Ramsay (2 page)

Tentatively, I reached my tongue out to taste her, my nerves stretched as tight as a bow, my senses on overload in a way I'd never experienced before and wasn't sure how to manage. The mingling of pleasure and pain wrapped around me, holding me tightly in a strange embrace, an exquisite torture. I couldn't figure out which sensations to focus on.
And somehow Lydia seemed to know.
She dropped her hands from my hair and my waist so the only parts of us touching were our mouths. I sighed against her lips, learning the taste of her, a subtle sweetness mixed with a hint of richness, like milk and honey.
God, it was good.
Better than good.
Completely fascinated, I delved my tongue into her mouth to get more of it, and she let out a little whimper, causing me to harden painfully. Her tongue met mine, wet and warm, and so very, very soft, drugging me, and yet causing my senses to sing. Our tongues danced and thrust, and I pressed my groin against hers, seeking some relief, and finding only more sensation that was both maddeningly pleasurable and searingly painful.

I used all my willpower to pull away, my lips coming off Lydia's with a wet pop. She gazed at me, confusion and need warring in her expression. It took me off guard. I'd only ever seen Lydia look fully in control. "Was that your first kiss, too, Brogan?" she asked uncertainly.

I looked away, trying desperately to control my breathing. "Was I that bad at it?" I asked, shooting her a small smirk I didn't feel.

She shook her head. The expression on her face was almost one of . . .
wonder.
"No, it wasn't that. It was incredible, and I love that it was a first for both of us. I just . . . you're trembling." She took my hand and pulled. "Come sit with me on the cot." When I hesitated, she added, "Please." And so I followed.
Again.
When we sat down, she scooted closer and ran a finger down my chest.

"Lydia," I groaned.

"Can I see you?" she whispered. "Please, Brogan? I want to see you." She began tugging on my T-shirt and I let her, lifting my arms as she brought it over my head. I sat before her, hardly breathing as her eyes raked over my bare chest. I knew I was fit. How could I not be? I did physical labor eight hours a day most days. But I'd never been naked before anyone. And this wasn't just anyone. This was Lydia, the girl who made my guts clench with nothing more than a glance. I felt vulnerable and afraid. I watched as Lydia's delicate throat moved in a swallow. "God, you're beautiful," she said. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

I nodded. I was incapable of anything else. She reached her hand out slowly and ran her palm down my chest, using her index finger to move over the ridges of my stomach, stopping at the sparse, dark line of hair under my naval that disappeared into my jeans. I sucked in a breath as her gaze moved down to the erection straining through my pants. Her eyes met mine in question, and she must have seen something in my face that gave her permission, because she reached down and ran her hand over my shaft. "Oh God," I groaned, helplessly pressing myself into her hand. I couldn't believe this was happening. This was . . . I couldn't think. I could only want. And I wanted Lydia. I'd wanted Lydia for what seemed like forever.

We lay back on the cot, and she unbuttoned my jeans and slipped her hand inside. When she wrapped her warm fingers around me, I jerked in her hand and groaned, lying perfectly still, just focused on the sensations.
Pleasure and pain.
She brought her lips to mine again as she stroked me, and I turned my mouth away from her. It was too much. Too much all at once. She continued to stroke me and after a minute, she sat up and took her tank top off, followed by her bra. Her gaze stayed on me as she undressed and when her breasts popped free, I barely resisted the urge to moan at the sight alone. She was so beautiful it hurt me a little. Her breasts were full and high, creamy white where her swimsuit had covered her skin from the sun. Her nipples were a pale pink and already hardened.
Jaysus, so pretty.
Barely hanging on to control, I sat up and tasted them, rolling one around my tongue. Lydia gasped, but only pressed toward me. "You're making me ache, Brogan. I want you. I never knew . . . Oh," she gasped. I sucked a nipple into my mouth, learning the texture of that intimate skin, like velvet with barely discernible, soft ridges at the very peak. And her skin, yes, it was clean with a light hint of vanilla—maybe a body wash that still barely lingered. She rolled out from under me, my mouth coming off her breast, but before I could question what she was doing, she stood and shimmied off her skirt and underwear and then removed my shoes and socks and jeans. I watched, dazed.
I should stop this. I should.
It had gone too far and I couldn't figure out how it had happened.

