Page 21 of Her Irish Savage
I come with a man’s cock deep inside me.
An actual orgasm around an actual dick. No fake gasping and thrashing and calling on God. No toy, vibrating in a monotone until my nerves short-circuit. No fingers of my own, rubbing and pushing and pulling by rote.
I come with a man for the first time in my life.
And just as the seizing, grasping, pulsing begins to slow inside me, Moran comes too. He groans my name like it’s a magic spell or maybe like it’s a prayer. He finds some way toslide a little bit deeper. He spreads his hand wide across my back, claiming me, owning me.
When he’s done, when he’s empty and I’m full, he says that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I don’t know how it happens, I don’t know where my body finds the strength, but suddenly I’m coming again—and multiple orgasms are another thing I’ve never done with an actual man.
Every sensation is deeper this time and stronger and I stretch beneath him and take his weight on my back and I never want to leave this place, not ever, not for the rest of my everlasting life.
8
PATRICK
Fiona whimpers when I finally pull out of her. This close, I can see the makeup she painted on, the way she covered up her bruises. I can count her ribs.
I push off the bed and reach down for her dangling feet. She twitches when I go for gentle, so I take hold of each ankle firmly. I have to work at getting the catsuit over her toes.
When I finally drop the vinyl on the floor, it looks like it couldn’t cover a doll. I kick it toward the door, then fold the snow-white duvet over Fiona’s still body so she doesn’t get cold. I find my skivvies, tangled in my jeans, and I stalk to the jacks.
Once I’m behind the closed door, I take care of the johnny and pull on my boxer briefs. I run water in the sink until it starts to steam, and then I splash my face. Hands planted on the counter, water dripping from my chin, I stare at the eejit in the mirror.
We were high on the adrenaline of being shot at. I let that gobshite at the front desk get under my skin—did I need afeckin’ pensioner’s discount? Fiona’s never met a man she wasn’t ready to tease. She’s a charmer, that one. And I couldn’t wait to dip my own oar.
The Bell rang, and I fucking answered.
Jesus Christ, this was a mistake. She’s a kid. And I don’t need anything tying me to this godforsaken city one second longer than necessary.
I trace the heartbeat inked on my wrist—up, down, up, down, up, down, flat—the way I have a million times before. The tattoo isn’t changing. There’s no going back.
But, fuck me, the drumbeat inside my brain is taking a breather. The twitch in my jaw is gone.
I know the science behind my brain’s jumbled chemicals. Mam read every one of the reports I carried home from school. She gave them to me and explained all the words I couldn’t understand, even though she couldn’t change the diagnosis.
The doctors call it a neurodevelopmental disorder—severe attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, combined-type. I know every last one of the scientific terms—endorphins and neurotransmitters, norepinephrine and serotonin, frontal cortex and basal ganglia and locus coeruleus. My highly genetic brain-based syndrome results in a failure to regulate my executive functioning skills.
Bottom line: My brain always craves something new. New activities. New sensations. New problems. I’ve got squirrels inside my skull, and a Bell that shatters any thought of impulse control.
I could write a book on all the ways I’ve learned to manage. I live and die by the apps on my phone—calendars, alarms, timers, reminders. I use my fidget ring to bleed off excess energy. I try not to get too hungry, too thirsty, too tired. I take my feckin’ meds.
And one of the best tricks of all: Exercise.
Sex is the best type of exercise a man can have. My life as aDom tames the worst of my brain’s misfires. Controlling women in my bed forces me to focus.
Jenn understood that. She was my first sub; we learned the life together. She had a masochistic streak as wide as the Grand Canyon, and our endless experiments locked away the brain squirrels for hours at a time.
When Jenn died, I knew I’d never find another sane woman who would tolerate the things I demand. Not in a so-called loving and mutually beneficialrelationship. So I visit Mimi’s girls to get what I need. I pay well and I tip better. I always get consent.
But I never—not once—dreamed I’d be the sort of sick fuck who gets off on playing Daddy.
Daddy. Won’t you help your little girl?
Closing my eyes, I can still see Fiona’s cherry-red lips. I hear the taunting in her voice. She knew exactly what she was doing.
And Christ, was she good at it.
I grab a towel from the rack and start to dry my face. Before I can finish, a phone rings in the other room—a light and airy tone that sounds like the theme for a puppet show.
