It had started raining again while they toured the grocery store so Murphy took the bag holding coffee, orange juice, and chocolate milk from Wren and stored it in his rucksack. They walked quickly, hand in hand, the last few blocks, but were completely soaked by the time they made it to the building where Wren's loft was.

She shivered in the elevator and Murphy's eyes were drawn to the goose bumps on her arms and the way the soaked material of her shirt clung to her breasts. He could very clearly make out her nipples, stiff with cold, and he didn't hesitate to drop his bag and corner her in the elevator.

His hands cupped her breasts as his mouth brushed hers. As quickly as the kiss had started, it deepened, tongues winding, teeth tugging, all the while his thumbs rolling over the peaks of her breasts until she was panting into his mouth. Her hips rocked shamelessly into his and he pulled his lips from hers very briefly.

"I've been wantin' to do that since I first saw ye tonight," Murphy growled. His hands slipped down to the hemline of her skirt and pressed against the cool flesh of her thighs before fingering the tops of her boots. "Don't leave much to the imagination, does it?" he chided.

Wren raised an eyebrow. "You'd be surprised."

Murphy countered her look with one of his own. "Oh, really?" he asked as his fingertips skimmed up her bare thighs and disappeared beneath her skirt.

She shivered at the coolness of his touch and tilted her head back with a sigh. He searched higher and higher, wondering when he might encounter…

"Aw, hell, girl," he groaned, pressing his forehead to her neck. "Yer not wearing any underwear."

"Hmm," Wren confirmed. "Not anymore." She twisted in his grasp and let her legs widen, pushing the heat and dampness between her thighs into Murphy's hand. "Touch me, Murph. Use your fingers on me."

Pulling his face from her neck, he stared down at her, her dark blue eyes blazing with lust. Licking his lips, he drew just the pads of his fingers along the seam of her, skimming the bare skin and encountering the first flush of wetness. His tongue touched hers just as gently and he felt her shake in his arms. On the second pass he turned his hand, this time sinking his thumb down at the top of her sex to press against her clit – hard enough to let her know he was there, but not enough to slake the desire scorching her veins. He growled as her fingers sank into his hair and pulled roughly.

"Fuck, Murph," she hissed, licking her lips. "Please. More. Please." She didn't care that she sounded desperate – she was. Desperate for him, his touch, his taste, kiss, scent, rough whiskered cheeks and strong hands…

The elevator stopped and Wren whimpered as Murphy's hands slid back out from under her skirt. "C'mon," he whispered hotly. His mouth landed on hers again, soft and urgent.

He pressed against her as she worked the lock on her door; the evidence of his arousal was crushed against her ass and the rough stubble on his chin scraped the nape of her neck as his mouth wandered across her skin. "Ye taste like the rain," he muttered, and his fingertips danced down the naked length of her spine to land on her ass and squeeze firmly.

They crashed through the door, his rucksack and her purse forgotten. Their mouths battled as they stumbled through the main floor until finally he had her pressed against the kitchen counter. He tangled his fingers through her hair and drew his mouth along her jaw, to her ear, and down her throat to her collarbone. He pulled away abruptly and spun her so that he was once more pressed against her ass and the edge of the counter was digging into her hipbones. A soft cry escaped her lips and her hands connected with the countertop as she bucked back into him. He wasted no time and snaked one hand up the front of her shirt to tug sharply at first one nipple and then the other. His other hand worked the button of her skirt open and dove down to find her clit hard and slippery.

Another sharp cry tore from her throat as his fingers ignited the icy hot flames of pleasure licking over her skin. She was wild, reaching behind her to yank at his hair, pulling his mouth to hers at an awkward and satisfying angle. Sinking her teeth into his bottom lip she moaned hotly and grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking it up.

"Clothes off," she panted, tugging the damp denim of her skirt down her hips and letting it fall to the ground. "Hurry," she urged, trying to turn in his arms.

