Wild Irish Christmas (Wild Irish, Book Eight) Read online

  Silently, he urged her to open her legs. They parted. Patrick took a deep breath. His hand trembled slightly when he reached between them.

  Sunday gasped when he ran his finger along her wet nether lips. He leaned forward and kissed her. “We can stop at any point, Sunday.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you dare.”

  He chuckled before pressing his lips against hers once more. He found her clit with his fingers, enjoying her intense reaction as he applied pressure.

  She turned her head away from his kiss. “Oh my God. Oh my God!”

  Her passion sparked his. He became bolder, more confident as he continued his explorations. Sunday’s hands flew to his shoulders, squeezing the muscles there tightly when he slowly pushed a finger inside her.

  She was tight and hot and—mercifully—so wet. He knew she was as tense as he was, but she wasn’t letting that emotion overpower her needs, her desires. Gently, he worked his finger in and out of her passage as her hips rocked to meet him, encouraging him to go deeper, thrust harder.

  Patrick added a second finger and pressed her clit with his thumb. Sunday exploded. Her inner muscles clenched against him as she came. Her hands clamped on his arms so hard, he knew she’d leave bruises.

  He stilled his movements, kissing her softly as her orgasm ran its course. He whispered sweet nothings until her wits returned.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  She laughed quietly. “Are you kidding? Do that again.”

  He grinned. “Mind if I join you this time?”

  She shook her head. “Hurry up.”

  “Damn. Didn’t expect you to be such a demanding, greedy lover.”

  She tilted her head. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Hell no.” Patrick stood. He reached for the button on his pants and Sunday propped herself up on one elbow, her expression equal parts curiosity and apprehension.

  “Moment of truth,” he muttered.

  Sunday’s smile grew. “I showed you mine. It’s only fair I get to see yours.”

  Suddenly a lifetime of sleeping with Sunday passed before his eyes and the rightness of the moment solidified. He’d expected their first time to be awkward, uncomfortable. Instead, it was the perfect blend of wonder and laughter.

  He pushed his pants down, kicking off his shoes at the same time. His erection was standing at full-mast and he prayed he could keep it that way long enough to get inside her. Sunday licked her lips as she looked at him and Patrick knew his concern was genuine. He’d never make it at this rate.

  He was about to join her on the bed when he remembered something. He bent over to retrieve his wallet from his pants.

  Sunday watched him questioningly.

  “Um, Sunday. I hope you won’t take this the wrong way.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I bought condoms a couple of weeks ago.”

  Sunday sat up. “For me or for Kathleen?”

  “Don’t be silly, lass. Of course I bought them for you.”

  “Bit sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

  He shrugged, pulling a condom out of his wallet and donning it. “I’m not sure it was cockiness so much as hope.”

  She giggled and lay back down. “Come here and show me some of that cockiness.”

  “I can see the regulars in the pub haven’t been a good influence on you.” He climbed onto the bed and crawled over Sunday’s body. The humor dispersed at their close proximity. Patrick listened to Sunday’s breathing quicken, felt his own heart rate accelerate.

  He kissed her softly as he placed the head of his member at her opening. Sunday wrapped her legs around his. Patrick was blown away by her complete faith in him. She trusted him to protect her, to keep her safe.

  He’d never let her down. He watched her face carefully, giving her one last chance to change her mind, to call a halt.

  Sunday captured his gaze. “Don’t stop, Pat.”

  “Should I do this quickly?”

  She nodded.

  He retreated a fraction of an inch then returned with a hard press. He broke through the thin restraint, taking her virginity as surely as he gave his own.

  Sunday gasped and held him tightly, her grip around his shoulders nearly impenetrable. Patrick froze, buried completely inside her. He forced air into his lungs and fought the urge to come. It took every ounce of strength in his body, but somehow he managed to beat back the need to erupt.

  Neither of them moved for several long moments.

  Sunday broke the silence first. “Are you okay?”

  “I can’t move.”

  She cupped his face and looked at him. “Are you hurt?”

  “If I move the slightest bit, I’m going to come, love. I think this is going to be the shortest sex in history.”

  Sunday laughed, the motion jarring him enough that he groaned and gritted his teeth.

  “Dammit. Don’t laugh. You’re killing me.”

  Sunday sobered up, but barely. She was still grinning when she spoke. “Come, Pat. We have plenty of time to perfect this. We have forever.”

  He didn’t need to hear more. His body was in agony, demanding release. He pulled out a few inches then slid back in. He managed four good thrusts before he exploded. He wasn’t certain, but he thought his eyes rolled back in his head and he was worried he’d overflowed the condom. He’d never felt anything so intense, so fucking incredible.

  Patrick held himself on his elbows above her precious body as a stream of words flew from him—a mixture of sweet words of love and dirty promises of how he was going to make this up to her.

  Sunday simply stroked his back until his climax subsided and sanity returned.

  “Tonight is the best night of my life,” she said when he pulled out of her body, rolled to the side and enfolded her in his embrace.

  “Mine too. I didn’t realize that would be…” Patrick had never had a problem stating how he felt, but with Sunday, he never seemed able to find a powerful enough sentiment.

  “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 a
re 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 Facebook and Twitter. She blogs at International Heat and hangs out on the Heat Wave Readers Yahoo group.

  Mari welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

  Tell Us What You Think

  We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at [email protected].

  Also by Mari Carr

  Black Jack

  Cocktales 1: Party Naked

  Cougar Challenge: Assume the Positions

  Covert Lessons

  Everything Nice

  Inflamed

  Kiss Me, Kate

  Rekindled

  Retreat

  Scoring

  Spitfire

  Sugar and Spice

  Three Reasons Why

  White Knight

  Wild Irish 1: Come Monday

  Wild Irish 2: Ruby Tuesday

  Wild Irish 3: Waiting for Wednesday

  Wild Irish 4: Sweet Thursday

  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

  Retreat

  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.

  www.ellorascave.com