Kelly Jamieson - Irish Sex Fairy

He led the way out of the restaurant, still holding her hand, and she tripped along beside him in a pair of high-heeled sandals he’d never seen. Come to think of it, she was dressed like he’d never seen her in the weeks she’d been in Kilkenny—a strapless black dress hugged her curves from breasts to knees, and the silky bare skin of her shoulders begged him to touch.

“Is this a new dress?” he murmured as they waited for the valet to bring his car around, allowing himself to drag a fingertip over one shoulder.

She blinked up at him. “Dress? Oh. No.” She looked down at herself. “I don’t know why I brought this with me. But Maeve said we should dress up for our last dinner.”

“Love the shoes.” He looked at her slender calves and the sexy shoes. Pretty scarlet toenails peeped below barely there straps over her insteps.

“Thank you.” Her voice, too, was throaty. Sexy. His insides tightened.

The drive back to his place was smolderingly silent. When they walked into his house, memories of the first time they’d had sex right there on his stairs flashed and burned. And when their eyes met, he knew she was remembering too. A peachy flush crept up her cheeks, making her so adorably pretty he had to reach out and touch her cheek with his fingertips. His thumb stroked over her jaw, then her bottom lip, which parted from the top, and a fierce tenderness expanded inside him.

With a long, aching groan, he drew her against him, tipped her face up with both hands and kissed her mouth. She arched against him, and need for her slammed into him. His arms slid around her, one hand tangling in her hair, one skimming down her back to her butt, where he pressed her tight into him.

Their ragged moans mingled as they shared a kiss that tasted of raw joy and hungry ardor, mouths moving, tongues sliding. Keara’s fingers glided into his hair, her nails scraped his scalp and spears of need stabbed into him.

He never wanted to let her go. He didn’t want her to leave, but the idea of begging her to stay, of opening himself up like that, making himself so dangerously vulnerable, horrified him. He couldn’t do it. He could implore her with his body, with his mouth, with his hands. He could appeal to the emotion he knew raged in her too. But he couldn’t say the words.

He bent and hooked his arm beneath her legs, swinging her up against him. She choked out a gasp and grabbed on to his shoulders and he loved it, loved the feeling of her hands gripping him so needily.

He carried her upstairs. “This time we make it to the bed,” he promised her. She tucked her head against him, and he admired the sleek curves of her legs dangling, the skirt of her dress hitched up well above her knees.

He set her down to sit on the bed then dropped to the carpet beside her. He picked up one foot and slid the strap behind her heel off, then slipped the shoe off. Her foot felt delicate in his hands and he kissed her instep, then her ankle. She shivered and her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

He removed the other sandal, skated his palms up over silky calves, and rose onto his knees. Darkness and quiet enfolded them, the only sound he could hear the thudding of his heart. His hands slid up higher, beneath the dress, over her thighs, until he touched the edge of her panties.

Their eyes met. And she lifted her hips just enough for him to hook his fingers into the strings of what must be thong underwear and drag them down.

As he drew the panties over her knees, the scent of warm feminine arousal filled his nostrils and a feverish lust ripped through him. A moan of pure, primal desire tore from his throat and he tossed the panties aside and shoved her skirt up. With a choked gasp, she fell to her back on the bed, and he parted her thighs and surged over her, craving her taste. He licked and sucked and kissed, filled himself with her scent and her taste, her soft whimpers mingling with the soft noises of his mouth on her until her fingers tightened in his hair and her hips arched beneath him. She cried out. “Shane! Oh God, Shane.”

He sucked until her quivery body went still, and even then didn’t lift his head, inhaled her, eyes closed, wanting to imprint that scent in his olfactory memory forever.

If this was their last time, he was going to make it…everything. He wanted to do everything to her, wanted to be everything to her, as she was everything to him.

His throat burned when he finally lifted his head and moved up over her to kiss her mouth again, sharing her taste with her.

Her hands fluttered over his back. “You make me come so hard,” she whispered, mouth moving against his. “I want you inside me.”

