Page 50 of Knotted By The Irish

I have my hands on my hips. I’m trying so hard to be mad.

“Declan, you can’t just buy my building and move me into your house.”

He slowly shakes his head. “Not asking, sweetheart.” Oh, shit… his shirt’s open. I struggle to keep my eyes on his, and the asshole smirks. “It’s done. You wanna fight about it?”

My eyes travel over his broad, defined chest, and I swallow.

“Yes,” I say. “Later. I’m gonna yell at you so much.”

He chuckles and kicks the door shut.

* * *

Nobody knocks. That’s the thing I can’t get over. My body’s on a clock. Right around the time he knots me the first time, there’s a part of my brain that says okay, that’s ninety minutes, the guard is coming…

Nobody’s comes.

There’s no smell of bleach, no thin mattress. There’s a huge four-poster bed with more blankets on it than any one person needs, a fire going in the giant fireplace, and the biggest, most beautiful man I’ve ever seen kneeling between my legs with his hair loose and his eyes turning gold.

He’s had me once already, fast, on the desk, with my skirt around my waist and his pants around his thighs. Now he’s taking his time. He peels my stockings down and kisses the inside of my ankle. My calf. Behind my knee. Spreads my thighs with his big, rough hands and looks.

“Fucking years,” he says, low. “I lay on that bunk for four fucking years, and I didn’t fucking know what I was missing. Then for six weeks I only had you for two hours at a time, in a fucking locked and guarded room.” He drags his thumb through my dripping folds, slow and filthy, making me gasp. “We’ve got all night, wife. And I’m gonna do every single thing I’ve been thinking about. Over and over.”

He’s not lying.

He eats me until I’m begging. I try to be quiet, there are people in this house. I last about ninety seconds, then I scream so loud I’m sure they hear me from the gatehouse. But my husband doesn’t stop. He makes me come on his tongue then keeps going. I come again with my hands in his hair and he still keeps going. By the third time I’m begging please, baby, please, I can’t, and he lifts his head just long enough to rumble, “You can,” and puts his mouth back on me.

Turns out I could.

Then he has me on my knees with my face in the blankets. On my back with my ankles on his shoulders, watching himself go in and out of me. After that, he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls me down onto his lap facing the large mirror over the massive dresser, and makes me watch.

“Look at you,” he growls in my ear. Giant hands on my hips, lifting and dropping me on his fat cock. “Look how fucking pretty you are. Look how good you take me.”

We’re fucking beautiful. Brown skin against his enormous chest. His hands spanning my waist. My breasts bouncing. His wicked mouth on my neck. I look fucking wrecked, like a woman who’s completely owned. And I’ve never felt so fucking powerful in my life.

He knots me from behind, with his teeth in my shoulder, and says it again into my skin. Mo chroí. Mo chroí. Then we just stay like that. And that’s my favorite part. Always. Stuck together for an hour with the fire going down, nobody coming, and his purr through my back.

I whisper, “You’re out.”