Soaring (Magdalene #2)(79)
Author: Kristen Ashley

His face started to go hard again when he stated, “The shit in my life, I bring a woman into it, I need some understanding.”

“And you’d have that,” I returned. “If I knew what I was understanding.”

“And you’d know that,” he fired back. “If you’d fuckin’ asked.”

“Fine,” I bit off, throwing out my hands. “Consider this my formal request.”

His eyes flashed. “Jesus, you’re a serious fuckin’ smartass.”

I lifted my brows. “Shall I take that as you declining my request?”

“Yeah, babe,” he clipped while on the move toward me. “That request is declined until I can cool off and speak to you without doin’ that at the same time I wanna spank your ass.”

I didn’t have the chance to make a dramatic gesture by opening the door for him, considering he was moving so quickly he got there before me, but I did manage to get in my final shot.

“That effort would be appreciated, Mickey.”

I got that off, aimed at his back, right before he slammed the door behind him.

I glared at it.

Then I leaped to it and locked it.

That done, as Billie Holiday serenaded me, I stomped back to my kitchen, tossed down my phone and stared at the omelet on my fantastic new plate, trying to convince myself not to pick it up and throw it across the room.

Billie barely got in there before I heard banging at my door again.

My eyes shot there and I saw Mickey framed in the glass.

“This man cannot…be…believed,” I groused as I stomped back to the door, unlocked it and threw it open, looking up to him and on a near-yell demanding, “Do not bang on my—!”

I didn’t get it out because Mickey was kissing me. A hard, invasive, shut-up kiss that he delivered at the same time shuffling me in and closing the door with his boot.

I put my hands to his chest, pushed free and snapped, “I cannot believe—”

I didn’t finish that either because Mickey’s hand darted out, catching me at the back of my neck. He yanked forward and I slammed against his body right before his mouth again slammed down on mine.

I pushed back at my neck while lifting my hands to press against his chest. But he caught one wrist then swept it across and caught the other one, holding both tight in one hand between us.

This meant the only thing I could do was twist my mouth from his and order loudly, “Take your hands off me!”

He did.

I took a furious step back.

He took a furious step into me, lowering his torso and catching me in the belly with a shoulder.

Then I was up and he was stalking across the landing, taking me with him.

“Mickey!” I shouted.

He didn’t reply.

I was so angry I decided a fall from his shoulder was unlikely to kill me so I rotated my body to twist away.

Being the trained firefighter he was, he simply adjusted his hold to keep me where I was and kept stalking.

Down the hall.

To my bedroom!

“Put me down, Mickey Donovan!” I shrieked.

He did as I asked but only after planting a knee in my bed and tossing me off his shoulder onto my duvet.

My breath swept out of me as he instantly gave me his weight.

I stared into his irate, very heated, amazingly beautiful blue eyes and it struck me immediately that I’d made them that way.

Me.

“Mickey,” I whispered.

And that was again all I got out before he was kissing me. In his dusty construction clothes, his weight and heat pressing me into my bed, his mouth on mine wet and hot and demanding.

I’d given it a try, fighting him off.

I’d failed.

And if I’d learned anything, it was when to stop fighting when it was getting you nowhere and find alternate ways to get what you needed.

So I did that and kissed him back.

The second I did, he made a sexy, manly noise that drove down my throat and detonated right between my legs.

It was on.

And I was for once going to get what I needed.

I got it.

But Mickey helped me.

I didn’t care about his dusty construction clothes. I didn’t worry that I was out of practice. I didn’t get tense that I wasn’t going to give it like Mickey liked it.

I just took what I wanted, kissing him, touching him, ripping off his shirt.

He arched away to let me to do this then went back at me, rolling us so I was on top, then knifing up, still kissing me. I was forced to straddle him and his hands went to the hem of my top.

I lifted my arms as he tugged it off and threw it away. Then I put my hands to either side of his head and was going to dip in for another kiss, but I halted when Mickey did the dipping, trailing his lips briefly over the skin above the beige lace over the cranberry silk of my bra then, without warning, he went down and, through the lace and silk, drew my nipple in his mouth, swift and hard.

I arched back, grinding into his crouch.

I was wrong.

Now, it was on.

And it went wild.

He took.

I took.

He bit, licked, sucked, kissed, stroked and groped.

I bit, licked, sucked, kissed, stroked and groped.

He might argue but I had it better since there was so much of him to take in in so many ways and all of it was solid, hot and staggering.

Then I had nothing on but my panties, Mickey had nothing on but his jeans, our mouths were locked, our tongues tangled, our bodies sealed, I had my hand down his fly stroking something rigid and thick and long and promising, when I let out a cry because Mickey broke the kiss and hauled me up.

He settled on his back at the same time he settled me on him.

On him.

Straddling his face.

One hand yanking me down, one hand between his mouth and me shoving aside the gusset of my panties, suddenly his tongue was buried inside.

Oh God.

Yes.

“Mickey,” I breathed.

He said nothing. He was busy eating.

And he ate, licked, sucked, tongue-fucked and took me high, higher, flying, before he drove two fingers inside, sucked deep at my clit and I was soaring, arching, moaning, shuddering and coming.

It was so big, I couldn’t breathe. Whimpering and gasping, he kept sucking and finger-fucking me driving me higher until he stopped, gently pushed me off, tore my panties down my legs, whipped me to my back and covered me.

“Mickey,” I whispered, still feeling it, still up in the clouds.

I also felt him doing something between my legs.

Then he whispered back, “Good?”

Good?

No.

There were no words for how it felt when Mickey sent me flying.