Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) by Holly Hart Page A
Authors: Holly Hart
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My heartbeat was the only thing I could still feel – like my body was extending a lifeline to me, something to hold on to. As for the rest of me? It was numb. It was as though, now that everything I'd dreamed of was actually happening, my conscious brain had decided that this was precisely the right time to switch off, to leave me clinging onto a raft of hope in a sea of emotion,
BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM!
The sound of my heart thundered in my ears like waves crashing down on a stormy pebble beach.
"Conor…" I whispered.
Honestly I had no idea whether I actually whispered it or not, because I could already barely tell what was real and what wasn't. I had an awful, lingering suspicion that this was all a horrible dream, and that I might wake up at any time, soaked with sweat in my own bed, and violently gut-clenchingly alone.
If this is all just a dream, you better make the most of it!
Four years of enforced celibacy does things to a girl, things even the most energetic fingers can't fix. Though God, I've tried.
Conor didn't answer me with words. He answered me the only way he knew how – with his body. He pressed his hard, lithe frame against mine, his body searing with heat, and I melted against him, my curves fitting his edges like we'd never been apart.
I felt like I was home, like if he picked me up and held me against him nothing could ever tear us apart. My mind knew that whatever was happening between us right now was as likely to be fleeting as to last – perhaps more so.
I couldn't understand how my father would allow this to happen. Didn't even want to try, because it reminded me of how he'd already once ripped us apart. Even if this didn't stand a chance, I wanted Conor to have me, to hold me, to possess me , so I'd at least have one last memory of happiness.
Don't think about that. Be present .
My body took my brain's mild reproach on-board at full throttle, and I felt every nerve ending in my entire body light up, like an electric current was coursing through my body, heading down my spine and branching off at every joint to fire up my senses and stoke the fire burning between my legs.
I've never accuse Conor of being a wordsmith, but he’s not half bad at using his tongue.
"I'm going to make you scream," he whispered, pressing his face close against my ear. "Until you beg for me to stop."
Just hearing that lilting, soft Irish accent describing the things he wanted to do to me was practically enough to make me come. Feeling his warm, wet tongue licking my ear at the same moment his fiery red Gaelic stubble grazed against my cheek already had me sighing with pleasure.
"I won't." I said with a voice breathy with anticipation. I'd been thinking about him for years – no matter how long we spend on this bed, there was no chance I was going to tire of feeling him on top of me, with me, in me.
And besides, even the memory, the nightmare, of my celibacy was enough to compel me to throw myself into this like this was the last sex I'd ever have. Hell, if my father ever found out, it might be.
"We'll see." He growled provocatively, as if I'd thrown down a gauntlet – like now his manhood was on the line. It only seemed to make him want to redouble his efforts, to caress my body, to stroke it, to pleasure me ever more energetically. I hadn't meant it that way, but I sure wasn't complaining.
Wherever he touched me, I quivered, my body remembered how he'd once played it like a fiddle, reminded of how my legs would clench around his head, how my thighs would tremble, how my back would arch and my hands closed around the bed sheets, grabbing handfuls of the soft white material as my body fell away into orgasm. The muscle memory overrode any conscious thought that still lingered in my brain, unleashed me from the mental bonds that my father's restrictive, jealous captivity had left behind.
Conor slowly began to undress me, his fingers tracing their way underneath my top and leaving fiery lines of
My heartbeat was the only thing I could still feel – like my body was extending a lifeline to me, something to hold on to. As for the rest of me? It was numb. It was as though, now that everything I'd dreamed of was actually happening, my conscious brain had decided that this was precisely the right time to switch off, to leave me clinging onto a raft of hope in a sea of emotion,
BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM!
The sound of my heart thundered in my ears like waves crashing down on a stormy pebble beach.
"Conor…" I whispered.
Honestly I had no idea whether I actually whispered it or not, because I could already barely tell what was real and what wasn't. I had an awful, lingering suspicion that this was all a horrible dream, and that I might wake up at any time, soaked with sweat in my own bed, and violently gut-clenchingly alone.
If this is all just a dream, you better make the most of it!
Four years of enforced celibacy does things to a girl, things even the most energetic fingers can't fix. Though God, I've tried.
Conor didn't answer me with words. He answered me the only way he knew how – with his body. He pressed his hard, lithe frame against mine, his body searing with heat, and I melted against him, my curves fitting his edges like we'd never been apart.
I felt like I was home, like if he picked me up and held me against him nothing could ever tear us apart. My mind knew that whatever was happening between us right now was as likely to be fleeting as to last – perhaps more so.
I couldn't understand how my father would allow this to happen. Didn't even want to try, because it reminded me of how he'd already once ripped us apart. Even if this didn't stand a chance, I wanted Conor to have me, to hold me, to possess me , so I'd at least have one last memory of happiness.
Don't think about that. Be present .
My body took my brain's mild reproach on-board at full throttle, and I felt every nerve ending in my entire body light up, like an electric current was coursing through my body, heading down my spine and branching off at every joint to fire up my senses and stoke the fire burning between my legs.
I've never accuse Conor of being a wordsmith, but he’s not half bad at using his tongue.
"I'm going to make you scream," he whispered, pressing his face close against my ear. "Until you beg for me to stop."
Just hearing that lilting, soft Irish accent describing the things he wanted to do to me was practically enough to make me come. Feeling his warm, wet tongue licking my ear at the same moment his fiery red Gaelic stubble grazed against my cheek already had me sighing with pleasure.
"I won't." I said with a voice breathy with anticipation. I'd been thinking about him for years – no matter how long we spend on this bed, there was no chance I was going to tire of feeling him on top of me, with me, in me.
And besides, even the memory, the nightmare, of my celibacy was enough to compel me to throw myself into this like this was the last sex I'd ever have. Hell, if my father ever found out, it might be.
"We'll see." He growled provocatively, as if I'd thrown down a gauntlet – like now his manhood was on the line. It only seemed to make him want to redouble his efforts, to caress my body, to stroke it, to pleasure me ever more energetically. I hadn't meant it that way, but I sure wasn't complaining.
Wherever he touched me, I quivered, my body remembered how he'd once played it like a fiddle, reminded of how my legs would clench around his head, how my thighs would tremble, how my back would arch and my hands closed around the bed sheets, grabbing handfuls of the soft white material as my body fell away into orgasm. The muscle memory overrode any conscious thought that still lingered in my brain, unleashed me from the mental bonds that my father's restrictive, jealous captivity had left behind.
Conor slowly began to undress me, his fingers tracing their way underneath my top and leaving fiery lines of
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