I peer through the strands of my messy hair and watch as he cups my breasts before lowering his head and running his lips over the swollen peaks.
“Fuck,” I swear, forgetting how to breathe as every part of my body vibrates from his lips.
“That’s coming,” he says, taking one nipple in his warm mouth with a long hard suck that almost unravels me like a spool of thread, while his hands travel down my bare sides, coasting over my skin, barely touching me and yet I can feel the heat radiating from his palms.
As he continues to bite and suck and lick at my nipples, his mouth wet and warm and messy, he hooks his long fingers around the waistband of my leggings and proceeds to pull them down.
I immediately tense up, enough so that he pulls his mouth away and glances up at me, concern in his hooded eyes. “Am I moving too fast?” he asks, his voice rich and gruff and screaming of sex.
I shake my head and look at the bed. “No. I need to take off my boots before you can get the leggings off.”
“Let me worry about that,” he says.
I take in a deep breath and walk over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and leaning back on my elbows so that I’m not all pale skin and stomach rolls. Padraig lifts one of my legs and starts to undo my boots, his eyes never leaving mine as his fingers make quick work of the laces.
When he’s done and he’s reaching over me to take my leggings off, I tense up again. I can’t help it. This is a big deal to me.
He raises a brow. “Are you okay?”
I nod quickly. “Yes. No. I just … I should probably tell you something and I don’t know how you’re going to react.” He continues to stare at me, eyes asking me to continue. “I have a lot of scarring on my legs and I’m extremely self-conscious about it.” I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I know I shouldn’t be and that it’s not a big deal, but it’s a big deal to me. It always has been. And this is the first time … usually when I get naked with a guy, when I show him the truth, I’ve known him for a bit. And I don’t know you at all.”
He swallows and nods thoughtfully, his body hovering over me, his hands not letting go of the waistband. “It doesn’t make it easier to bare yourself with a stranger?”
I bite my lip, thinking that over. “I wouldn’t have gone home with anyone but you.”
“Valerie, we don’t have to do anything ye don’t want to do.”
“I want to,” I tell him emphatically. “Believe me, I do. I just wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?” he repeats. “I’m sorry if this sounds crass, but I don’t give a fuck what your legs look like, if they’re scarred or not, or if ye even have them. I just want my cock to be thrusting deep inside ye. I want ye to forget that you ever worried about this.”
Well, okay then.
My eyes are frozen wide at his words, and when he starts to remove my leggings and underwear, I let him, until I’m bare for him to see. Everything ugly and horrible, everything that I was made fun of for most of my life, everything I’ve had to overcome, is staring right back at him.
He only glances briefly at my legs and then stands up at the foot of the bed. With his gaze locked on mine, he removes his boxer briefs, and just like that, any worry I had about anything is gone because all I can see is his very, very big dick.
Holy hell.
The thing looks fucking dangerous, as in he better know what to do with it or I’m going to get impaled.
“Hold on,” he says gruffly and then goes to the nightstand, pulling out a condom and slipping it on with ease before coming back to the end of the bed, his cock bobbing and jutting out in front of him like a tree trunk.
I must have the hungriest look in my eyes because he gives me a cocky smirk, the kind that says he knows what he’s got and knows that I want it. Then, as that smirk fades into something serious and heated, he prowls over my body. My legs, the very same legs I’ve been raised to be ashamed of, they open for him, his knee between my thighs.
His body is so large and strong and all-encompassing as he looms over me like a giant that I feel like I’m at his mercy and I want it that way. I want him to do whatever he wants with me. I want to feel what it’s like to be desired by a man like this.
He makes a fist in my hair with one hand and kisses me hard until I’m breathless, pulling my head back as he tugs on the strands, exposing my throat. I groan and gasp as he pulls back and licks down my neck, sending goosebumps everywhere.
He slips his other hand between my thighs, sliding it over my clit which is already slick and slippery.
