Killian
Rebecca’s nails dig into my chest as they slide down over my skin.
Vibrant red trails follow her fingers, claiming me like a wild predator does its prey. The sensation crosses into euphoric realm of where pain and pleasure blend into one entity.
My own hands move up over her enthralling, sylphlike figure. I can feel every muscle in her thighs and stomach flex and flutter at my touch. I slide my hands up over her perky tits and feel her pert nipples against my palms.
They’re rigid and unyielding as I move my thumbs over them.
It draws a low moan from her all the same.
Rebecca’s fiery locks cascade down over her body. Her pale blue eyes are transfixed on mine—just as mine are to hers—in their own lustful embrace. Her hips are grinding into my cock like untamed waves over a sandy shore.
Her thighs flank my own and press against me. I can feel her knees delving into the fabric of the mattress in the want to feel more of my cock throb inside her.
Each slide of Rebecca’s hips bears down into my own with the same intent. My own hips rise up on their own will to meet hers with the same desire—I barely feel in control of my own body and its movements.
The want and desire to feel more of Rebecca is overwhelming. It’s far more intoxicating than any bottle of whiskey, or any case of whiskey for that matter.
It’s a perfect blending of two bodies. The way I feel—and fit—inside her is almost as if we’re matched like a lock and key to the greatest intimate experience that a mortal could dare to comprehend. And even then, it feels as though it’s not enough.
She bears down into me. I rise to meet her.
She moans. I moan.
But as deep as I am into her—it’s not enough for either of us. We’re victims of this unspeakable desire that exists in all of humanity for more.
It’s like sitting at the table and enjoying your favorite dessert.
You’ve had as much as you can handle. You’ve eaten all that you can.
Yet—against your will—you want and need more.
Rebecca is that dessert.
Her thighs tremble and quake uncontrollably. Her nails pierce my skin.
The intense gaze that we had breaks and she tightly closes her eyes.
I know what’s coming. I can even feel her wet cunt tightening around my cock. It’s as if her body refuses to let go of me as she succumbs to the depths of her climax.
The sensation of it all is every bit amazing this time around, as it always is with her. A low groan of ecstasy comes from me as I feel this new surge of her warmth and wetness wash over me. Rebecca’s hair falls between us like a waterfall as she presses her chin down against her body.
Her moans articulate just how intense her climax is better than words ever could. The grip her thighs have me in loosens as she starts to rise to the surface.
Even the grip her nails have of my flesh wanes. But I’m not done with her yet.
I roll the two of us over so that it’s now Rebecca on her back. I prop myself up over her with one hand. My other hand is grabbing her thigh and pulling up toward my waist.
Her eyes look up into mine again. She smiles and laughs softly at the change.
My hips thrust into her.
The sound of our flesh meeting echoes through the cottage bedroom. Her eyes go wide with surprise, and she trembles with a moan. My lips fall to hers—as does my body—while my hands move under hers and cling to her shoulders.
The feral predator that had consumed Rebecca has found a new host in my wants. Her arms wrap around my neck, and her hands fall to my back. My thrusts into her pussy are tumultuous and hungry for her.
Each one pulls a moan from her that fills the cottage with a gorgeous, enraptured tone.
Rebecca’s nails once more find solace in my flesh. I pull my lips away from her.
Her moans grow louder.
My thrusts become an uncontrollable wildfire.
“More,” she pleads.
Rebecca’s hips rise to meet my thrusts. I can feel her breathing faster as her stomach rises and falls against mine. Her legs wrap around my waist, and I can feel them cross at the ankles.
Her hands pull down on my back. My cock twitches and my body stiffens.
Once again, I know just what’s coming. I can feel myself rising to the summit.
My teeth graze across her flesh where her neck and her shoulder meet. Rebecca’s nails finally fulfill their destiny and pierce deep into my skin—I’m certain she’s drawn blood—and loud groan comes from me.
I like it. How’s that for some writerly fucking prose for ya?
Rebecca’s thighs start to tremble and shake against my sides.
She herself is rising to meet me at the summit of our embrace. She beats me to it. That feeling of her clenching and pulling me in hits me like that first shot of whiskey in the morning.
It fills my body with warmth and excitement.
I join her on the mountaintop.
My body stiffens, and my hips urgently push against her.
I groan as I feel myself explode inside her. Every twitch of my cock is greeted by a clench of her pussy. It threatens to pull my soul from my body. It feels so wondrous.
We remain locked in our embrace for a moment, just long enough to let our minds return from their journey through the seas and mountains of elated delirium.
I roll off to the side and collapse against my mattress.
I feel so light that it’s almost as if I’ve landed upon a cloud rather than my bed.
“Well that was rather...intense,” she muses.
‘Intense’ doesn’t even begin to describe it, lass.
I turn my head to the side, and I see her looking back at me with a smile on her face that makes her look all the more angelic. Even without the after-sex glow, she looks as though she was handmade by God himself as his perfect creation.
There’s a swell of enchantment that churns within my core.
I quickly sit up and step up from the bed.
In only a couple long steps, I’m standing at my dresser and wrapping my hands around the bottle of Bushmills.
I upturn the bottle and threaten to drown myself in its delicious blend.
But it’s that swell of feels inside that I hope to drown instead.
“How did I never not notice these before?”
Turning to face her, I pull the bottle from lips, and see her looking at a vase of flowers on my nightstand.
It’s a small glass vase that I acquired years ago—though I don’t remember from whom—filled with a mix of wood anemone, bloody crane’s-bill, and tufted forget-me-nots. I don’t even remember filling the vase with them either, but I do give myself credit for their beautiful arrangement.
“I think it’s because you were too busy enjoying me inside you lass.”
“Well, they’re pretty. Almost romantic even,” she teases with a mischievous smirk.
“Me, romantic? Hardly. Have you met me lass? I’m least romantic man in all of Ireland. I’m the walking definition of unromantic.”
I scoff at the idea of me ever being confused as being someone romantic. I take another drink of the whiskey to silence that voice that’s creeping into the back of my mind.
I’m far from romantic.
These swells of intense sentiment are just tricks of the mind. Good whiskey and even better sex can play tricks on a man’s brain. They can make you feel or say anything in the moment.
Even when they aren’t true.
What I have with Rebecca is a simple business arrangement. That’s it.
There’s nothing personal about it.
Is the sex amazing? Fuck yes, it is. But do I care for her in any sort of romantic sort?
Not at all.
Whiskey will do that to a man. It will give him these false ideas that will cloud rational thought. It’s why the Irish haven’t conquered the world.
We’ve already been conquered by whiskey. We’d much rather enjoy a good drink of whiskey than rule the world, anyway. More enjoyable and less paperwork.
There are no true, honest feelings there for Rebecca.
She’s a nice enough lass, that’s for certain, but I can’t love her.
I’m not capable of loving anything other than my work and my booze.
That’s it. End of fucking story, boy. And I like it that way, dammit.
I don’t need these fucking sentiments—real or fake—complicating my life.
So, all of these symptoms of sentimen-fucking-tality that I get whenever I look into her wondrous blue eyes—or see that astounding smile of hers for that matter—aren’t real.
It’s just the whiskey talking.
And it loves to talk some bullshit.