by Fox, Nicole
“I want it hard,” I whisper, when Cormac leans over me. “I want it—”
Cormac darts down and grabs a bunch of my hair. “Rough. Is that what you want?”
I nod, moaning. His hand feels so good in my hair, tugging on my scalp. It feels like he could lift me right off my feet. There is pain there, but it is subtle, underlying the feeling of powerlessness. I am at his mercy now. Why does it feel so good to be at his mercy?
“I want you to come on my fucking hand,” he growls. With his free hand, he tears my underwear off. He doesn’t slide them down my legs. He literally tears them off, snapping them in two and throwing them across the room. “I want to feel you on my hand, and then you’re going to suck it off.” He yanks my hair. I moan louder. Fuck, fuck, but this feels good. I can’t stop now if it feels this good. “Do you understand?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
He slides two fingers inside of me. I expect some resistance, but I’m so wet that he just slides right in, middle and forefinger right up to my sweet spot. But he doesn’t massage or circle it like he did last night. This time, he drills into me with his fingers, his curled pinkie and ring finger slamming into my clit as the tips of his other fingers slam into my sweet spot. I feel the urge to close my eyes as I always do with men, but with Cormac, I don’t want to; I force myself to keep them open. I look at his face, which is downturned, watching my pussy. I catch glimpses of his intense eyes, his wry lips, and the absolute mad lust on his face. Then I start bouncing with the force of his fingers, losing myself to it now. He’s drilling into me so powerfully that he almost lifts me up with each movement. My clit and sweet spot get hotter in tandem. Each time he punches into my pussy, both get just that little bit hotter, until the two of them are boiling.
I close my legs around his hand and bring him deeper inside of me. Cormac slides another finger into my pussy, so that three fingers are drilling me. Bouncing up and down, it’s only after a minute or two that I realize I’m moaning loudly. I think of Moira and that makes me think of Tess—I close my mind to it. Not now, not here. I’m just Scarlet. I’m just a woman. I’m not Agent O’Bannon right now. I don’t want this pleasure to end.
“Grab my throat,” I manage to whisper. “Make me yours.”
Cormac doesn’t need to be told twice. He brings his hand to my throat, gripping hard enough to begin to cut off my air, but not so hard that I can’t breathe.
“Come on my fucking hand,” he snarls, squeezing harder. “Come. Hard.”
This is what he must be like on a job. Utterly brutal. Utterly efficient.
Suddenly my moaning stops, everything stops. Even the heat, for a second, stops. And then I feel it, the gathering energy, like a ball of tingly pleasure settling deep in my belly, preparing to explode. Faraway, I hear the fleshy slapping of Cormac finger-fucking me, but all I really feel is the shimmering ball of pleasure. My belly is tingly; my belly is afire. I close my legs tighter around his hand and then it all releases. The orgasm hits me all the harder because it’s the first orgasm I’ve had in a month. The release is like letting go of a thousand aches and pains in my body, freeing myself for what feels like the first time. My head is flooded so I can’t think. I writhe on the bed, sheets sticking to me, as Cormac says, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and as he drills into me quicker. I’m squirting on his hand. I feel it. Squirting, releasing, as he tightens his grip around my throat. My moans are stifled. I turn my hips and ride the orgasm, letting it float me up into the air and carry me around the room. Then, when I begin to settle back down, I force my hips down with all my strength and take the last piece of pleasure. Cormac pushes up as I push down. We meet in the middle, my body twinging, my legs trembling, and thick white come sliding down his fingers onto his fist. I crane my neck, pushing against his hand, and look down at it.
And then it’s over and I’m on my back, panting and, for once, not ashamed of it.
Cormac stands up, watching me, and then he brings the come-soaked hand to my lips. “Suck,” he commands. “Suck now.”
Standing there, his shadow thrown up behind him, his beard, his eyes. and his powerful body ... standing there, he looks like the Don. He looks like a man not to be ignored. I bring his fingers to my lips and suck, feeling dirty and wild—dirtier and wilder than I’ve ever felt. When I’m done, he pulls off my top and unhooks my bra, revealing my breasts.