“Fuck me,” he says, and with his thick accent, I swear I get even wetter. “You’re going to feel like silk when my cock fills you.” His fingers dip inside and I clench around them, especially as he goes from one finger to two to three. His fingers aren’t small either.
“Greedy little girl, ain’t ye?” he asks gruffly, biting my neck and sucking the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
I moan and buck up into his fingers, wanting more and more. I’m surprising myself with every second that passes by. This isn’t like me, I’m not the wanton sex goddess who gives herself so freely, who wants and desires and craves like nothing else. But tonight I am.
Tonight I belong to this stranger.
“Fuck,” he swears again, this time pulling back enough to stare at me through his heavily-lidded eyes, brimming with intensity. “I can’t promise I’ll last forever but I promise ye the next time I will.”
Next time.
Of course he’s talking about tonight and into the morning. Of course I won’t be able to stop at one. I want to come all night long.
“Tell me what ye want,” he whispers, grazing his lips over mine before nipping at my bottom lip. His grip in my hair tightens again. “Do ye want me to pull your hair? Do ye want me to spank your wet pussy? Do ye want my cock filling up your tight little hole? Do ye want my tongue to fuck ye sideways until you’re screaming my name? Tell me. Tell me so I can give it to ye.”
I’m practically panting now, wanting all of it, everything.
“Anything,” I tell him, breathless, my chest heaving. “Fuck me, spank me, do anything you want. I want it.”
“You’re a fucking dream, you know that?” he says, and then he’s working his way down my body, his tongue creating a wet trail that makes me clench even more. He grips my thighs, and for a second I think about my scars again, but that quickly disappears when he buries his face between my legs, his beard scratching against my sensitive skin.
He immediately starts to lap me up with his tongue like a starved man, teasing my clit in long, wide circles before plunging it deep inside.
Jesus. I knew he was good with his tongue before but he’s taking it to another level. Getting fucked by it feels better than any dick I’ve had. Before I can even get my thoughts together, the pressure is building deep inside my core and I’m getting tighter and tighter.
He thrusts his tongue into me again and again, my fists now in his hair and holding on hard, and just when I think I might start to lose it, he brings his full lips over my clit and sucks in the tight bud until my whole fucking world explodes.
“Oh, fuck!” I cry out, my hips jamming up into his face, my body quaking, my mind and soul and heart being shot out in a million different directions, in a million different pieces of confetti.
I’m pretty sure I’m tearing out his beautiful hair, so when a morsel of reality comes back to me and I remember where I am and what’s happening, I let go.
“I could eat your sweet pussy for days, Red,” he says to me as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Red?” I manage to say as I stare up at him, my heart finally back under control.
“Your hair,” he says, sliding his fingers back down over my pussy and giving it a quick tap with his fingers. “Though it doesn’t quite match the carpet.”
My face goes hot and I know at least my cheeks are matching the drapes. I’m about to tell him that I’m naturally a brunette and
I dye my hair dark red but before I can open my mouth, he’s covering it with his, taking me hostage in a searing kiss.
I groan into him, my body already recovered and ready for more, and I spread my legs as he positions his cock at the base of me, rubbing the fat tip along my juices, the sound filling the room. It’s so explicit, I’m blushing again.
I wonder if it’s going to hurt, if it’s going to fit, if…
The thoughts are expelled from my brain just as the air is from my lungs as Padraig pushes his cock into me with a long, hard thrust.
I gasp, my fingers curling over the edge of the blanket, as I try to grapple with the feeling that I’m about to be split in two.
“Just breathe,” he says through a thick moan. “I’ll go slow.”
I try to speak, to tell him okay, but the words are garbled and drown in my throat. I concentrate on breathing instead. It’s not like I’d been revirginized since I hadn’t broke up with Cole all that long ago, but it definitely feels close to the first time. Cole was big enough, but Padraig is something else. It’s only when I start breathing slowly that my body relaxes and I stretch around him.