But then she was lying next to me, warm and soft, and I forgot why this wasn't a good idea. In that moment, I barely knew my own name. My senses were focused only on her, naked in my arms, and it felt so blessedly good, so right.

Lydia . . . Lydia.

She kissed me again, and I reached between her legs and felt the slippery evidence of her arousal, rubbing it between my fingers and then bringing my hand back to the place that made her buck and yelp. She was so slick, so lush. "Oh God, Brogan, yes, please. Don't stop."

We touched, and explored, and stroked until we were both moaning and panting. My blood was swirling through my veins in a fiery frenzy. And yet all the while, Lydia seemed to understand that I couldn't take too much at once. She seemed to know when to withdraw her hand from one spot so I could focus on what she was doing to another. She seemed to understand that for me, there was a fine line between pleasure and pain, that my senses were overly acute. She couldn't know, of course, because I'd never attempted to explain how it was always this way, but she reacted to my body as if she
did
know, as if she understood this about me better than I did. And I was lost. When I moved over her, there wasn't an ounce of hesitation in her eyes. She opened her legs, and she welcomed me.

I pressed inside her, inch by inch, gazing into her face. Her beauty.
Mesmerizing.
I was awed that I was inside her . . . or nearly. When I came to the barrier of her virginity, I met her eyes, full of trust and wonder, and whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sweet Lydia.
Mo Chroí.
" And then I pressed inside, tearing her. She cried out in pain. I wanted to comfort her, but it felt so blessedly good that I could only bring my forehead to hers, holding myself still by sheer force of will, gritting my teeth to stop myself from thrusting, while she became used to my invasion. Why did it have to be that something that felt so wonderful to me hurt her? I had never imagined anything feeling so good as her hot muscles clenched around me, pulling at me, stroking me from deep within. "Are ya okay?" I finally managed. She nodded, and I began to move, groaning with pleasure at the tight friction surrounding my throbbing erection. Sweat broke out on my back. I knew I wouldn't last long.

"Tá tú gach rud atá go hálainn dom," I breathed.

You are everything that is beautiful to me.

Lydia sighed, tipping her head back and wrapping one leg around my hips. After just a handful of thrusts, I felt an orgasm tightening my abdomen and swelling my cock even further. It was the first time I'd ever been inside a girl. With one final thrust I came, the pleasure washing through me and causing goosebumps to form on the surface of my skin. Groaning, I collapsed beside her and attempted to catch my breath, finally looking at her. Her eyes were slightly stunned, but her expression was introspective, as if she was deep in thought. My heart froze. Did she regret this already? I doubted she'd had an orgasm—she had to be disappointed. I didn't know what to feel. There was joy tightening my chest, but there was also insecurity and confusion, and I tried to remember how this had come to be. "Are ya okay?" I asked her again, repeating the words I'd said the moment I'd taken her virginity.
I'd taken Lydia De Havilland's virginity.

"Yes, are you?" she asked.

I couldn't help chuckling. "Yeah. I just . . . I'm not sure exactly how this happened."

Lydia gave me a small smile, leaning up on her arm, her breasts drawing my attention and amazingly making my cock throb again. "I know," she said. I nodded curtly, feeling suddenly awkward. I reached for my jeans and handed Lydia's clothes to her, looking away as she used her underwear to wipe the smear of blood off her left thigh. We both dressed quickly. I wiped my sweaty palms on my hips as I turned to her.

"Lydia, I—" I started, reaching for her hands. The door flew open behind me, hitting the wall with a sudden bang.
What?
Adrenaline burst through my veins. Myles Landry was standing in the doorway.
What the feck?
As he took us in, a look of perplexed anger took over his face.

"Lydia?" he asked, his brow furrowing, eyes darting between us and then down to the rumpled blanket on the cot.

I looked at Lydia and her face was white, her expression arrested.

