More than welcomed as my ass bounces back and my pussy swallows up his dick.
He’s so deep, I question how it’s possible. But mind hazy and pussy gushing with pleasure, it doesn’t even matter.
I’m basically babbling as I cry and whimper and he fucks away.
The orgasm comes almost out of nowhere. One thrust, the pleasure is a pool I’m diving into. By the next, it’s washing over me, submerging me in its deep waters.
My spine bows and pussy contracts, gripping at him even tighter. He smacks a hand to my ass and pumps into me faster, dragging his dick back and then sliding deep.
Completely lost to my orgasm, I hardly notice. It doesn’t even register with me when Ronan rolls me onto my back and resettles between my thighs.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he growls, his hips gyrating.
His stroke’s slower but just as intense. If anything it’s even worse, the unhurried pace stimulating the thousands of nerve endings inside my slick, sensitive pussy. My hands wander up his broad, tattooed chest, and I pull him down for more kisses.
We move together, panting and kissing and barely holding on. I’ve already come, yet I’m close again.
My pussy’s clenching around Ronan’s dick, pleasure radiating through me. It’s as he’s switching up the motion of his hips and grinding against me that the next orgasm hits.
I freeze up under him, sinking nails into his broad shoulders. Ronan merely grunts in response and grinds harder, his dick buried at just the right angle.
He can only hold on for so long himself as my hot, wet pussy pulsing and fluttering around him proves to be too much. He crushes his lips to mine a final time, and then he’s spilling inside me, his large, muscled body tense and shuddering.
It takes minutes before we’re over the pleasure that’s washed us out.
Ronan drops his head to my chest and nuzzles his face to my breasts, my heart racing just under him.
“Ronan…” I mutter.
He kisses my chest and produces a grunt thick from his throat in answer.
“Thank you…” I say. “For tonight. For everything.”
He lifts his head and looks at me, his piercing green eyes more unguarded than I’ve ever seen them. He squeezes at my hips and then moves up to press his lips to mine.
“Don't thank me, princess,” he says. “We're a team, remember?”
TWENTY-NINE
Ronan
“There you are.Wasn’t sure if you’d meet me here,” Dad says.
I’m standing by the window, staring out at the gray January sky when he turns up in the den. He settles into one of the armchairs with a grunt of discomfort. He’s moving slower in the wake of the Dren conflict, relying heavily on a cane to get around.
The gunshot wound to his chest nearly killed him. Doctors say most men his age wouldn’t’ve survived. But Seamus Callahan has always been too hardheaded to die on anyone else’s terms.
Still, there’s no denying he looks older than ever, more signs of aging appearing. Deeper lines in his face and the thinning out of his white hair. A frailer shape to his overall build. It’s like my father who was once the kind of ruthless bastard to strike fear in people with a mere look is gradually withering away.
First the colon cancer. Now the stressors of losing a son and sustaining a near-fatal gunshot wound.
It’s a reminder that, at the end of the day, he’s mortal. He’s just a man. We all are, and men don’t last forever.
“Well?” he says gruffly. He gestures to the armchair opposite him. “Sit down. You’re making me uneasy, hovering like that.”
I turn from the window and acquiesce him by lowering myself into the other armchair. The fireplace sits between us, flames crackling away and warming the room.
A brief moment goes by where neither of us speaks.