Killing the Alpha: Fangs of Anarchy part 1 (5 page)

A scream of pleasure rose in her throat as white-hot heat sliced through her. Her legs shook as she clamped down on his wrist. “Touch me, Irish. I
need
you to touch me,” she pleaded, hoarse and thick.

Irish’s jaw clenched, the muscles pulsing, but he kept his hand perfectly, maddeningly still. “Claire, you’re damn well tearing me apart,” he grated.

Hearing him speak those words, this big, rough, powerful man admitting she would be responsible for his undoing, touched her soul.

Her breathing grew choppy as she dragged his hand from between her thighs and up along her body, over her belly, past her ribs to her nipple, where she pressed his palm to her breast and clamped it over the mound, pulling him to her, coaxing him, demanding he respond.

“Touch me, Irish,” she whispered, her appeal as hot and thick as maple syrup. His strong body shook, the vibration of it visible. Still, he remained rooted to the spot as water splashed over his clothes and beaded on his pale skin.

She grabbed his other hand, still fisted, and uncurled his fingers, putting her foot up on the seat in the shower, daring him to stop her.

His eyes, fiery and glittering, met hers, his nostrils flared, his wet hair plastered to his chin. “
Don’t, Claire
. You’ll goddamn kill me.”

Her nipple rubbed against his palm, scraping with delicious friction. The space between her legs went slick with desire, and there was no stopping. She didn’t want to reason this away. She didn’t want to hear why they shouldn’t do this.

So she closed her mind. Shut her thoughts off. Ignored every alarm bell screaming a shrill warning in her head.

Every boundary she’d ever put between them because of the ridiculous rules their people imposed came to a screeching halt when she drove Irish’s finger inside her. Her howl was feral, a keening release of pleasure so deep it clutched her core, left her reaching for the wall to hold herself up.

Irish’s restraint let loose like a spinning top, his fangs flashing as he pushed her against the far wall of the shower with a growl, thrusting his body hard against hers, driving his finger into her in swift strokes.

His lips found her ear. He wisped his tongue over the shell of it and nipped hard, making her squirm. “Damn you for being so tight, Claire. Tight and wet. I want to lick you until you come on my tongue, spread you wide and bury my face between those silky thighs of yours. Do you have any idea how many nights I’ve thought about doing that?”

She reveled in his words, thrusting her hips down toward his thick finger, crying out when his thumb circled her clit, rubbing the throbbing bud until she thought she’d die from the rush it gave her.

Her hands tore at his jacket, peeling the wet leather off his skin, ripping his T-shirt away, her fingers fumbling with the zipper on his jeans until she managed to shred them, too, tearing them from his body.

His cock sprang free, pressing into her thigh as she wound a leg around his waist, clamping him tighter against her, riding his finger, groaning her pleasure at the relentless heat, the wave upon wave of lust.

When Claire reached for him, she hissed her pleasure, her surprise that despite his cool skin, his shaft was fiery hot, pulsing, jerking in her hand, responding to her touch.

She stroked him in long passes, twisting her hand, reaching down to cup his balls, smiling when he drove against her palm.

Irish withdrew his finger from her body, trailing it up over her belly, circling her nipple before slipping it into her mouth. He swiped at her lips with his tongue, licked her mouth, moaning when he tasted her on his finger. “I knew you’d taste like this. I knew just from your scent your pussy would be sweet and so, so tight,” he said, pushing the words out, husky and thick.

Claire’s pulse raced at his seductive words. Words she’d imagined a million times in her wildest fantasies about him. Her breasts pressed to his chest, her hands ran over every ridge along his abs, trailed down over the sharp indent in his hips, slipped behind him to knead the firm muscles in his ass.

Every inch of him screamed solid, thick perfection, and she wanted all of it.

Now.

Irish pressed his forearms against the shower wall as her leg slipped from his waist, capturing her mouth again, spreading his thickly muscled thighs until they were crushed against hers, the crisp hair on them creating a delicious friction on her skin.

He rubbed against her, sucking her tongue into his mouth, rubbing his against it. Their flesh scraped together as they pressed tight from head to toe. He cupped her breast, tugging on her nipple, pulling at it until Claire almost begged him to make her come.

