impressive length. Now I want the pleasure part.

“Do you want my cock, Miss Jones?” Dark. Dangerous. So fucking Irish, and all fucking mine.

“Yes.”

“Strip.”

He releases me, and I quickly discard my shoes and other clothes. The frigid air kisses my exposed skin, causing me to shiver.

“Walk.”

I move forward until my knees collide with something. I reach down—a sofa or similar.

“Kneel.”

I do as he asks, my hands using the back of the furniture to brace myself because I know what’s coming next. He’s holding back right now, but he won’t be for much longer.

I’m light-headed at the thought of him losing control. I need him to as much as I need my next fucking breath.

The head of his cock wets the skin of my ass, and it instantly cools in the cold air. Spreading my legs, he tilts my hips, then lubricating his dick with my slickness, he pushes into me with one punishing thrust.

“Fuck.” I hiss at the perfect intrusion as he pauses momentarily to let me adjust to his impressive size, then he punctuates every word with a single thrust.

“Never. Deceive. Me. Again.” His breath is hot against my ear. “Am I making myself clear, Miss Jones?” His voice is low, threatening, and laced with anger.

“Yes.”

My walls clench around his cock, and he grunts his approval. Moving his hands to grip my hips, he pulls back, then slams back into me.

Possession. Authority. Dominance. He’s exerting all three.

“Fuck me, Eoin.” The whine falls from my lips, and he responds by pistoning into me with ruthless, determined, selfish thrusts. Gripping the back of the furniture, I meet each one.

Demanding more. Needing more. Needing him.

Everything hurts. Everything burns.

“God,” I whine.

“God has nothing to do with it. He can’t save you from me, and it’s not his cock you’re about to come on,” he hisses.

I shatter at his words, and he fucks me harder as he brutally claims what he views as his. Me.

Pushing back against him, I silently beg for more, the sounds of our mutual growls of appreciation and flesh slapping hard against flesh, painting the empty space.

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