Chapter 15

Amid increasing desperation, Irene tried to keep her word, muffling her moans, trying to stay quiet so as not to disturb the sleeping angels in their rooms down the hall. But with reality fraying and battered by waves of ever-building ecstasy, the struggle grew more difficult as she squirmed in Conor’s embrace atop the living room couch.

The hungry tiger’s jacket had disappeared, and her hands were inside his unbuttoned shirt, clawing at heated skin and those soft curls. The sexy dress was nothing but a crumpled red stripe at her waist, and long fingers caressed heaving breasts, teasing each in turn. With the other large hand between her shaking thighs, pressing, rubbing, and squeezing as they kissed, her ever more desperate moans flooded their surging tongues.

By that point, twisted and half shoved backward on the supple leather, she was beyond horny, approaching utter madness, fueled by Oscar’s heavy breathing coming from somewhere in the darkness behind the ravenous beast atop her. Oh, she understood. The moaning, squirming middle-aged woman was right where both her husband and torturous new boyfriend wished her to be.

All the way home from a night of dining and dancing, Conor had mauled her with wide hands under the taut dress and supple full lips wandering any exposed skin or her trembling mouth. Quiet words had described her curves, saying how much he enjoyed a lace-covered ass, the sleek stockings tight to such beautiful legs, how wonderful she’d danced, how the lovely tatas made him want to suckle. For her part, any attempt to speak had faltered, becoming only louder moans.

While guiding her around puddles, he’d kept his long, vigorous tongue licking, probing, and sweeping. The gentle yet forceful shoves of the powerful body, holding her against trees, lampposts, and benches, or driving them deep into dark alcoves, had turned her into the enormous, muscled tiger’s clawing, mewling, ravenous kitten.

No, not just a show for an utterly quiet and wild-eyed Oscar, but her boyfriend had also been keeping her on the very edge of need. Plus, more than careful, anytime her tremors peaked, the playful man had slowed, taken her under his arm and continued the walk of torment. Left dripping with sweat and shaking with unbridled desire, she’d begged like the most aggressive of street whores.

With both subtlety and propriety tossed halfway across rain-glistening Barcelona, her vocabulary in all three languages had become nothing but throaty, ever needier pleas: “Fuck me, bebé,” “Por favor, fóllame duro! Fuck me hard!” “Je peux te baiser. I can fuck you.” “Make me your naughtiest señorita.” And even, “Pleeeeeeez Conoooooor, give me your giant cock!” just outside the imposing stone edifice of a Catholic Church that had witnessed much in over a thousand years.

To all the pleading, the louder moans, and sharper nipping of his collar and solid jaw, he’d only chuckled and tightened the grip on her squirming curves. With her heart a thundering drum in the deepest, darkest of jungles, she’d settled for inhaling his aromas—the masculine yet delicate cologne mixed with that mystical fragrance unique only to him—while continuing to suffer.

Once at their apartment, her husband had unlocked and eased the front door open, revealing dark emptiness lit only by the soft glow of a tiny kitchen night light. In a blur of motion, the tall, muscled beast had swept his squirming prize up into his arms. Ah, but he hadn’t taken her to the bedroom.