Wilder Irish 03 - March Wind

by Mari Carr

  Mia’s breathing hitched and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him for more. Her pussy clenched, empty, needing.

  Padraig’s lips wrapped around the same nipple he’d been playing with, sucking deeper, harder.

  Her hands instinctively moved, trying to grasp his head, to stroke his hair. It wasn’t until that moment that the idea of being completely restrained truly sank in. She was helpless, vulnerable, dependent on him to provide the pleasure she desired.

  She couldn’t even speak, couldn’t ask or beg. She really wanted to beg right now.

  Padraig took his time, sucking on one breast, then the other, then back again. No one had ever paid so much attention to them. Ever. In fact, until Padraig, she hadn’t realized exactly how much of an erogenous zone her breasts were.

  “God,” she whispered.

  Padraig froze for a moment and his lips released her nipple with a soft pop. Though she couldn’t see his face, she could just imagine his eyes narrowed in warning.

  She bit her lower lip, not daring to even say she was sorry.

  Padraig ran his fingers along one side of her face. “You’re beautiful, Mia.”

  She started to smile—until he added, “But say one more word and I will gag you.”

  Mia pressed her lips together tightly to hold back her laugh. He probably didn’t mean his words to be funny, and in truth, they weren’t. She was simply overwhelmed by a sheer sense of giddiness.

  It was as if someone had looked into her deepest, darkest, most secret fantasies and then created a man to match them.

  Satisfied that she would remain quiet, Padraig returned to driving her insane by inches. No part of her was left untouched. He massaged her feet, her calves, licked the sensitive skin on the inside of her upper thighs, tormenting her when he refused to move closer to her center. He kissed her stomach and her neck as he held her bound, outstretched hands.

  Worshipping.

  If she could find one word to describe it, it would be that. Padraig was worshipping her.

  It was beautiful. And yet she still wanted it to end.

  Her nerve endings were on sensory overload. All of her was.

  Her attempts to remain silent failed as she begged, cajoled, cried, then threatened. Padraig remained unmoved through it all, continuing with his sweet torture.

  Finally, a million years later, he released her legs. She would have closed them, settling for even that minimum amount of relief, but he knelt between them, holding her open.

  The blindfold was lifted next. She was ready to blast him, to curse him to hell and back for making her wait so long, but one look at his pained face told Mia he wasn’t giving to her without some cost to himself.

  She longed to touch him, but he didn’t untie her hands.

  “Please take off your clothes.”

  For the first time in nearly an hour, he granted her wish. He rose from the bed and started to undress. She tried to close her legs, but he gripped her ankle and shook his head.

  “No.”

  It was one word, but it worked like magic when spoken in that deep, you-will-obey-me voice.

  She forced herself not to move. Luckily, she was distracted by the shedding of his clothes. She would never tire of looking at him. He was broad-shouldered, muscular with an honest-to-God six-pack. She knew he liked to box. It showed in his chiseled physique.

  Her gaze dropped the same time his pants did. Padraig was rock-hard, his cock thick and long. If they hadn’t been together last night, she would have worried about the fit.

  Apparently, Padraig had pushed his patience to the same limits as hers. When he returned to the bed, he lined his cock up and thrust to the hilt in a rough move that sent her into orbit. He didn’t pause, didn’t give her a chance to adjust. Instead, he just kept moving, thrusting, pounding.

  Padraig lifted her legs, holding them up, the crooks of her knees resting on his shoulders. The position allowed him to go even deeper. Within seconds, she was there.

  Mia cried out loudly as she came, but Padraig just kept moving. It was too much and not enough…all at the same time.

  She couldn’t get any air to her lungs and her heart thudded so loudly, she felt deaf to everything around her.

  Still, Padraig pounded, took, claimed.

  Her second orgasm came right on the heels of the first, helped along by Padraig’s finger on her clit. He rubbed it firmly, stroking it with the same speed he was…fucking her. God. There was no other word for it.

  Padraig was fucking her. And she never wanted it to end.

  Mia was vaguely aware of the fact she would likely have a few bruises tomorrow. And maybe a hickey or three, she thought, as Padraig’s lips descended on her neck, kissing, sucking and biting.

  She thrashed, trying to break free from the ropes still binding her arms to the bed. She felt the need to leave a few marks of her own. Padraig grinned at her efforts, but made no move to release her.

  “Mine,” he growled.

  He touched her clit once more, and this time he joined her, the two of them coming together loudly, a mass of heat and moisture. The room had been chilly when they’d first entered, but Mia suspected the temperature had risen to well above a hundred. At least in the bed. Or maybe just her body. She felt feverish, stunned.

  Padraig dropped to the mattress next to her heavily, the bed rocking as if a boulder had just been tossed into a calm lake. They both lay on their backs, their breathing rapid and loud as they stared at the ceiling.

  Mia feared Padraig had fallen asleep when, after several minutes, he didn’t speak. He turned toward her eventually, reaching up to untie her.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked, concerned.

  She nodded. “Oh yeah. Total Beast.”

  He pushed up to his elbow, upset and intent on examining the damage, when she started to laugh. It was more air than sound, her breathing still labored.