Murphy grunted at her eagerness and spun them once more so that now Wren was face to face with the top of her table. She heard the cool click of Murphy's belt opening, and the rustle of worn denim and soft cotton followed. His shirt sailed past her and landed somewhere on the floor near the living room. She had just enough time to pull her blouse over her head when Murphy's hand connected with her shoulder, pushing her back down to the table. Her hands were still tangled in her shirt and she would have protested had Murphy not chosen that moment to sink his cock fully inside, effectively sucking the breath from her lungs.

"Christ, you're wet," he murmured almost reverently. He moaned as he slowly drew from her body and then pushed his way back in against her clenching muscles. He worked her pussy like that, diving in slowly and dragging his cock back out, until he felt her start to shake and her breathing became choppy.

Her eyes rolled back as she felt his cock sliding into her. An inch at a time he went at her, rocking his hips until her ass was pressed against his pelvis. He bucked into her gently, barely moving, but it was enough to pull a whine from her mouth. Her fingers clenched the damp material of her shirt and her elbows ground against the wood of the table, but the feeling of Murphy inside of her, pushing up into her limits, erased all other sensation.

His fingertips glided down from her neck and shoulder where he held her and skimmed along her flanks until he had her hips cupped in his hands. Then he began to move more purposefully, pushing her off of his length only to drag her back into his pelvis. Each thrust was punctuated by a choppy cry from Wren and a deep grunt from Murphy, and each of them grew louder with every pass.

Murphy hissed through his teeth as he stroked double time. One hand slid round from her hip, fingertips dancing over where they joined and then slipping up to rub furiously at her clit. "Feckin' come," he moaned hoarsely, drawing his other hand back and smacking her soundly on one ass cheek. "Come on, Wren, come fer me."

Wren's moan was drawn out and her thighs shuddered at the commanding tone of Murphy's voice. "Yes," she hissed, her eyes squeezing shut. Her hands braced against the table and allowed her to push back and meet him with more force. "Harder," she wailed as a choppy breath sailed out of her lungs.

His pelvis crashed into her ass, which in turn drove her harder into the edge of the table. Her elbows skidded. She didn't care. She heard Murphy behind her, panting, grunting, coming apart at the seams, and all the while his fingers stroked and slid and strummed in a desperate attempt to have her finish before him. He owed her that much after that morning. "Please," he begged, straining to hold himself back. His hips slowed and he concentrated on the force of his thrusts, curving his chest over her back until his lips hovered at her ear and the stubble of his chin and jaw scraped at her skin.

She shivered as his hot breath heaved in her ear and the brush of his beard against the sensitive skin of her neck made her back arch. The muscles that were clamping at Murphy squeezed harder and her eyes slammed shut as she chased her orgasm down with rabid determination.

"That's it," Murphy growled, prodding her along. "So feckin' tight round' me, girl. Make me lose my mind," he mumbled.

"Ah…shit…Murph!" She suddenly yelped and froze and Murphy took the opportunity to yank her back against him, pushing his cock as deep as it would go and holding her there as she began to quake around him.

"Oh, fuck me," Murphy groaned. He hissed sharply and then grunted, and then thrusted deep and sharp. Once, twice, thr – nope. Before he could get the third thrust in, he came, hot and fast, and mumbled incoherently into her hair before stalling behind her.

In a daze, she felt him slip from her, and vaguely registered the dull thud as he collapsed on the floor behind her. When her breathing had returned to normal, she dared a glanced back over her shoulder and found Murphy sprawled on his back on her kitchen floor, shirtless, his pants around his ankles, and one shoe off. His chest heaved as he caught his breath and his lips moved softly, muttering to himself, to her, to God, who knew?

Wren giggled. At the light sound, Murphy cracked an eye open and found the blonde leaning back against the table, shaking her hands from her shirt and still clad in her knee-high boots. It was almost enough to make him hard again – almost. He needed a rest. Maybe another beer. He sighed and stretched, winking at Wren. "Gonna need a drink afta' tha'," he droned thickly.

