Page 19 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

KARA

Mick's eyes close for long seconds as he breathes in and out. I scoot into a sitting position but that does nothing to make me feel less vulnerable.

When his eyes open the heat in them burns me, but his movements are controlled. He removes his cufflinks and shirt studs, one-by-one and lays them on the dresser. His gaze never leaving mine, he shrugs out of his shirt.

My mouth goes dry.

His white undershirt stretches taut over the sculpted muscles of his chest, but then it's gone too. And I can't get enough air no matter how much breath I take.

His right nipple is pierced. I've never seen a man with a piercing and if I'd thought about it, I wouldn't have thought I would like it. I would have been wrong.

Really, really wrong.

His biceps bulge, making the tattoo on the left side of his chest ripple. It's a skull with a scythe dripping blood below it. Fascinated, I try to read the Gaelig under it.

Noticing where my eyes are focused, Mick smiles, but there's nothing nice about it. " Ní hionn sé, stop chun an scaidín a ghéilleadh ."

It's not a delay to stop and sharpen the scythe .

The Irish proverb is about taking time to learn before rushing in headlong. Moma has used it many times with us girls.

Why do I think he doesn't mean the words that way? And why does that turn me on even more?

He's the scythe, honed to killing sharpness.

Celtic markings interconnected with a dagger, a gun and brass knuckles – that look like they're part of the symbols – cover the right side of Mick's chest and shoulder before flowing down to meet and surround the tattoo on his bicep.

They're stunning and perfectly shaded, but without a speck of color on any of them.

It's all black ink contrasting with the lighter tones of his skin, giving him the air of an ancient warrior.

Dark. Dangerous. Mesmerizing.

He walks toward me, wearing nothing but snug black briefs that do nothing to hide the raw power of his body or the size of his hardon.

Relief that we can't have intercourse wars with curiosity and unfamiliar desire. What would something like that feel like inside of me?

Even my own finger feels too big sometimes.

I scoot further back on the bed, a deer cornered by the hunter. Only, I want him to catch me. No matter how afraid I am of the unknown, something deep inside me craves Mick even more.

He comes down beside me on top of the rose petal strewn duvet. "I'm going to devour you."

There's no chance to answer because he starts with the devouring, his mouth eating at mine in the most carnal kiss I've ever experienced.

I've never had sex, but I've been kissed and it was nothing like this dominant possession. The brutal passion frees my own and I kiss him back, sliding my tongue against his and moaning.

His hands are everywhere. My breasts, my stomach. Between my legs.

I rip my mouth from his. "Too much," I pant.

His hands still; his jaw goes taut. "I can do slow for my sweet virgin bride." It sounds like he's talking to himself. Not me.

His hands run down my hips, over the white lace panties I picked out with shaking fingers weeks ago.

"Lie back," he commands.

Part of me wants to do exactly what he says when he uses that tone of voice. But most of me is frozen with indecision.

He doesn't repeat himself or wait for me to comply, but grasps my hips and tugs me down until I'm lying flat beside him.

"I'll take care of you," he promises.

I swallow and nod.

Then he starts touching me again, but this time he goes slow. His fingertips skim every inch of my skin, leaving goosebumps of pleasure in their wake.

My sides, my stomach, my shoulders and down my arms. He even traces between my fingers before rubbing a circle on my palm. Back up my arms to trail lightly over the column of my neck and over the contours of my face.

Is this part of making love?

I never thought of my husband touching my face on our wedding night. That wasn't in any of my romance novels.

Maybe I read the wrong ones.

His fingers tunnel into my updo, kneading my scalp and sending shudders through my body as my muscles turn to goo.

When he cups my breast and brushes his thumb over my engorged nipple, I moan. " Michael ."

His hand stills and he leans down to whisper in my ear, his voice low but implacable. "You will always call me Michael when you share your body with me."

Something cracks inside me. A fissure in the protective wall around my heart.

My husband wants something special between us, something as intimate as his touch on my body.

Mick belongs to the mob, but Michael belongs to me.

