Page 70 of Her Irish Savage
I stiffen as he strokes my folds. “Don’t do that, little girl,” he says, and he slips one finger inside me. “Don’t do that to me.” He pushes deeper inside me. “Don’t do that to yourself.” He curls his finger and does something devastating.
In just a few ragged breaths, I’m stretching and I’m melting and I’m balanced on the edge of a cliff. Even if I wanted to shut him out, I couldn’t. Not when he makes me feel like this.
“More, Daddy,” I whisper. “Please give me more.”
He adds a second finger. At the same time, he tightens his grip on my hair. Now when he strokes me, my clit begins to sing.
My brain believes what he’s told me, that it’s not my fault, that I got sick and I got clean, and everything’s all right. But my body doesn’t have the message yet. It needs punishment. It needs to be redeemed.
“Harder, Daddy,” I gasp.
My damp hair squeaks beneath his fist. Inside the boxer briefs, his hand moves faster. His strokes are longer. I shift my hips to catch the heel of his hand against my clit.
I bite my lip. I point my toes. I’m close, so close, almost, almost there.
“Please, Daddy,” I moan. “Please, please, please…”
He releases my hair, and I cry out because that’s not what I want. That’s not what I need. I thought he knew me better than I knew myself, and I’m devastated to learn that I’m wrong.
But then he asks, “Is this what you want, little girl?”
His left hand, the one that was pulling my hair, closes around my throat. His thumb digs in beneath one ear. His fingers tighten on the other side, and the heel of his hand lowers against my voice box. Slowly and steadily, he starts to squeeze.
My knees slam closed. My heart somersaults against my sternum. My lungs burn like acid, even though it’s too soon for them to starve, too soon for me to suffocate.
Every cell in my body is dipped in gasoline, and I can’t run, can’t fight. All I can do is freeze.
But no. That’s wrong. There’s one more thing I can do, one last way to save myself. Patrick told me, the first time we fucked on this bed.
“Bunbun!” I gasp, praying to all the saints I don’t believe in that what he said was true.
26
PATRICK
Ijerk back as if Fiona’s landed a Taser lead on my bollocks.
The squirrels inside my head start clamoring like wildfire’s broken out in the forest. My cock presses against my zipper with a fury that’s already shifting into ache. The hand I used to choke her curls into a fist like it wants to disappear up my arm, and the one that was inside her hovers over her body, wanting to touch, wanting to soothe, wanting to make it all better, even though I don’t have a fucking clue how I’m going to do that.
I shift my weight so I’m no longer straddling her body. I say her name, so she knows I’m not going anywhere. “You’re fine, Fiona,” I tell her, even though I don’t know if it’s true. “You’re a good girl. You’re my good girl. You’re fine.”
It takes her a minute or more to come back from wherever she went. When she does, her face flushes crimson. She throws an arm over her eyes and says, “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry.”
She lowers her arm to her side, but she doesn’t open her eyes. “I feel so stupid.”
“For stopping me? For keeping yourself safe? For doing exactly what I told you to do when things get out of control?”
She looks at me, her expression flat. “I’m so fucked up.”
The savage inside me wants to remind her she’s not allowed to swear in my bed. The human says, “You’re not.” And when she just shakes her head, I ask, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Defiance sets her chin. “No.”
That’s not the answer I want, but it’s the choice I gave her. I sit back, taking care to keep my hands in full view. “That’s your right.”
She glares at me, as if I’ve told her she’ll be my prisoner until she dumps her bleeding heart at my feet. I shrug, because I can’t give what she doesn’t want to take.