"Why'd you ask me to meet you here, Lydia?" Myles asked, an edge of hostility in his tone. My body went ice cold. Lydia had asked Myles to meet her here after she'd asked
me
to meet her here?
Why?
I looked back to Lydia and my heart thudded dully in my chest when I saw the expression on her face: knowing guilt. She'd set me up. She'd wanted Myles to find us here. A game? I had been the unknowing player in some game of hers. Myles's jealousy maybe? Getting him back for some misdeed? Stupid that grief instead of anger should grip me in that moment. All the worse that I didn't remember it hurting this badly when I'd found out my mam had died.

Lydia was shaking her head, her expression still stunned. "I'm sorry," she whispered, turning her eyes my way, big and bright blue in that moment, no green at all. "I really didn't mean for it to go that far. I only meant for him to find us . . . kissing." The last piece of my heart cracked.

"What's going on in here?" My head swiveled back to the door as Stuart De Havilland stepped into the room. Lydia's older brother.
Shite.
I knew things had just gone from bad to worse, and yet, I couldn't manage to feel anything. I was numb.

Just as Myles's had done, Stuart's gaze went from Lydia to me to the cot and back to me. For the first time, I noticed a smear of blood on the light blue blanket. I watched as rage filled Stuart's expression. He stepped toward me. "What the fuck did you do to my sister?"

"Stuart!" Lydia screamed, stepping forward.

"Don't, Lydia," I managed, stepping forward, as well. "What happened here is a private matter. Excuse me." I went to step around Stuart but he pushed me, his hands braced on my chest so I flew backward, slamming into the wall. Lydia gasped. I clenched my jaw against the sensation of hard wood jarring my body and stood up straight, meeting Stuart's eyes. At seventeen, I was already bigger than him at twenty-one. I could kill him right here if I wanted to.

"Did you rape my sister, you lowlife piece of trash?"

Rage raced through my system and in a flash I stepped forward and swung on him, nailing him straight in the jaw. Lydia shrieked again as her brother went flying backward, stumbling and catching himself. "You motherfucker!" he yelled, his hand coming up to his jaw, blood dripping from his lip.

"Of course he didn't
rape
me, Stuart," Lydia yelled, her voice high-pitched and panicky. She hurried to Stuart and stood in front of him so he wouldn't attack me . . . I assumed.

She had done this. My Lydia. She had done this. No, not
my
Lydia. Never mine.
Grief clogged my throat, and I almost choked on it.

Stuart narrowed his eyes at me. We stood there for several tense moments, the only sound in the room my own harsh breath. "Add this up, math genius," he finally said, a nasty edge of mocking in his tone. "You taking advantage of my sister plus you being a disgusting piece of garbage equals me throwing your family off my property. Be gone by morning." I froze, my heart hammering.

We lived in the small house at the edge of their property, reserved for the gardener. Right this minute my dad was passed out in bed, and Eileen was watching cartoons on the couch in her leg braces. Edward De Havilland was ill, and he was a fair man—although he might not be if he found out what I'd just done with his daughter—but his son was
not
a fair man, and for the time being, Stuart De Havilland was in charge. He was going to make me beg, here, in front of Lydia and Myles. I let out a long, slow breath, my face growing hot.

"That's not necessary, Stuart, please," Lydia said weakly.

"Shut up, Lydia," Stuart said, pushing her aside. I clenched my fists more tightly. Even though she'd just used me cruelly, my instinct to protect her was strong. Grief and anger now competed in my heart. I bloody hated myself.

"This is not me father's fault, Stuart," I said. "Be fair about this."

Stuart's eyes narrowed further. Several heartbeats went by before he drawled slowly, "Get down on your knees and beg me, scum."

My heart faltered, but I wouldn't flinch. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Stuart—"

"Shut up, Lydia!" Stuart yelled again. I didn't even look at her.

"Get down on your knees and beg me for your father's job, and I'll let your family stay," Stuart said, his eyes filled with something that looked like barely contained excitement. He'd never liked me, had resented me for some reason I didn't understand. He was finding some sick glee in this. Silence reverberated around the room. I would not do this for my own father. I would not do this thing for him. But for Eileen . . . for her, I would beg.