Page 48 of Fighting for Irish
Okay, she knew in Crazy Boston Speak “wicked pissa” somehow meant “awesome,” but how could Irish know what she wanted when she didn’t have the first clue?
“Well?” she prompted a tad impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what exactly it is it’s saying?”
“No.”
No?“Why not?”
“Because we’re taking things slow, remember? And that,” he said with a nip on her lower lip, “is nowhere near slow.”
She huffed at the shit-eating grin on his face. He merely chuckled. “I can tell you that your body says it wants me,” he boasted before latching those magical lips to her neck again.
Kat knew pride was about to make her eat her size seven shoe, but like a runaway train, she couldn’t stop it. “I suppose that’s possible. Or maybe,” she taunted even as she had to choke back a moan when he hit some special spot below her ear, “I’m just really good at faking it.”
He eased back, his eyes narrowed to slits, and she swore she heard a growl. “Oh, it fucking wants me, all right. There’s no faking the way your sweet nipples harden every time I touch you.”
Proving his point, he dragged his callused thumbs over her shirt-covered, distended buds. Her traitorous body arched into his touch and that sensation of a band twisting in her core tightened.
Irish licked the shell of her ear and nipped the edge. The gravel in his voice tumbled through her body until she settled her weight on his muscular thigh. “And you can’t fake how hot and wet you get for me—only me, kitten.” He reached between them and deftly slipped past the silk, doing little more than stamping a damp triangle on his thigh. “Right…” The twisting got tighter and tighter. “…here,” he finished as he dragged a thick finger through her soaked slit and glanced over the sensitive nub at the top. She cried out his name and lost the thread as he kept up the assault.
With every passing moment, Kat lost herself that much more. Her body felt flushed, covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and her panties were soaked through. Her skin was so sensitive, like her nerves were exposed, and every little sensation was hard-wired to her sex in a strange pleasure/pain. She writhed in frustration. Was she doing something wrong? Maybe part of her really didn’t work right. This needing something was making her fucking crazy!
“Make it stop, Irish,” she begged. “Oh, God, I can’t take it, please make it stop.”
He froze. “Make what stop, Kat? Does something hurt?”
“Yes, no, shit, I don’t know. I want you to stop and keep going all at the same time. Like everything that feels good also kind of hurts, you know?” Of course he didn’t know. She wasn’t making any damn sense. Squeezing her eyes shut, she covered her face with her hands and prayed for a rip in the fabric of time that would take her away from this humiliating situation. “Oh, God, I knew something was wrong with me.”
“Hey, I already told you nothing’s wrong with you,” he said, pulling her hands down, but she remained in the darkness behind her lids. “I wanna ask you something. Come on, look at me.”
The tone of his voice wasn’t mocking or angry. He sounded genuinely concerned. Taking a deep breath, she obeyed the gentle command and stared up into his tender eyes.
“Kat, have you ever had an orgasm?”