  “Paddy.” She put her hand on his chest to stop him. “Lay back.”

  He tilted his head, frowning. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not going to be the only person to leave Paris with some lovely reminders of tonight.”

  She pushed lightly and he followed her lead, falling back to the bed. She leaned over and bit his tight brown nipple, showing him exactly what she meant as she made certain to leave an impression of her teeth.

  He grunted.

  “Oh, sorry. Did that hurt?”

  Padraig placed his hand on the back of her head. “Yeah. Do it again.”

  “You sure?”

  He laughed. “Be my guest, Beauty.”

  11

  May 12

  Padraig walked out of the kitchen as Mia unlocked the door to her apartment and tossed down her workbag.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said tiredly.

  They had been home nearly two weeks, and he was still struggling to get back into the daily routine.

  “Rough day?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nope. Just sucks to be back at work after the best vacation ever.”

  Padraig walked over and kissed her. “You can say that again. I was whipping up some dinner for us.”

  Since their return, Padraig had essentially moved in with Mia. Neither of them really discussed it. The decision was sort of made tacitly. They didn’t want to spend even a single night apart, so he stayed with her. Each day, more and more of his personal things found their way over to her place. He had things hanging in the closet, tucked into a couple drawers in her dresser, and sitting on half the counter space in the bathroom.

  Crazy thing was, it felt like he’d always lived here. There was no adjusting to cohabitation. One minute he was living in the Collins Dorm, the next he was with Mia. Both places felt like home.

  “You don’t have to work tonight?” she asked.

  “Nope. It’s my night off. Just going to be you and me, a pile of spaghetti and Netflix. Figure we can binge-watch something.

  She smiled brightly. “Sounds like heaven.”

&n
bsp; Then she rubbed her temple.

  “Do you have a headache? I can grab one of your pills.”

  “Oh, no.” She lowered her hand, and it was obvious she didn’t realize she’d been rubbing her brow. “Actually, I was thinking about that today. My headaches are getting better. I don’t get the terrible ones as much as I had been, and even the dull, aching ones aren’t as bad.”

  “That’s good.” Padraig was glad to know she wasn’t in as much pain. She’d only gotten one more really bad headache after the one in Florida, and it hadn’t been quite as brutal.

  She reached for her bag, drawing out her laptop and setting it up on the dining room table. “Anyway. It got me thinking.” She clicked on her keyboard, searching for something.

  Padraig walked to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder. “About what?”

  “Look what I found in one of the medical journals.” She pointed to one line on the screen and started reading aloud. “These cancers are usually fatal, although prolonged survival does occur in a small minority of patients.”

  He nodded, struggling not to read on to the parts that said stuff like “surgery not possible” or “radiation only prolongs life for a few months” or “malignant.”

  “What are you saying, Mia?”

  “I think the tumor is shrinking, all on its own. I don’t think this thing is going to kill me.”

  Before Padraig could reply—God, what the fuck could he say to that?—she closed her laptop and walked to the kitchen with a definite spring in her step.

  Mia thought she was getting better?

  Padraig claimed the chair she’d just vacated, trying to wrap his head around what she’d just said. He was perfectly aware of the five stages of grief. His mother had given him a website link that described them, from the point of view of the dying person as well as the people close to that person. He’d looked it up one night before his trip with Mia, trying to find ways to understand what she might be going through.

  Lately, he’d caught himself trying to figure out what stage he was in. As his feelings for her deepened, he had definitely stepped on that scale. While it appeared Mia was either stuck on or back to the first stage—denial—he had built a house on stage two—anger.

  “Want me to dip this spaghetti out? It looks ready,” Mia called from the kitchen.

  He rose and walked to the entrance of the kitchen, leaning on the doorjamb. “Mia, I think maybe we should talk about that research.”

  She smiled. “I’m not sure there’s much more to say about it. It just proves there’s something Dr. Richards didn’t tell me. Not everyone dies from this type of tumor. Some people live. I’m going to be one of those.”

  He sucked in a deep breath, his chest tight with the sudden onset of panic. “I hope that you are, but—”

  Mia pulled the garlic bread from the oven, cutting him off. “This smells wonderful.”

  “Listen. I don’t want you to get your hopes up about,” he swallowed heavily, “that thing you read. I think Dr. Richards probably has a better handle on your specific case.”

  Her smile faded, a scowl taking its place. “I’m sure every doctor says what I have is a death sentence, but there had to be some people who beat the odds, who outlived the stupid fucking timeframe. Otherwise that journal wouldn’t have put that line in there.”

  He nodded, hating that he was dashing her hope, making her angry. Padraig couldn’t decide if it was better for her mentally if he indulged her or if he helped her face the truth.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “Okay. You’re right. Someone must have outlived the odds.”

  His agreement came too late. Mia’s good mood was gone. “But you don’t believe I will.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You think it. I can tell.”

  “I just want you to be prepared in case…things don’t go the way you hope.” Padraig’s words came out slowly as he measured every single one.

  “I’m not living on hope, Padraig. I can tell what’s going on inside my head. The pain is less. That has to mean something.”

