Wild Irish Christmas (Wild Irish, Book Eight) (6 page)
“I didn’t either.”
“You didn’t even come that last time. God, you must think I’m an ass.”
Sunday gave him an exasperated look.
“Give me ten minutes and I swear I’ll do better,” he added quickly.
“Nothing could be better. I’m so happy you were my first, Pat. And you were wonderful. Better than I could have imagined.”
He kissed her softly on the cheek. “Let me go clean up.” He quickly dashed to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. He cleaned himself up before grabbing a washcloth and wetting it. He returned to the bedroom and crawled back into bed.
He silently bid Sunday to open her legs and carefully washed her. She blushed with his ministrations, but lay quietly until he finished.
“There’s something I’ve always wondered, but I’ve never remembered to ask. How did you get your name? Were you born on a Sunday?”
She laughed. “No, though I’m sure everyone thinks so. I was actually born on a Thursday.”
Patrick grinned. “I’m guessing there’s a story here.”
Sunday nodded. “I’m Irish. Of course there is. My mother was in labor for nearly a week before I was born.”
Patrick made a pained expression “A week? Ouch.”
“Yep. A long, rainy, dreary week. According to my da, it rained cats and dogs for seven whole days as my mother lay in bed suffering from labor pains. When I finally made my much overdue appearance, my da swears the clouds broke and the sun shone through. While he was remarking about the change in the weather, my mother was proclaiming she needed a day of rest. Da said they looked at each other and said
Sunday
at the exact same time. My father loved to spin yarns, so whether or not any of that is true, I can’t say. Even so, it’s a nice story.”
Patrick kissed her on the cheek. “God knows you brought sunshine and peace to my life the day you walked into that bar.”
Sunday blinked and Patrick thought he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “You are a romantic man, Patrick Collins.”
He laughed. “Don’t tell anyone. We barmen have a reputation to uphold.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “The strong, silent type, right?”
“Exactly.”
He kissed her. It was a soft melding of lips at first, but gradually, it became harder, hungrier. Soon, both of them were pulling away, sucking in huge gasps of air.
“Maybe I was a little conservative on that ten-minute estimate.” He’d already made a full recovery.
“How many condoms did you buy?” she asked.
He fought back the urge to flush. “Six.” And they were all in his wallet. Maybe cocky and hopeful weren’t such a bad mix after all.
He’d been in too big a hurry the first time, too preoccupied with holding off to truly enjoy the moment. He was going to make up for that now. Sunday trembled slightly when Patrick gently pushed her legs apart, eased his way down the bed and settled between her knees. With one finger, he touched her clit, enjoying her soft sigh.
“I love when you touch me.”
He continued to play with her until she was wet and writhing on the bed in need.
“Please, Pat!”
“Not yet. I want to do something.” He leaned forward and sucked her clit into his mouth.
Sunday jerked roughly, but Patrick was prepared. With his hands on her hips, he held her in place as he administered a very different kind of kiss. He savored the tangy taste of her juices, inhaled her sweet scent.
“Are you sore?” he asked before delving deeper into his explorations.
She shook her head. He narrowed his eyes until she relented. “Maybe a little bit. Not enough that I want to stop.”
“Even so,” he ran his tongue along her slit, “we’ll go slowly.” He pressed his tongue inside her, loving her cries, her pleas for more. Using his finger on her clit, he tried to discover her hot spots, her pleasure points. He wanted to know how to drive her out of her mind with need.
Sunday screamed when she came and Patrick briefly worried that the neighbors might come to investigate. He dismissed the concern. He was going to marry Sunday McKenna, make her his wife. Hell, he’d drag her before a minister tomorrow if she’d agree.
“Pat?”
“Yeah?”
“Get the condom.”
Shit. He wondered if the minister was still awake now. Patrick didn’t need to be told twice. He quickly donned a condom.
This time when he pushed into her body, he felt in control, ready to take on the world. They rocked together in time, neither of them in a rush to see the end. Sunday stroked his back, his ass cheeks, as Patrick kissed her, nuzzled his nose against her neck.
Patrick moved slowly, careful to make sure that this time, he didn’t come alone. When he felt Sunday reaching the precipice, he rubbed her clit. She jolted beneath him.
“Harder,” she pleaded.
Patrick paused a mere second before responding, taking her the way he’d only ever dreamed of possessing a woman. His motions sped up as he drove deeper. Sunday quivered and gasped—then she came.
He couldn’t resist the tight clench of her body. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he gave himself up to the bliss, the rapture.
It was several moments later before he realized he was lying on his back and Sunday wasn’t in the bed.
“Sunday?” he called.
“I’ll be back in two seconds. I just need to get something.”
He went to the bathroom to clean up then returned to the bed. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to Sunday move around the house. He wondered what she was doing.
“Pat?” she whispered.
He opened his eyes and wondered if he’d drifted off.
“Are you awake?”
He nodded and pushed himself up, sitting with his back against the headboard. “What’s that?”
Sunday produced two shot glasses. “Jameson,” she announced as she handed him one, keeping the other for herself. “I felt the need to make a special toast.”
Patrick grinned. “Sounds like a fine idea.”
Sunday lifted her glass. “To you and me and forever.”
She tapped her glass to his, but Patrick grasped her wrist before she could drink. “I have a wee toast of my own, lass. To Conall Brannagh.”
Sunday laughed, but she raised her glass. Together, they drank.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Patrick watched the lights on the tree flicker. Every Christmas Eve of their marriage, he and Sunday had sat together in this room, watching the tree, listening to the excited whispers of their children—who pretended to be asleep—and sharing a drink of whiskey. Their toasts had never changed.
Patrick picked up the almost empty bottle of Jameson, poured out the last small shot and lifted it in a toast.
“To you, Sunday. Merry Christmas, love.”
The End
About the Author
Writing a book was number one on Mari’s bucket list and on her thirty-fourth birthday, she set out to see that goal achieved. Now her computer is jammed full of stories—novels, novellas, short stories and dead-ends. A
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller, as well as winner of the Passionate Plume, Mari finds time for writing by squeezing it into the hours between 3 a.m. and daybreak, when her family is asleep and the house is quiet.
You can visit Mari on her website, and also on
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International Heat
and hangs out on the Heat Wave Readers
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Mari welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
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Also by
Mari Carr
Cougar Challenge: Assume the Positions
Wild Irish 3: Waiting for Wednesday
Wild Irish 5: Friday I’m in Love
Wild Irish 6: Saturday Night Special
Wild Irish 7: Any Given Sunday
Print books by Mari Carr
Sugar and Spice, Everything Nice
Tease the Cougar
anthology
Wild Irish: Wild Days
anthology
Wild Irish: Wild Nights
anthology
Wild Irish: Wild Times
anthology
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.