“Fucking hell, Scar.” He collapses to his knees and buries his face in my breasts, sucking one and then the other, pinching one nipple, twisting it lightly, and then with more force. I wince, but the pain is good. The pain wakes me up for more pleasure.
“I need my cock in your fucking mouth,” he says, standing up.
I grab his jeans, knowing that if I undo them and take them down, that’s it. I won’t be able to see his cock and then back out. I’m too horny for that. If I see his cock, I’ll be crossing the line I’ve always said I’ll never cross. But I don’t stop to think about it. I yank his jeans down and wait as he steps out of them, watching as his cock springs up. It must be ten inches, at least—ten inches and thick, the biggest cock I’ve ever seen, a cock so big it makes me wonder if I can take it. I swallow, nervous, feeling like a teenager again. Cormac always seems to be able to make me feel like a teenager.
He slides both of his hands into my hair and guides my lips to his cock.
“Are you sure you can take it rough?” he asks, voice low. “Are you sure?”
He’s going to throat-fuck me, I think. I’ve never been throat-fucked before. But from Cormac, I want it. I look up at him, nodding. He seems to like it when I look up at him like that. His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows, and then he pushes my head toward his cock. I open my mouth as wide as it’ll go, but his cock still stretches my lips. I would never let any other man do this, I reflect, as I force my mouth down, taking in as much of his cock as I can. If any other man suggested this, I would laugh in his face. But Cormac is different. Cormac might be a Don soon. That shouldn’t excite me, but ...
He fucks my mouth, making my eyes water, the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I reach my hand down between my legs and rub my clit, which drives him ever crazier. He fucks my mouth until both of us are panting and crazy, and then he picks me up and tosses me into the bed. I bounce up and down, squealing and excited. My pussy is buzzing, telling me I’m ready for another orgasm.
When he leans over me, I’m tempted to check the room to see if Tess or Agent O’Bannon is there, both of them judging. But I don’t check. Just because I’m sometimes professional Agent O’Bannon, that doesn’t mean I can’t be Scarlet who likes to be fucked roughly.
I lift my legs, tempting him toward my pussy. He leans over me, staring down into my face. I can tell he knows this is a big moment too. For years we have been meeting, the sexual tension rising, and now, in a congressman’s penthouse, with the world turned sideways, we can finally give into our urges.
Propping himself up with one arm, he reaches down and guides his cock toward my pussy. I feel the tip of it first, impossibly huge, and then he thrusts into me, deeper and deeper, until my pussy is spreading open for him and his cock is pushing toward my sensitive spot. I gasp, pant, moan, and then sit down so hard that his balls slap into my ass. He holds his cock deep inside me for a second, his eyes locked on my breasts, and then everything gets foggy and fast.
He drills into me, and I’m moaning at him to grab my throat, to grab it hard. He grips it, pinning me to the bed, and I let him take me. It feels good to let Cormac take me, damn good. His cock slams into my pussy over and over, long and thick and hard, any pain fought off by the immense pleasure of it. My pussy sends tingling, buzzing signals of euphoria all over my body. I grab his shoulders, digging my fingernails in. His muscles are incredible, round, and hard. I prick his skin, blood beading and dripping, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He just keeps fucking me, hard, drilling into me over and over as I roll and writhe and cry out in pleasure. Then he grabs me by the hips and flips me
over, lifting me up so that I’m holding myself up by my arms, and slides into me from behind.
I push back, my ass slamming against his abs, his balls slapping against my clit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan. “Fuck, Cormac. Fuck—”
“Come on my fucking dick,” Cormac commands, his voice unwavering. “Come on my dick now, Scar. Come, come, come, come.”
