Page 37 of Bargaining with the Devil

She cupped the backs of his hands with hers, setting them on the outside of her thighs, sliding them just beneath the hem on either side till he bracketed her hips, nothing but skin beneath his palms. That was her answer.

His lips were just beside her ear. “You stop me if you don’t like any of this, aye?” There was something rough in his voice, like something was fighting its way free of his throat.

His hands caught her shift, nudging it higher, baring her from the navel down. One hand—rough, callused—scraped from her thigh along the outside curve of her hip, making a return pass below her navel till he was palming her belly.

Where he left it, heavy and warm. “Do you still want this?”

“Yes.”

“With me?”

Another situation entirely and perhaps she’d have been offended that he kept questioning her well beyond when she’d told him her mind on it, but he needed to hear it again. And perhaps she needed to keep saying it for herself too. “With you.”

He moved above her, a shadow in the lightless room. “In the dark, ’tis nothing but you and me. Nothing else. No one else.”

No one else. “Yes.” And she’d make sure he knew it, adding, “Ciarán Quinn.” He was still Quinn to her, but he was something more than surface deep now. She’d acknowledge that it was the whole man that she was choosing.

“I’m taking my trousers off now. Not because I’ll be doing anything yet, requires them off, but because I’m getting a tad uncomfortable. But then we’ll see about making you more comfortable, a mhuirnín.” He rolled to the side and was back in seconds, kneeling beside her again.

She wanted to touch him. Craved it, almost. And there was no reason left not to.

The skin on the backs of his thighs was smooth, muscles flexing beneath as he shifted to come in closer to her. The hair on the fronts was coarser under her fingertips.

“I like you touching me,” he said softly. He caught her hands when she started to slide them up farther. “Not there just yet though. I have other plans first.”

The shift, still damp, had chilled her. Every inch of skin bared as he slid it upwards, a little at a time, was immediately cooler until he followed it with mouth and hands, heat in the wake of the cold air.

He wasn’t in any hurry, wasn’t rushing towards his own pleasure. Tongue and lips and teeth found every nerve ending on her stomach, along her rib cage. When he had the shift up to just below her breasts, he left it there. Agonizing when she wanted his mouth there too.

His fingers teased over her nipples, sensitizing them through the fabric but not offering further relief, till she was twisting under him, restless and needing more.

“What’s taking you so long?” she challenged him.

His warm breath and low laugh beside her ear fired nerve endings there as well. “Patience, a stór.” His lips trailed down her neck and shoulder, across her collarbone, an inch or two lower, lower, lower until his mouth was at the shift’s neckline . . . where he stopped.

His hands slid up her sides again, thighs to hips to ribs. Where they stopped too. “What do you want, a mhuirnín?”

“You know.” He was tormenting her on purpose.

“Oh, I do.” His breath was just above one nipple but still too far from it for contact. “’Tis just that I want to hear you say it.” He blew a breath against the damp fabric which had her squirming.

“I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” His grasp over her ribs tightened ever so slightly. His mouth returned to the skin just above her neckline. “Unless you mean something else by that.” The smile was in his voice; she couldn’t make it out in the dark, but she knew precisely which one was currently on his face.

Fine. She’d get rid of the shift herself if he wasn’t going to do it. She made to grab the bunched-up fabric and remove it.

Hands on her wrists stopped her. “You still haven’t said it, a stór. You have to say it.”

“I want this gone so you can touch me.”

“That’s a start then.” He gathered the fabric from her, kissing his way up between her breasts as he worked the shift off over her head. He followed it the rest of the way, taking her mouth in a deep kiss as he slipped the fabric off over her arms.

Barely, barely, his chest brushed her nipples. No relief there, only more torment.

“Where, a stór? Where do you want me to touch you?”

“Here.” She tried to set one of his hands back on her breast, but he refused to let her.