Page 57 of Her Irish Savage
“I’m so proud of you, for what you took this afternoon.”
We circle around her clit, catching it between our fingers. We dip into her sweet pussy and spread honey across her throbbing pearl, again and again and again. And when she breaks, we cup her smooth mound, holding her steady, pulling her close.
I slip into her from behind, which is easy because she’s soaked. She trembles when I sink home, and I don’t know if she’s coming a second time, or if it’s still the first, drawn out long and slow.
All I know is she feels like silk beneath me. She smells like cloves and lemons. She sounds like she’s laughing, soft and low, like we’re sharing the best joke in the world.
And when I come, pulsing hard inside her, I know it will be a while before I get back to Philadelphia.
21
FIONA
Father Colin holds the chalice, waiting for me to sip the wine, but when I raise the silver rim to my lips, the liquid inside is blood. Frantic, I look at the priest, but his face is a mangled mass—eyes burst, nose shattered, jaw hanging from a thread.
My knees ache as I stand, and my ears are filled with the howling of wild dogs. They’re snarling around me, cutting me off, driving me into a dark stone corner.
I’m bowled over by the stink of incense and the sulfur smell of snuffed out candles. Blood fills the chapel, soaking my plaid uniform skirt, rising until it covers my chin, until it covers my lips, until I’m drowning…
I wake up screaming.
For one solid week, I slept without nightmares. Seven precious nights of feeling safe and protected, of knowing no one could harm me.
Now, everything’s back to the horror ofnormal. My throataches. My eyes are gritty. My head pounds like I’m coming off a one-week drunk.
Patrick is gone.
His pillow is cool to the touch. I don’t hear him in the bathroom, or in the kitchen, or in the living room.
I hate the feeling of panic that surges through me. I shouldn’t have called him Daddy. I shouldn’t have dropped to my knees in the kitchen. I shouldn’t have let him tie me to the bed.
“Patrick?” I call out, my voice shakier than I’ll ever admit.
Silence.
“Patrick!” I try again, louder this time.
Nothing. Goddammit. He’s gone.
Bunbun.That’s all I had to say. He gave me a fucking safeword. If I’d used it, I wouldn’t be trying to swallow this beach ball of shame.
Furious with myself, I rub my hand from my forehead to my chin, trying to scrub away memories of last night. I nearly retch when I smell my fingers. He held my hand while he finger-fucked me in the middle of the night. He whispered lies to me in the darkness, and I believed him, because my body isn’t smart enough to understand facts my mind knows all too well.
He’s a grown man dealing with his own ration of shit. I don’t know why the Crew call him Cujo. I don’t know why he left Boston. I don’t know what the fuck he thought he was doing, bringing me back from Philadelphia, but I never should have let myself lean on him.
I’m so fucked up. I called himDaddy. I never wanted to fuck my father. That’s disgusting. I just wanted a man to keep me safe. Someone to take care of me, after Madden fucked me over.
Jesus Christ. I shouldn’t have let any man distract me, not for a minute. Not when it will take every ounce of concentration I have to get control over the Old Colony Crew.
Rónnad. She’s supposed to deliver a hundred grand today, but she doesn’t have the number for my bank account yet.
Goddammit!I should have just given her my own phone number. The only way she has to reach me is through Patrick’s burner.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am so fucking stupid.
I throw back the covers. Going into the bathroom, I run water in the sink, letting it get so hot steam curls from the faucet. I wash my hands with five pumps of soap, dripping lather onto the counter. I’m brutal as I rub my fingers dry on a towel.
At least I don’t smell like middle-of-the-night fucking anymore.