With each word, he fucks me harder. Come , and he drills into me so hard I fall forward. Come , and I’m aching and trembling. Come , and I feel my pussy going tight around his cock, so tight that he has to strain to push it in further. Come , and I’m lying on the bed, scratching the sheets and screaming into the mattress as the orgasm implodes inside of me. It’s like there’s a source of heat at the end of his cock, a burning which slides in and out, in and out, setting everything else to burning, until my toes are curling from the heat of it, until even my mouth is buzzing. Everything becomes heavy; I am being burned into the mattress—burned into the ground. The heat is so intense it’s like we are welded together, the tightness of my pussy locking him inside of me. Each spot in my body gathering power and pleasure.
When it releases, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. An orgasm, but an orgasm of such intensity that for a good twenty seconds I don’t know where I am or who I am. It’s like the weight and power of all the time I’ve known Cormac is crashing down on me—all the secret looks and all the anxiety from this past week throwing my body into euphoria I’ve never known. This must be what real sex is like , a distant part of me thinks. This must be what real pleasure is like .
I throw my hips down, slamming into his balls and squeezing my pussy around his cock. The orgasm draws out for what feels like a minute, or an hour, or a year. Time loses meaning as I ride that wave of pleasure. And then I feel Cormac coming inside of me, grunting and growling, leaning down to bite into my flesh, and pinching my shoulder with his teeth as both of us spend our pleasure.
When it’s over, he rolls aside and I lie on my back. It takes a long time for both of us to catch our breath, but when we do, I find I have something to say. Maybe it’s because I need to justify myself, or maybe it’s because I need him to know I’m tired of justifying myself.
“I remember thinking when we were away that you were more than one thing at a time, Cormac,” I say as both of us sit up, naked. “I remember wondering how you could laugh after your dad died? But then I thought, well, you don’t have to be just one thing. You can grieve and laugh. People are more complicated than that. But I’ve never given myself the same benefit of the doubt, you know? I’ve always thought, well, I guess I’ve always thought that I have to be better. But it sounds silly, doesn’t it, to say that an FBI agent can’t enjoy rough sex, or closeness, or—or things like that?”
“You can do anything you damn well want,” Cormac says, kissing me on the cheek. “And there’s nobody who can stop you.”
We hold each other for a long time, both of us silently agreeing that we don’t need to talk for a while. We can just be together.
Chapter Ten Cormac
I’m standing at the docks, leaning against a crate and wondering if I’m going to meet with a bullet to the face today, or do something useful instead. It’s been two days since Scar and I returned to New York, and all we’ve done is fuck and lie in bed together, until we both agreed it was time to get some real work done. At least staying at Moira’s is safe, or at least it hasn’t become dangerous yet. The congressman came back last night—a man of forty-five who didn’t want anything to do with us, locking himself away with Moira. I don’t like the thought of it, but it’s safe place to stay, and he’ll be gone tomorrow. Stuffing my hands in my pockets and watching the ships drift by, I think of Scar, think of the sex, and think of the hugging. I guess the hugging is what’s surprised me most of all. I never thought a man like me would be big on hugging. But I’ve got to admit, it makes me feel closer to her.
I light a cigarette, because Moira isn’t the only one who smokes when she’s stressed out. All my life I’ve been in this game, and now I’m getting nervous about meeting a man I’ve known since I was a kid. Finally, Patrick O’Hara comes walking across the parking lot. He’s an older man, around fifty, wearing a green army-style jacket and thick cargo pants. His face is scarred down one side where he was glassed in a bar fight before I was born, and on top, he’s bald as an egg. He was one of my father’s closest friends and allies, and there’s no way in hell he’s gone over with Mickey. I hope, at least. The closer he gets, the more I have to tell myself that he’s on my side and that he isn’t going to pull a gun on me or anything. Being out in the open like this is making me twitchy.
Tossing the cigarette to the sun-burned concrete, I approach Patrick. “How’s it going, Pat?”
“Cormac, lad.” Patrick throws his arms around me. “Fucking animals. Fucking animals for what they did to your old man. Makes me fucking sick.”
