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“Show me how badly you want it.” I snake my arms under and roll us until she’s pressed to my chest and straddling me. “Make yourself come on my cock.”
She places her hands on my chest and uses them as leverage to work herself over my cock. Her tits bounce lightly as she uses me at the same torturous pace I’ve been fucking her. I run my fingers along her jaw, and she eagerly sucks them into her mouth. Her release looming, she moans around my fingers as she presses harder against my hips.
“You look so fucking beautiful when you ride my cock,” I groan as she clenches hard and slides over every inch of me. Her movements become unsteady, and her head lolls back as she tries to bring herself over the edge.
She pulls my hand between us and pushes my fingers against her throbbing clit, grinding over them as she continues to take what she needs. The added friction does her in. Her hips spasm, and she claws at my chest as she whimpers my name, “Tris…”
With euphoria pumping through her body and completely exhausted, she falls against my chest. Her pants are warm against my neck as she desperately tries to catch her breath.
“I will never get enough of watching you come.” I swipe the hair from her face before wrapping my arms around her and caressing the slightly sweaty skin of her back. “I’m going to need just a little bit more from you. Can my good girl handle a little more?”
“Yes,” she hesitantly responds, every bit of her already spent even though I’m lightly thrusting up into her.
I place my hand along her neck and slide my other arm around her lower back. Tightening my grip, I hold her firm to me and growl, “I’m not fucking stopping until your tight little cunt is filled with my cum.” I begin driving into her, fucking her hard and deep, determined to fill her like never before. Her screams are muffled by the crook of my neck as she comes for me again. And again.
Forcing her back to the brink again, her mewls become laced with agony, and she sinks her teeth into the flesh of my shoulder with such force I hiss through gritted teeth. Slamming into her, my cock twitches painfully hard as I fill her with a roar. “Fuuuuuuck.”
I loosen my hold and stay buried inside her cum-filled cunt as we both struggle to catch our breath.
“I don’t love you either,” she mumbles against the side of my neck as she slides off my cock and nuzzles herself beneath my arm.
“Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, mo cuishle,” I kiss the words against her forehead as I pull her tighter to me.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
LAYLA
“I hate telling you no, but you know I don’t have time this morning,” Tristan huffs as he steps from the sauna and pads into the bathroom to find me naked in a bubble-filled tub. “The club opens tomorrow night, and there is still so much to do.”
He bends down to kiss me, the tips of the towel resting around his neck dragging along the surface of the sudsy water. I eagerly accept his lips on mine as I wrap the towel around my hands. I give it a firm tug. “Get in the tub, Tristan,” I insist.
“Are you telling me what to do, mo cuishle?” He cocks a playful but inquisitive brow.
“I’m serious, Tris. If you meant what you said last night, you need to get in the tub,” I press. “I need to know the man I’m in love with.”
I have so many questions. So many things that I’m near certain I don’t actually want to know the answer to.
With his hands firmly pressed against the opposing sides of the tub, he stares down at me. I hold his gaze, refusing to back down on my demand. Not bothering to shed the towel wrapped around his waist, Tristan slides over the edge and lowers himself into the water on top of me.
“I meant every fucking word.” He places a chaste kiss on my lips before sliding to the other end of the tub. He pulls the sodden towel from beneath him and plops it on the gray tiles surrounding the tub. Getting comfortable and resting his arms along the lip of the tub, he prompts, “Ask. No more secrets. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
I hesitate for a moment—knowing I can’t close this box once I open it. “You’ve killed people.”
“Yes,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “A lot of them. Enough to earn the name Balor.”
The word means nothing to me, and I repeat it back to him.
“It means the Demon King.” He takes a heavy pause. “The God of Death in Celtic mythology. A creature so evil he could kill men just from looking at them.”
I stare at him—hoping my mouth isn’t agape—struggling for something to say and trying to decide whether his tone is pride or shame. Or a bit of both.
“Bad people?” I try to justify his actions to myself.
“Most of them,” he answers honestly.