“Mmm.” Oh yeah, he wanted that too. But he knew they could take their time because he was going to make love to her all night long, even if it meant she drove back to LA with zero sleep. This was their last night and every minute—every second—built a memory, a fragile keepsake, a dream he could sink into alone at night.

* * *

Keara was drunk and floating, dizzy and breathless, her body soft and wet and pulsing. But she needed more. She needed it all. She needed Shane, naked, over her, in her, around her. Shaky fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, greedy with the need to feel his chest, smooth, bare, warm.

She felt so much. She felt shaken with the extent of her need for him, knowing this would not be enough.

She almost couldn’t remember why she was leaving this man, except she knew it was important and she didn’t really have a choice. She longed to ask him to come with her back to LA, but before the words could even form in her head, she knew how stupid they were. Of course he wouldn’t leave Kilkenny. His career, his family, his life were all here. If he’d wanted to leave he would have gone with Trista.

So this night had to last the rest of her life, had to fill the emptiness her life would be without Shane in it. Her throat quivered and ached and she slid her hands inside his shirt finally, over hot sleek skin. Her fingers played in the silky patch of hair, her palms brushed over the hard bones of his shoulders. Strength and security and honor emanated from him.

She pushed his shirt back off his shoulders and tasted the skin of his chest with her lips and tongue, sliding lower, until she kissed the quivering flesh of his belly below his navel. She fumbled with his button and zipper, and he helped her reveal the throbbing, hot erection beneath. Her mouth watered and opened instinctively to taste him, to take him in and she breathed through her lust for enough patience for him to stand up and get rid of his pants and underwear.

Her eyes drank in the sight of him, long, hard, thick, and her hands reached for him. She rose to her knees on the bed and he let her stroke him. She loved his rough moan. She tested the weight of him, of his heavy balls, bent her head to suck him in.

His low growl inflamed her, his hands in her hair sent a barrage of sparks over her body, and pleasure swelled inside her, almost unbearably sweet.

“Keara, God, your mouth. Suck me.” He groaned. “Suck me, just like that.”

His voice splintered and her body burned, her mouth loving him, her hands admiring him. She wanted it all. But he pulled out of her mouth, and stood, holding himself, panting.

Now she was the one who moaned, her lips swollen, mouth aching for more.

“Inside you,” he muttered, and he pushed her down to the mattress with a dominance that thrilled, yet with a gentleness that moved her. The knowledge that this man had all that inside him—the overriding need to protect not just ones he loved, but everyone, and the strength and courage and conviction to carry that out—made her feel like her heart was going to explode.

He twisted and turned her body out of the formfitting dress. She wore no bra and her panties had already disappeared. He cupped her breasts, stared at them reverently, kissed and licked and nibbled them until sensations sparked over her body, pinpricks of pleasure racing over her, her nipples glowing points of pleasure, a hot aching need building between her legs.

His body inside her felt right. Perfect. Complete. They fit together, they moved together in an intimate, dazzling rhythm. Their quiet sighs and the sounds of their slick bodies moving together filled his dusky bedroom. She felt safe. She felt desired.

She felt so much.

He took her higher, sliding a hand between them to find her clit, to make sure she came again, and she loved him for that. He found the exact place, rubbed with a sure and perfect touch. Inside her, he thrust deep, filling her almost to the point of pain, a sweet pain. Everything drew up inside her tighter, higher, to a sharp point of ecstasy, and then even higher yet, higher than she’d ever been, so high she was scared. And then she burst and shattered and shuddered, clinging to him with her hands, her teeth sinking into his shoulder.

They pressed through their orgasms together, long, blinding, wrenching spasms, until they lay wrapped around each other in perfect intimacy and saturated rapture. She pressed her mouth to his shoulder where she’d bitten him, and when she felt wetness there she realized she was crying.

She felt so much.

She was getting away later than she’d planned because Shane had dropped her off at Maeve’s apartment at five thirty in the morning. They’d both been exhausted, emotional, totally in denial. Shane looked at her with tired and shadowed eyes as he laid his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed her goodbye, and she could tell his smile was forced.