He pulled away, his eyes pinning hers, his gaze so penetrating she’d be afraid if it were anyone other than Irish. “If you don’t want this, make me stop, Claire. Say it now or I won’t be able to. I want to drive my tongue into your pussy and make you scream my name, fuck you until the only man you’ll ever want inside you is me. If you don’t want that, stop me.
Now
.”

Her chest crashed against his, every nerve in her body on fire with a need she didn’t know existed quite like it did with him. Clutching the back of his head, she stared at him, every ounce of her desperate. “Don’t stop.
Don’t ever stop
.”

He dropped to his haunches without warning, lifting her thigh up over his shoulder and spreading her flesh with his thumbs before taking a long, silky swipe, moaning as he did.

Claire shuddered against him, inhaling a sharp breath of superb pleasure as her nipples grew rigid and almost painfully tight. Irish used the tip of his tongue to tease her clit, circling the throbbing bud, licking at it, the soft sounds his mouth made driving her mad with hunger.

When he placed his mouth over her, it was her undoing. Her hips crashed against his face, her fingers wound into his hair, her leg nearly buckled beneath her as she came. Hard pinpricks of electricity uncoiled, springing upward, the fiery lick of orgasm sharp and sweetly painful.

Her chest tightened, her toes curled, and then she screamed his name, digging her fingers into his bulky shoulders, forcing herself to watch his mouth devour her, bring her to completion. The erotic sight of his dark head against her skin intoxicated her, almost brought her to her knees as she clung to him for stability.

Claire sagged against the wall, closing her eyes and fighting for breath while Irish slipped up along her body and hauled her close, wrapping a hand around her thigh and lifting to secure it at his waist.

She went willingly, clinging to his neck, hiking herself upward until the tip of his cock pushed at her entrance. His muscles flexed, tightening against her grip. His restraint was clear on his face, from the clenching of his jaw, to the bulging tendons in his neck.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he uttered, pressing his forehead to hers.

She fought for breath, needing him to bury himself deep inside her. Yet, her heart contracted at his words. “You won’t hurt me, Irish. I know you’d never hurt me,” she whispered back, kissing along his jaw to find his lips once more.

Her response evoked a deep moan from him before he reached between them and drove into her, jolting her, stealing her breath again.

Irish’s cock filled her, stretched her, thick and rock hard. Flashes of white light streamed behind her eyes and her head fell back against the tile, her sigh of utter fulfillment filling the shower.

The ache was almost unbearable, almost agonizingly painful yet so perfectly decadent, she had to clench her eyes tight, lost in the sounds of their flesh meeting, releasing, coming together again under the warm spray of the shower.

She contracted around him, taking him deeper as he thrust upward, demanding, forceful, while his hands kneaded her ass, pulled her forward, pushed her away. Claire hooked her ankles around Irish’s lean waist, hiking herself higher, grabbing a fistful of his hair and dragging his head so his mouth was at her breast.

Irish’s chuckle at her unspoken demand was thick just before he struck her nipple with his tongue, sending a white-hot tendril of heat between her legs, creating yet another layer of desire.

She gasped as he slashed at the bud again then pulled it into his mouth, tugging it with firm lips until her resolve to hold on weakened.

A searing fire raged in the pit of her belly, rising until she couldn’t stand it any longer, until she thought she’d lose her mind from the carnal pleasure of his cock buried within her.

She sank into his demanding thrust one last time before the world exploded around her, before every orgasm she’d ever had paled in comparison to this one.

It screamed from her body, shot upward, lifting her high on a wave of pure fire, held her in its grip before dropping her hard, wringing her dry of every last bit of her energy. Her lungs burned for air. She gasped as she clung to him and Irish found his release, too, his thickly muscled arms flexing and tensing when he wrapped them around her.

As the water sprayed over them, as Claire began to soften, relax into him, she buried her head in his neck, knowing there would be regrets on his part.

Knowing he’d protest, remind her they’d done a bad, bad thing.

But she didn’t care.

