Page 103 of Bargaining with the Devil

“Why the laughter, a stór? I like hearing it, but I’d like even more to know what it is, has you so amused.”

“Can’t I just be happy?”

“Aye, I’d like nothing better.” He nuzzled under her chin and snuck a hand down along her hip. “But seems to me ’twas something specific.”

“I was remembering the day you arrived in Kirkcudbrightshire. You carried me to my cottage and through the door.”

“I remember it. You weren’t too happy with me at the time.”

“No, I wasn’t. But now . . .” She lost the rest of what she’d meant to say because he’d slid his hand across her hip to brush between her legs.

“Now?” he prompted her. And smiled when all she managed was a squeak.

She batted at his hands and managed to draw a full breath. “I’m not in the mood for your lingering at the moment. Not right now.”

“Nay?” he challenged her. But he nudged her thighs farther apart, repositioning his body against hers.

“No.”

“Then this is it, a rúnsearc.” His voice was gentle, but his eyes were fierce. “No taking it back after this.”

“I know that.” She was becoming the slightest bit irritable, mostly because she wasn’t sure she could bear another minute of waiting.

Quinn, on the other hand, seemed in no rush at all. He didn’t move an inch, except to lean his head closer. “We do this, and I’m yours for the keeping.” His lips brushed her ear. “So you’d best be sure about it.” His voice was still tender, but when he angled his head back, he was smiling at her like the Devil himself. Teasing her like the devil he was, without a single doubt.

She could wipe that smile off his face with a quick roll of her hips.

The air that rushed from him was almost as satisfying as having his cock finally, finally, inside her.

He choked out a laugh. “Goddammit, a mhuirnín. Are you trying to kill me?”

“Never.” She used both hands in his hair to bring his face down to hers for a kiss. “Unless you don’t start moving,” she added tartly.

“I’ll do my best to oblige you, Lucy a ghrá, but I’m apt to go off like a bleedin’ firecracker. I’ve been thinkin’ about this for too long.” His breath was shaky. “Hold still or ’twill be a very short first time for us, tryin’ this particular act.”

“I don’t care.” She rocked her hips against him.

Hands like iron pinned her in place before she could wriggle again, but he was smiling down at her. “’Twouldn’t be terribly gallant of me, a stór.”

“The only reason you need apologize is if this is the only time you plan to try this particular act. Then I might take issue with brevity. Otherwise . . .” She slid a hand along his back, down to his arse. “I expect you’ll make up for it the second time.”

“Well. The second time then, sure.” His laughter was the slightest bit unsteady as he withdrew, his breath hitching when he thrust back home. “You didn’t cross Muir Éireann for two minutes in bed with me?”

He was teasing her, but it was a question that deserved a more serious response. “I crossed the Irish Sea for considerably more than two minutes with you, Ciarán Quinn.” She took a deep breath. “A lifetime even.”

“I’m holding you to that, a rúnsearc.” He hooked a hand under her thigh, shifting her leg higher across his back before driving deep, hard enough to wrench her breath from her. She accepted, lifting herself against him.

Between broken breaths, he murmured words. Gaeilge, mostly: endearments and love words. And a few curses as well—it was Quinn, after all.

Not that any of the words mattered, not with him all around her, moving in her, till she was gasping as pleasure mounted. His rhythm faltered and broke.

She clasped him tightly as he groaned and shuddered in her arms. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made it over the edge. He’d make it up to her.

He lay his head on her shoulder, working to catch his breath. “We’ll go slower the next time, aye?”

She threaded fingers through his damp hair. “We have all the time in the world now.”

Epilogue