He releases me and we walk into a warehouse we’ve used for stowing all sorts of merchandise over the years. Right now, dad’s last shipment of illegal cigarettes sits ignored in the corner. Otherwise, it’s empty, wide and looming, sunlight coming in through high-set windows. It’s the sort of place a man like Patrick would take a man like me if he wanted to murder me quietly. I prepare myself for a fight, but when we find two chairs and sit down opposite each other, I realize there’s no need for that. Patrick looks old and tired.
“Fucking Mickey,” he says, shaking his head.
“You might be angry,” I reply. “But the rest of the family seems to be pretty goddamn okay with it. If Mickey killing my old man is such a problem, why is he still breathing?”
Patrick wriggles awkwardly. “It’s not as simple as that, Cor. Not even close.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
“Mickey didn’t just kill your old man and that was that. He came in with backup, men from all other the states, as far as I can tell. His own personal army. All sorts of men—homeless men and ex-soldiers, bored construction workers, and all sorts. He’s been off recruiting for years, it seems like, trying to make a bid for Don. He has the numbers, and you’ve gotta understand, Cor, that most of the lads have families, wives, and kids, and they don’t wanna go to war unless there’s good reason to.”
I stand up, kicking my chair back. It screeches as it slides across the warehouse floor. “And killing the Don isn’t good reason?” I roar, looming over this man who once gave me a dollar for the arcade machines. “Murdering the Don and taking over the fucking family isn’t good reason?”
Patrick slumps his shoulders. “I know, I know. I agree with you. And a lot of the guys probably agree with you too. But you’re not gonna catch them tellin’ me that, or nobody else for that matter. Everyone’s all paranoid. Everyone’s lookin’ over their shoulders, you know. Don’t know who to trust. Can’t trust no one. Because everyone thinks everyone else is working with Mickey or wants to be with Mickey.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a family,” I say, lowering my voice. Seeing a man like Patrick get small and scared makes me feel like shit. “Listen, I want you to be ready, Pat.”
“For what?”
“For me,” I say. “When I come through, whatever I’m doing, you need to be ready to back me up. If that means taking out one of Mickey’s thugs, all right. If it means just not shooting me when he asks you to, all right. You get it? You’re on my side now. For the love my pa had for you. For the love I have for you, old man. You’re on my team.”
Patrick rises to his feet, face hardened now. He looks a lot less timid than he did a second ago. “I can get onboard with that. I’ll wait for you, Cor. I’ll be ready.”
The next day, I arrange to meet Smiley at a bar downtown, a dingy, grimy place called Lit with a faded picture of a lighter hanging above the door. The floor is sticky and the smell of weed is thick in the air, but it’s quiet and out of the way and nobody around this way knows me. Smiley—whose real name is Charles Gregory and who onc
e knocked out a man’s two front teeth for calling him Charles Gregory—comes walking into the bar like a man ready to piss his pants. Smiley is lanky with a skinny, hollow-looking face. He looks like a meth-head, even if he’s never touched it. It’s strange to see him looking so scared, since once I saw him floor two men twice his size without blinking.
He sits opposite me, looking up and down the dimly-lit room. There’s nothing to see except for a few old people drinking alone.
“Cor,” Smiley says. This close, I can see the scars which run up either side of his face, which is why they call him Smiley. “It’s good to see you, man. Course it’s good to see you. But I gotta say I’m a little—what’s the word—I guess you could say I’m a little apprehensive about being here. I just don’t wanna get into any bad shit, ya dig? It’s just …I’m not scared, I wouldn’t go that far—you know I got married a couple of years back? Of course you do. You were there. Sheila’s pregnant, is the thing, and I can’t be doin’ any undercover sort of work or nothin’ like that.”
“But you’re here,” I say. “Which means you must care some.” I grab the whisky bottle from the other side of the table and pour us two glasses. “Here.” I slide his across. He takes a long sip; when he places the glass down, he’s not fidgeting as much. “I don’t want to get your wife or kid hurt, Smiley. I’d never want that. But you’ve got to understand that working for Mickey, you’re not going to be around to protect them very long. Maybe he’ll hurt them just for the fun of it.”