Fuck, this is amazing. I didn’t think I could feel so full, didn’t think I craved this feeling. As Padraig slowly drags himself out of me and then pushes back in, this time to the hilt, all I can think is that I need this more than oxygen. This feeling of being physically made for someone, more than just accommodating them, but synching with them. Puzzle pieces, magnets, the more he thrusts his cock inside me, the more I feel connected in ways I never have during sex.
I want to keep staring at Padraig too. I want to keep watching the small bead of sweat that’s forming on his forehead, the way his hair is growing damp, the insanely lustful look in his eyes as he stares down where his cock sinks into me. I want to watch his face strain as he struggles to control himself, the glisten of his lower lip as the moans escape him.
I want to, but I can’t. My eyes close and I succumb to him, giving myself over to being thoroughly fucked. I want his hips to keep pistoning into my hips, I want his dick to hit so deep that I’m not sure I can breathe.
He gives it to me. Faster now, deeper, harder. Padraig fucks me like a machine, like a beast, like a man with only one mission in mind, a single-minded need to come and make me come with him.
The bed is moving now—bam, bam, bam—like an exclamation point to every thrust, and I’m gripping the linens tighter as if it might keep me grounded and the sounds coming out of his mouth are pushing me over the edge.
Fuck. That’s the only word coming to me now.
I can barely keep it together.
Sweat breaks out at my temples.
My heart beats like a drum.
The rhythm of his thrusts, the tight squeeze of his cock, it fills my ears, my world. I don’t ever want him to stop.
“So fucking good,” he grits out as he pumps into me, his fingers pressing hard into my hips. “So good. Your cunt is so tight, too fucking tight for my cock. I can’t hold on much longer. God, I need to come. I want to come so fucking hard inside ye.”
“Come,” I tell him through a throaty groan, knowing I’m seconds away, that I’ve always been seconds away. Before I can give myself a push, his hand slips down between our sweaty, writhing bodies and gives my clit a hard rub, and that’s it.
I’m soaring again, spread into infinity, clenching around him like I’m trying to keep him inside me forever. “Oh god!” I scream, the orgasm sneaking up on me and getting stronger and stronger as it continues to tear me apart. “Fuck, fuck!”
I don’t know what’s going on. I’m boneless. I’m suspended in air. My cells are shot out into space. My limbs are convulsing, violent and surprising, and my words trail off until it sounds like I’m speaking in tongues.
Padraig goes off with a hoarse grunt that fills the room, holding on to my hips with a vice-like grip as he pumps everything he has inside me. Through dazed and disbelieving eyes, I watch as his mouth drops open and his neck goes back, exposing his strong throat. His mountain-like shoulders are held back with strain, the muscles in his arms and chest shaking as he empties himself into the condom.
Holy fuck.
I can’t.
Can’t even think.
I’m somewhere on the ceiling now, looking down like I’m having an out of body experience. I’m not even real anymore.
Then Padraig lets out a long, low exhale and nearly collapses on top of me, the hard, sweaty planes of his body pressing against the soft curves of mine, his face buried in the pillow beside me.
“Valerie,” he says, voice clipped and hoarse. “I…”
“Yeah,” I tell him, licking my lips, trying to breathe. “That was…”
“Fuck,” he whispers, lifting his head enough and planting his elbows on either side of my body. He stares at me with sated awe. “Bloody hell, that was the best fuck I’ve ever had.”
I can only grin at him in response. His eyes have changed from dark and tormented to shiny and light, like there’s a peace inside them. The fact that I did that, that I brought him this peace and escape that he needed, means something to me, even if it shouldn’t.
He kisses me lightly on the lips and then carefully pulls out. He gets up, disposes of the condom, and asks if I want my glass of wine from downstairs.
I’m not sure what I say in response. I feel flayed and spent, and my brain keeps pulling me toward sleep. I always thought if I had a one-night stand it would be awkward and I’d be running to the door. But I feel comfortable here, like falling asleep in Padraig’s bed is the most natural thing in the world.
