Page 81 of Irish Fury
“You have a stunning body, Jon,” she hummed against his V-line, swiping her tongue closer and closer to his sex, the head already rubbing her cheek.
“Mags, Christ, please,” he begged.
Jonathan was so turned on that by the time her hot mouth closed around his length, he was a gasping fool.
His hand hovered above the back of her hand, wanting desperately to take control, but if he did that, the moment would be over before it’d barely begun, and this wasn’t ending until he was deep inside her body.
“That’s it, baby. Your mouth is heaven.”
Minutes later, Jonathan was pulling Mags up his body, rolling them once more. He couldn’t wait another moment before sliding home.
He pushed fully into her heat in one thrust, taking her mouth at the same time to swallow her scream.
He grinned against her lips, wondering how many times he could make her come during their vacation day.
“You have the best ideas, Mags,” he panted as he pulled out as far as he could without leaving her warmth completely.
Mags gasped at his slow, friction-building in-and-out glide. “Christ, baby, you feel so good, it drives me insane.”
Her gasps and groans punctuated the list she was reciting. “Sex. Coffee. Sex. Lunch. Sex. Shower. Sex. Work from bed. Sex. Dinner. Sex. Shower. Sleep. Morning sex.”
“I love how your mind works.”
forty-four
HANNAH
“Nothing to doabout the broken lock,” Hannah murmured to herself, earning a wary look from the woman sitting next to her on the train. She had managed to jimmy the antique lock of Mirren’s sister’s attic workshop before and easily, but she must have jammed the screwdriver too hard last night.
There was a definite clank of broken metal when she’d used the palm of her hand to hammer the handle of the tool. The bruise was already turning purple and smarted when she tried to carry her travel pack.
We should have already been at your mom’s, but you took too long at the girl’s shop.
Then we had to listen to you puke your guts up all night.
And then, the second the puke dried on your crusty lips, you ordered a fucking pizza instead of packing your bag.
Diseased cow.
“The meds make me sick,” she hissed the rejoinder, earning more nervous glances from her traveling neighbors.
She’d been forced to check into a dive motel near Busáras, wanting to be able to easily walk to the bus station the next day to buy a ticket.
Unfortunately, she only became more ill, her stomach emptying the hot, cheesy pizza she’d enjoyed way more going down than coming up.
By ten o’clock the following morning, she’d been forced to call the doctor’s clinic she’d gone to for blood tests and beg them to call Hannah in some nausea medication to an apothecary near the bus station.
She’d then spent even more money to have them delivered to the motel, as well as paying a second driver to deliver some water and crackers to ease the vomiting.
She’d lain in the midst of the creaky bed’s rumpled, dingy sheets throughout the rest of the day, listening to the voices mentally flay her.
Her hope was that the little bitch was already a bloody spray decorating the colorful embroidery floss and stacks of creamy cottons.
Maybe you wouldn’t have worn your sloppy body out if you hadn’t taken so long to plant the bomb.
Yes, she had been sick and tired after planting the bomb, but it wasn’t like she learned how to rig a bomb at her fancy boarding school. The man she’d purchased the explosive from had given her rudimentary instructions at best.
What about the wasted time you spent picking out an embroidered memento?
