Page 9 of Careless

I’m stuck dealing with his little sister and her suicidal urges while he’s dicking some whore. Not surprising at all. This is how it always turns out. Finn gets to have all the fun while I get stuck on Sorcha duty. Granted, I volunteered myself for the job, but it would be nice to know that her family is looking out for her as well.

I’m not really complaining about this convenient inconvenience since there’s only one option for where Sorcha can sleep.

My fucking bed.

“Good. Don’t tell him she’s here. I’ll deal with it in the morning,” I warn, knowing he’s not really going to blab about it, but I feel like it needs to be said anyway.

“You’re pussy-whipped by a pussy you’ve never fucked.” Tiernan tries to hide his smile behind the amber-colored glass bottle as he lifts it to his lips.

I’ve never been so called out in my life. It’s not exactly a lie. I covet every inch of her skin from afar. I’d sell my soul to the Devil for one taste of her delicious cunt and to feel it squeeze around my cock as she comes all over me.

I don’t respond because we both know it’s true. Instead, I trudge down the hall to my room and nudge the door open. I carefully lay her on my bed and she makes the most adorable groan.

Fuck. I’m in trouble. Big time.

I slowly unlace and remove her shoes then pull down her jogging pants, not daring to even peek at the juncture of her thighs. I cover her sports bra with one of my t-shirts then slide a pair of my boxers up the miles of milky white skin of her legs. My hands slow at the elastic waistband resting under her belly button. I run a fingertip under the material, allowing the back of it to brush along her flesh. Ashamed I smoothly release the elastic.

I can’t touch her.

I can’t touch her.

I.

Can’t.

Touch.

Her.

I roughly grab at my short hair and pull on it past the point of pain.

She’s so fucking beautiful and she has no fucking clue what she does to me. Sorcha O’Reilly is a damn vision whether she’s wearing joggers, a dress, or my clothes. She makes me insane, which explains the trail of bodies I’ve dropped in her honor.

I release my grasp to gaze over my shoulder at the most important thing in my life. I straighten then reach for the rubber band that is choking her hair into a ponytail. There’s no way I’ll be able to undo it without waking her. I retrieve the knife I keep in my boot then place the blade between my teeth to hold as I shrug out of my leather jacket, letting it slide from my arms and puddle to the floor. I kneel on the floor beside her, the moonlight glinting on the silver blade as I lightly saw away at the band. It snaps, letting her hair spill around her head. I put the knife back between my teeth as I use both hands to fan her dark locks into a halo around her beautiful face on the pillow. Her peaceful face. Again, I remove the knife from my mouth. Fingering a thin strand nestled underneath the mass, I pinch it between my fingers so it won’t pull on her scalp when I do what I’m about to do.

I pull the sharp silver edge back and forth against the small amount of hair, like a violinist with a bow playing over the strings.

With the nearly black lock free, I shove the knife into my boot then open the second drawer of the nightstand. I place the few items on the floor so I have access to the false bottom. The nondescript wooden box comes out easily and I remove the cover. I grab the black broken hair band, tie it around my stolen prize then lightly place it next to the other souvenirs before putting everything back.

Pictures I’ve taken of her from afar.

A bright pink thong I swiped from her dirty laundry hamper.

Her school I.D. from freshman year.

A tube of her lotion, cherry blossom scented.

A zip lock bag of twenty-four different people’s licenses.

I pull the covers over her, and she lets out the softest moan as she tucks the pillow under her head and gets comfortable in the bed.Mybed.

It only takes me a minute to disrobe down to my boxers and climb in beside her. Luckily, I’m extremely fucking exhausted, otherwise I may not have been able to control my wandering hands. And my wandering dick, for that matter.

CHAPTERFIVE

HER

Iattempt to roll over, but there's something pressing against my side. I try the movement again, but whatever’s behind me isn’t moving. I sigh heavily and give up. It’s peculiarly comforting, having something solid behind me. The fog clouding my memory is dense as I try to swim through it. This always happens when I try to think while I’m half asleep. An explanation for the unfamiliar weight behind me can't be found in my brain, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t go to bed with anyone.

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