When he returns with the drinks, I’m already half-asleep and forget that I’m lying completely naked on his bed. He flicks on the side table lights and I flinch, immediately reaching for the sheets to cover myself.
“Don’t,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “Don’t hide yourself.”
Even though the lights have a flattering glow, I don’t even think I laid around naked like this with Cole without hiding my legs or my stomach with something. I roll onto my side so at least I have that hourglass shape going on.
“Does it make ye uncomfortable?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me, completely naked still. He doesn’t care that his cock is just hanging out, that he’s naked. His confidence is inspiring. Then again, he doesn’t even get any stomach rolls when he’s sitting down—there’s no fat, just muscle. He’s built like he should be in a museum, carved out of the finest stone, works of art for the world to study and nod and go “now that’s what a man is supposed to look like.”
I glance down at my body and can’t fathom how it could look good to him. “I know I shouldn’t be uncomfortable. I know that you’re not supposed to lack confidence.”
He puts his hand on my waist and slowly, tenderly, runs it over the curve of my hips. “Who says what you’re supposed to be? Supposed to feel?”
I close my eyes and sigh, letting the warmth of his palm sooth me. “Everyone. If I talk about it, it seems like I’m complaining. My sisters don’t have a lot of patience for it. My friends gently tell me to get over it. It’s like if you’re not strong all the time, you’re not a real woman or something. I don’t know. Weakness isn’t tolerated among women.”
He pauses, giving my upper thigh a light squeeze as he studies my face. “But why is insecurity considered a weakness? It’s just being human. We all have things to feel insecure about. No shame in it. We work on it, we get better. It’s all part of the experience, right? Doesn’t our true strength lie in the fact that we know our flaws, that we’re self-aware, that we want to improve?”
“I know. I just feel like I need to toughen up and not care. I’ve been working toward it for a long time.” And I have been. The therapy sessions are slow-going but at least I’m committing myself to changing. He’s right that at least I recognize it.
“That’s all that matters then. You’re not perfect. I’m not perfect. That’s okay and it’s okay to not
love yourself all the time either. I mean, fuck. Who does? And if anyone has a problem with the way ye feel about yourself, that’s only because you’re hitting a nerve. Maybe you’re making them look at a flaw that they don’t want to face.”
I study him for a moment. “You know, you struck me as a man of few words…”
He shrugs. “Let’s just say I know what you’re talking about, that’s all.” There’s a darkness that comes across his eyes, like the clouds ahead of a storm, and I know that he has his demons with this issue too, whatever they may be.
His hand slides down my thigh. “Is it the scars that hurt the most? Emotionally?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Sometimes. The rest is just … you know, not looking like my sisters. Having a mother that constantly reminds you that your worth is your body and your looks and nothing else. The whole fucking shebang.”
He nods, his eyes coasting over my legs in a gentle, curious way that I can almost feel. “Do ye want to tell me what happened?” he asks softly.
I look down over the crisscross network of ribbon scars and flattened continents of scar tissue. Both legs are covered in them, from my feet up to mid-thigh. Puncture wounds from surgery scars where they inserted steel rods are the only things that are remotely symmetrical. My ankles are fucked up. Everything is a mess.
“I was six years old,” I tell him. The story doesn’t bother me. I’m so used to telling it. “I was playing in the front yard and my mother was watching me, but then my sister distracted her and she went inside, leaving me alone. In your typical dumb child maneuver, I kicked the ball I was playing with across the street and ran across to get it. Big huge Ford truck came from out of nowhere and hit me.”
“Fuck,” he says, face contorting as he takes it in.
“Yeah. It was … well, I don’t remember much so that’s probably a good thing. Those months around the accident are blocked out. The truck literally ran over my legs and crushed them. It damaged my spine. I was almost paralyzed. In a wheelchair for years. Doctors told me I would never walk again. Obviously they were wrong, but it took a fucking long time. A lot of physio. A lot of pain. I couldn’t even pee without help.”
My Life in Shambles: A Novel Page 7