"Hmmm," Wren lazily agreed and took a second to slip her boots off before padding across the kitchen naked. The blast of cool air from the refrigerator was delightful and her skin pulled into gooseflesh once more as she reached in and grabbed two cans of Guinness. She popped the cans open and poured them into two glasses, staring at the rush of dark espresso foam. The click of a Zippo sounded a few seconds later and she turned to find Murphy still sprawled, spread eagle, with a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"I 'aven't felt that good since David O'Leary scored the penalty kick against Romania in 1990," Murphy breathed dreamily, smoke curling out of his nose.(1)

Wren stood over him and waved the glass of beer over Murphy's line of vision. "C'mon, Murph," she sang, "get up!"

Murphy wrinkled his nose at her teasing but sat up with a long groan and reached for the glass offered to him.

Wren smiled. "Good boy. Now, roll over and beg," she joked.

"Christ, girl," Murphy muttered, "ye had me panting and howling not five minutes ago. Almost ad' me playin' dead. What else do ye want from me?" He fixed her with a narrowed gaze and a grin.

She reached out and ruffled his hair. "I need a shower," she announced with a shiver.

"Hmm," Murphy agreed, taking another healthy sip of beer. "Need someone to wash yer back?" he called out to her naked backside as she wandered from the kitchen.

"Among other things," she answered as she ascended the stairs.

He sat for a moment, listening as she rummaged about in her room upstairs. Finally, he heaved himself from the floor with a groan, wincing at tight muscles. He scanned the kitchen and living room for damage, gathering their discarded clothes in one hand and their bags in the other. When the front door was locked, his rucksack unpacked and contents stashed in the fridge, he took the stairs two at a time and entered Wren's bedroom just in time to hear the shower start.

He washed her back, like he had offered to, in slow, sweeping strokes; up her spine and out across her shoulders, then back down and around her hips. Little by little, she melted back into him until his chest was mashed against her back. His lips wandered gently over the nape of her neck and the shell of her ear and he slid the soapy sponge to the front of her body, washing down over her pert breasts, between them, across her belly and the tops of her thighs. Each pass of his hands did the opposite of what she was hoping for – instead of lulling her into a deep, boneless sleep, every nerve ending came alive.

"Ba mhaith liom a bhlaiseadh leat aris," he groaned softly, his fingertips skidding back up over her nipples. "Ta tu cosuil le siucra ar mo theanga."(2)

She was hyper-aware of him standing behind her, muttering incantations in Irish Gaelic in that low, lilting voice. She didn't know what he was saying but it didn't really matter. She whimpered just slightly, turning her head into his shoulder and kissing the warm, damp flesh there. She shifted, turning in his arms, and raised her lips to his chin, sucking the water that rained down there. Her hands splayed over his chest and then up, over his neck to wind in his thick, dark hair. He grinned and pushed the damp strands of blonde hair from her face before his hands glided down her slick skin and caught the backs of her thighs. He lifted her easily and backed her into the low shelf at the end of the shower stall, pushing aside the various bottles of shampoo and body wash. The tiles were cold, a shock to her over-heated flesh. With hooded eyes she watched Murphy sink to his knees, using his shoulders to push hers wider.

She held him steady with a hand in his hair and closed her eyes to the rough-slick feel of his tongue gliding along the delicate folds of her sex. Steam rose around her, adding to the cloudiness of her senses. His lips pulled her clit into his mouth, sucking gently, and then his tongue flickered back out, swiping against her before sinking in deep and slow. Her back arched and she pulled him closer, drawing her legs up and sliding them over his shoulders. Her toes flexed against his muscles and urged him along; her breathy sighs made him shudder and she felt it right to her core.