At this moment, while his arms were around her, sheltering her, while he was still deeply imbedded inside her, she knew she’d never regret this.

Because she’d waited forever for just this moment.

And she had no intention of marring it with regret.

Chapter Five

Irish watched Claire sleep, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the swell of her breasts—breasts that tasted of lust, soft and full—and he knew he’d fucked up.

So big.

But he damn well didn’t
feel
as if he’d fucked up. He felt amazing. He felt as though he’d just conquered Everest, driven the Indy 500. Five years was a long time to wait to turn a fantasy into reality.

But she’d far exceeded any night he’d spent in his shower, cock in hand, stroking her full lips and soft curves from his mind. He’d always known making love to her would tip him over the edge, that if he let himself touch her, she’d be his undoing.

He was right. The taste of her on his tongue, the sweet, tight feel of her…the memories alone hardened him all over again.

But her pack wouldn’t love finding out about this. His clan wouldn’t either. They’d call them traitors to their own kind. There wasn’t any ancient written rule preventing them from being together—it was an unspoken one. A werewolf edict that said you couldn’t mate outside your pack in an effort to keep your bloodlines pure, but more importantly, to continue to produce werelings, thus keeping the pack strong.

And in agreement, his clan enforced those wishes in an effort to maintain peace.

If anyone knew what they’d done tonight, Claire could end up dead—or at the very least, they’d boot them out of Rock Cove and banish them to the Zone as punishment.

Claire would never survive the Zone. She was tough, no doubt, but she deserved all the pretty things she’d surrounded herself with—not the filth and slime of the Zone.

Not a chance in hell he was going to let that happen. He’d find a way to smuggle her to another paranormal territory first.

And there was another risk he couldn’t afford. His sister Hadley. He couldn’t raise her if he was banished to the Zone.

But at this point, their incredible, forbidden lovemaking was the least of their worries.

As he watched Claire sleep—her hair splayed across her pillow, threads of gold and red a stark contrast to the white of the pillowcase, her arm flung up over her head—he knew he had to find out what happened with her and Gannon.

In order to protect her, he needed to know the details. She’d already missed one very important one—Gannon’s bike. He could’ve kicked himself for not thinking of it first.

He’d allowed his surprise that Claire had killed Gannon to cloud his thinking—muddy his usually detail-oriented way of thinking. If she’d missed something as big as his bike, what else had she missed?

“Oh, Dark One, are you already steeped in regret?” Claire teased, her voice sleepy and sultry when she entwined her fingers with his.

“Like a teabag.” Irish sat on the bed next to her, leaning forward to nip at the tempting flesh of her neck.

She chuckled, a soft, floaty sound, and wrapped her arms around him. “You only have an hour until daylight. Won’t you catch fire or something if you don’t go back to your cave and sleep?”

He ran his tongue over her peachy lips, fighting the urge to tear her nightgown from her body and plunge into her again.

Instead, he mocked disgust. “I don’t sleep in a cave. Not anymore, anyway. They’re dark and damp and all that hanging upside down started to take a toll on my back.”

She ran a finger over his pec, rubbed her palm against his nipple. “What are you going to do for clothes? It’s freezing out there.”

“I wouldn’t have to do anything for clothes if some heathen of a woman hadn’t literally torn mine from my body. I’m just grateful you spared my jacket,” he teased.

She gave him a saucy grin, two dimples appearing on either side of her intoxicating mouth. “I was on a mission. They were in the way.”

“I don’t feel the cold, so it doesn’t matter. I just wear clothes to keep all the women in town at bay.” He reached up and squeezed her hand, bringing it to his lips to drop a kiss on her knuckles before starting to pull out of her embrace.

But Claire arched into him, her breasts pressing against his bare chest. “Don’t regret this, Irish. Or at least don’t tell me you do. Because I damn well don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter that we don’t regret it, Claire. We don’t count in the big picture, and you know it. And do I need to remind you of the Zone? Do you want to end up there?” He smoothed the hair from her face, pulling away before he couldn’t. Before the temptation to stay with her began to foolishly outweigh the risks.

She sat up, crossing her legs and pulling the covers to her chest. “So now what? We just forget this ever happened?”