  He assumed it meant the pain medication Dr. Richards prescribed was working, but he didn’t dare say that aloud. He was already walking a tightrope.

  “You know, your next appointment is the day after tomorrow. Why don’t we talk to Dr. Richards about your improvement? We can see if he’ll do another scan. Confirm that the tumor really is shrinking.”

  “Fine. That’s what we’ll do. And then you’ll have your proof.” Disaster had been averted…sort of.

  Mia was quiet as they ate, and after dinner, she said she was too tired for TV. Claimed she was still jetlagged and worn out from work and that she just wanted to turn in early.

  He bid her goodnight, flipping mindlessly through the channels, playing their conversation over and over.

  A quick glance at the clock told him it was only nine thirty. Business at the pub would be slowing down.

  He stood up, grabbing his phone and keys, then jotted out a quick note that said, “Running down to pub for a little while. Back in a few,” and left it on the table by the door in case she woke.

  His dad glanced up as he walked in, giving him a worried look. “Everything okay? Mia feeling all right.”

  Padraig nodded as he claimed a stool at the bar. “Wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.” Glancing around the pub, his suspicions were confirmed. The place was emptying out.

  “Want a pint?” Dad offered.

  Padraig shook his head, his response ringing yet another alarm bell for his father.

  “You and Mia have a fight?”

  Padraig rubbed his forehead wearily. “Yeah. I think we did.”

  “You think?”

  “She came home from work today in a great mood. Showed me something on the internet that she read as…” He didn’t even know how to describe it. He saw it as some meaningless aside tacked at the end of a whole article of bad news. She read it and found hope.

  Dad sighed. “She thinks she’s going to get better.”

  “Yeah.” Padraig had been through two doctors’ appointments. He’d seen the CT scans, seen the tumor, heard about the precariousness of its location, how surgery wasn’t possible, why chemotherapy and radiation would—at best—slow it down for a few months. That stupid line didn’t change any of that.

  “Sort of makes sense, don’t you think?”

  Padraig gave his dad a confused look. “I guess. I mean, obviously she doesn’t want to die.”

  “Paddy. She’s happy. She’s in love. Given what you’ve told me about her past, it doesn’t sound like she’s had much experience with either of those things. You’ve given her a pretty strong reason to want to live, to have more time.”

  Padraig hadn’t considered that. Guilt suffused him. “Shit.”

  His dad reached across the bar and patted his hand. “I didn’t say that was a bad thing. Jesus, son. You built a friendship with that woman and rather than run away or deny your feelings for her, you embraced the relationship that evolved from that. It was a brave thing to do.”

  “I’m not brave, Dad. I’m fucking terrified. Every minute. I don’t want to hurt her. And I don’t want to lose her.”

  “The way I see it, there’s only one of those things you can control.”

  Padraig hated that answer. Mainly because it was true.

  Dad squeezed his hand. “So take control of that part. Give Mia what she needs from you, support her, calm her fears, give her a shoulder to cry on. I could tell when the two of you walked in here last week after that trip that you’d both turned a corner. You’ve committed to each other for the time you have left. Maybe you didn’t make that decision consciously, but it was made just the same. You love her, right?”

  “So much.”

  “Then let go of the shit you can’t control and take charge of the rest—the love, the commitment, the relationship. Figure if you concentrate on that, it’ll lessen some of your frustration over the rest.”

 
Padraig smiled. He’d been right to come here. As always, his dad found the way to make him feel better.

  With his father’s advice to bolster him, Padraig felt ready to take on the world. “Okay. I will.”

  May 14

  That resolve weakened two days later when he and Mia walked out of the doctor’s office. The tumor wasn’t shrinking, and Dr. Richards believed the headaches hadn’t actually gotten better. It was simply that Mia’s tolerance for pain had increased.

  “He said the tumor hadn’t grown,” Padraig said when they climbed into the car. While Mia’s hope had been dashed to pieces, Padraig had found some small comfort in the fact the tumor was the same size. “Not a bit in a month. Maybe that means his timeline is wrong. This thing isn’t going to take over as quickly as we feared.”

  It was mid-May. The doctor had originally given her until September.

  Padraig kept thinking about that birthday wish. It was just one more month. Surely the fucking tumor could wait one more goddamn month.

  Mia didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him.

  Padraig grasped for something, anything that might pull her out of the depression that was settling over her like a heavy, dark cloud.

  “Want to go out for lunch? We could head down to the Inner Harbor, grab an outside table by the water.”

  “I’m not hungry. I just want to go home. And you have to go to work.”

  “I can call one of the other bartenders, Mia. Trade shifts so I—”

  “No,” she said loudly. “I don’t want you to do that. I just need a little time by myself.”

  He wasn’t sure if that was the best thing, but he couldn’t exactly force her to accept his presence. Maybe a bit of time to digest the news would do the trick. She’d find a way to deal with this blow, the way she had all the others, and things would go back to normal.

  Or at least as normal as they got when you were living with a bomb in your head and no wires to cut to kill the detonator.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll just be at the pub. If you need anything, all you have to do is call and I can be home in five minutes.”