She was close. He knew it, he tasted it, and he pursued it, fisting his erection in one hand and pushing against her inner thigh with the other, holding her open to his mouth. Of course he wanted her again; he always wanted her, but she was tired. The fluid motion of her limbs, despite the tension in her hips and belly, was indication that once he threw her into completion, he'd probably have to carry her to the bed.

Each breath drew pleasure deeper into her veins and Wren relaxed into its vibrations, rolling her hips gently to meet Murphy's mouth. Her orgasm hit her quick but soft, dissolving into a sharp pinpoint of pleasure punctuated by a soft cry that bounced off the shower tiles. Sweet warmth drenched his tongue and Murphy hummed his approval against her. She heard his breath hitch; seconds later he groaned and she knew that he was coming. A soft, satisfied smile formed on her lips as she relaxed, letting the last tremors of pleasure roll through her body.

He shut the water off and gathered her into his arms, setting her down on her feet long enough to wrap a towel around her body and get most of the water off. She hummed and sighed pleasantly, looking at him with lazy, sated eyes. After towelling her hair as best he could, he couldn't help but grin at the sleepy expression on her face. He turned her towards the bedroom and gave her a little push.

"A chodladh le tu mo ghra, chun aisling." They both collapsed on her bed and curled into the duvet and pillows. He stretched out beside her, his palm warm on her back as she drifted off to sleep. "Feichfidh me tar eis dui tar maidin."(3)

"I can't believe you carried mashed potatoes around Southie for half the night last night," Wren chuckled from her spot on the couch. They were sprawled out on the couch, each leaning back against an arm, their legs intertwined along the middle cushions.

Murphy glanced up from the paper he was reading and grinned. "You wanted breakfast," he pointed out before turning back to the paper.

Wren stretched, groaning at the fullness in her belly, and swung her feet into Murphy's lap, nudging him playfully. "It was really good," she praised.

"Ye can thank me ma," he mumbled absently as a frown marred his features.

Wren sat up at the change in his usually carefree outlook. "Something wrong?"

Murphy growled and folded the paper before tossing it onto the coffee table. "Fecking murders in this city are unbelievable."

Wren leaned over and grabbed up the discarded newspaper, scanning the pages until she found the story Murphy was referring to. Sure enough, another hit by the Italian mob had resulted not only in the death of a few mafia lackies, but three innocent bystanders, as well. "They have been getting worse as of late," Wren pointed out.

"Should just fecking put them all out of their misery. Kill em all," he muttered darkly.

"Hey," Wren interjected, setting the paper aside and crawling up Murphy's legs. "Unless you're a cop – and you said you weren't – there's not much you can do about it. Actually, if you were a cop, there wouldn't be much you could do about, either." She situated herself in Murphy's lap and combed her fingers back through his dark hair. "Human nature is a hard thing to swallow."

"Aye," Murphy mumbled, closing his eyes at Wren's touch. He opened them moments later, looking up at her from under dark lashes. "Take my mind off of it?"

Wren smiled slyly. Murphy was already lifting her and tugging her lounge pants down her hips. He shifted beneath her, unbuttoned his fly and pulled his cock free before settling her in his lap again. She rolled her hips up and hovered her lips over his before sinking down on him slowly.

"Ah, girl," he sighed, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Ye could make me forget me own name."

She smiled and kissed him into silence, save for the heaving sighs and panting. He barely had to move, left it all up to her rocking and riding, clutching at his shoulders as she ground her hips down against him. Their tongues wound together and they came at the same time, clinging to each other in the still quiet of the loft.

1) The premise for this line is actually from the film Trainspotting. If you've seen the movie, you know what I'm talking about. And if you know your Irish soccer, you know the goal that Murphy is referring to - O'Leary scored his penalty kick against Romania at the World Cup in Italy in 1990, resulting in a victory over Romania.

2) Bastardized Irish Gaelic: "I want to taste you again. You're like sugar on my tongue"

3) Bastardized Irish Gaelic: "To bed with you, my love, to dreams. I'll wake you in the morning."