Page 53 of Obsession
“Come on,” I rasp against his ear. “Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart while I’m still inside you.”
Oisín comes with a shattered cry, ass clamping down around my cock so hard my vision whites out. I fuck him through it, until the pressure snaps inside me. I bury myself to the hilt and fill him, thick pulses of come flooding inside of him while I grind against him and wring every last tremor out of him.
I stay buried inside him while the water runs cold. Then I pull out, lift him off the wall, and carry him dripping and shaking out of the shower. I drop him onto the bed on his stomach and climb on top of him before he can catch his breath.
I push back inside in one smooth thrust. Oisín moans into the sheets, his chest toward the mattress. I fist a hand in his damp curls and jerk his head back, arching him harder while I fuck him hard from behind.
“This isn’t love,” I growl against his ear, still ruthlessly fucking into him. “I just need this. What the fuck are you doing to my head, Oisín? Why do you make it quiet? You’re going to be the death of me.”
He groans, pushing back to meet every thrust. “I know this isn’t love. How can it be?”
My grip tightens in his hair, twisting his head a little more so I can bite the shell of his ear. “Do you?” He doesn’t answer me, my need for this man beneath me growing rather than dissipating. This isn’t what I planned.
I kiss him again, trying to prove to him what this arrangement is. Something in my chest loosens, just a fraction, and for the first time since the warehouse I can breathe without the static crawling back in. The thought of losing him tonight, of watching that arm lock around his throat again, had terrified me in a way I don’t have language for. Sol would call it weak. I don’t give a fuck. I just know I’m not letting him go.
Oisín comes again with a broken sob, spilling across the sheets while his ass milks my cock. I follow right after, burying myselfdeep and filling him a second time, grinding through every pulse until we’re both shaking and spent.
I collapse over him, knowing I should go into the main area and find my father and finish what the warehouse started.
Oisín’s voice is hoarse but steady beneath me. “You haven’t fucked me into unconsciousness yet. What’s a man without his promise?”
A low, rough laugh spills out of me as I press my forehead to the back of his neck. “You just don’t want me to go after my father.”
“I just watched his cruelty and your monster erupt in the same room,” he whispers. “I’m not about to let you go…”
I laugh again, softer this time, and nip at his ear. “Let me?” I roll my hips once, still hard inside him, and feel him shudder. “Oh, you sweet, sweet sin. I’m going to wreck you tonight.”
Oisín
Iwakesoreenoughthat the first breath of morning feels like an accusation. I let my body report itself in slow, aching pieces, the tender places where Saint’s mouth stayed too long and his hands held too tightly. The previous night comes back through sensation, Saint’s rage turning into something he could put on me instead of his father.
The problem is, it worked.
Saint is still in one piece.
He didn’t storm out of this room and tear into Sol. He didn’t take that monstrous aftermath back into the clubhouse and find some poor idiot to break apart because the warehouse hadn’t been enough. He used me until there was nothing left in either of us but breath and exhaustion, and sometime after that, heslept. Not the shallow half-rest he usually takes like an insult, but heavy and warm behind me, one arm locked around my waist as if even unconscious he didn’t trust the world not to take something from him.
I had lain awake longer than he did, with my back against his chest and his breathing against the nape of my neck. I’d watched enough men go to Canon angry and walk out maimed to understand what I’d done, even if I didn’t know what to call it. Maybe it was a poor attempt at keeping Saint in one piece. Maybe it was selfishness. Maybe I just didn’t hate whatever this had become, which was the most dangerous possibility because it made me responsible for wanting it.
Though, the bed beside me is empty now.
I roll carefully onto my back and stare at the ceiling until the ache settles into something I can move through. Daylight presses around the curtains in thin pale lines, and somewhere beyond the door, the clubhouse is awake far earlier than it should be.
That’s my first warning.
The second is Saint.
My gaze flicks toward the dresser, Saint dressed in dark dress pants, boots, and his cut, the black leather sitting across his shoulders like it belongs there more than skin. There’s no shirt beneath it yet, just the ink over his chest and arms, the muscle moving under tattooed skin as he fixes one cuff around his wrist. He looks too awake for a man who slept after violence and fucked like he was trying to punish the world through my body. His head is shaved close, jaw clean, mouth already curved like he knows exactly how long I’ve been looking.
“Morning, Sín.”
My voice comes out rough. “Why are you dressed like that?”
His smirk deepens. “Because we’re getting married.”
I frown, wondering if I misheard him. Then the words arrange themselves properly, and every ache in my body seems to wake at once. “We’re already—”
“Contract-bound, yes. Official, no.” He shrugs off his cut, reaches for a shirt laid over the chair and shrugs into it with infuriating calm. “There’s one for you too, hanging in the bathroom. Dress pants, shirt, cut. Two Tylenol on the counter.”