"Michael," I breathe.

His hand trails down, down, down until he runs his fingers over the gusset of my soaked panties. "It's time for these to come off."

"Mmm…hmm…" I agree, floating in a haze of bliss. And then I force myself to say, "The garter has to come off first."

But he's already sliding his hands under me to work on the tiny clasps that hold it together in the back. They give way before his deft fingers just like the tiny buttons on my wedding gown.

He turns his attention to the slide buttons attaching my stockings to my garters. Then he pulls the garter belt from my body before brushing his fingers over the skin revealed by its absence.

Fingers sure, he rolls my stockings down my legs, caressing the front and sides of my thighs, knees and calves as he does so.

Without removing my panties, he flips me onto my stomach and starts the gentle touching all over again. I'm moaning and trying to hump the bed by the time he turns me back over.

"Now, you feel me everywhere." It's not a question. It's a statement.

"Yes, Michael. Everywhere."

"Almost," he says darkly before ripping the seam down the center of my panties.

Two more pulls and a sharp sting at my hips and then the soaked lace is gone.

He leans down and presses his nose right into my mons, inhaling deep. "You smell so fucking good."

Mick's tongue swipes over my clitoris.

Bucking up for more of the delicious sensation, I cry out.

But my devil refuses, sliding back up my body to cup and knead my breasts before latching on to one of my nipples and sucking hard.

The sharp sensation contrasts with all the tender touches and a starburst of pleasure explodes in my core. Was that a climax? It sure felt like the pleasure I give myself alone in my bed late at night.

But Mick is far from done. He plays with my generous mounds and tender peaks for what feels like hours, driving me toward another detonation before backing off and then doing it all over again.

I'm unraveling.

Tears are tracking down my temples and I'm begging him to, "Do something!" when he shifts back down my body and puts that talented mouth on my most intimate flesh.

A single nibble on the bundle of nerves at my apex and I shatter.

With an animalistic sound, Mick devours my nether lips like he did my mouth earlier. And I finally understand what the term "eating her out" means.

With greedy tongue and teeth, he forces another body melting orgasm from me before he kisses me softly, right on my swollen clitoris.

Again, the tone of his movements shifts as one of Mick's fingers slides into me to the first knuckle. I'm so boneless, I don't react. He gently sucks on my labia on one side before moving to the other to do the same thing, his finger moving in tiny increments inside me.

The pleasure slowly builds again, but it's different now. All of my body's defenses are down. I welcome every touch, every hot breath against my intimate flesh as the low buzz of ecstasy vibrates along my nerve endings.

Mick lifts his head. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"Yes," I sigh. "Will."

But I cannot imagine pain coming from his touch when my body is surfing on the tsunami wave of the endorphins he caused to crash through me.

Sliding up my body, his expression changes slightly, fire banked in his green gaze. He looks at me like I’m a task he’s about to complete with brutal efficiency.

And even that doesn't spark anxiety in me. How can it after the surfeit of pleasure he's already wreaked on my body?

Then he kisses me, owning my mouth, no trace of gentleness on his lips or tongue. I taste myself on him, tangy and different.

His finger slides further into me up to the second knuckle. It stings a little, but even that morphs into something I enjoy.

The heel of his hand presses down on my pleasure spot as he slides his finger deeper. The pressure builds, then sharpens. Another sting, this one quick and biting.

Still kissing me, he swallows my gasp of surprise. I try to press my butt deeper into the mattress to get away from the sting and then I'm tilting my pelvis upward, craving more.

When I climax this time, I nearly pass out from ecstasy fueled exhaustion.

Only then does his hand still and his mouth lift away from mine. "It's done."

I feel hollowed out and at peace like I haven't done since my aunt's death.

Present Day

I come out of my memories with a snap.

Because all the wonder and vulnerability of my wedding night ended with Mick leaving to take care of business.

And that’s the way it’s always been. The mob first, me somewhere down the list of his priorities.

Maybe Fitz has that first spot now, but I know I’m not second. Or third.

I’m not even sure I’m in Mick's top ten.