At this point, Brigid didn't think she could hold back if she wanted to. And she didn't. Not even a little. The wind whipped and outside the house, the surf pounded against the sand both from the wind she called and her own connection to it through the Irish she spoke as he fucked her within an inch of her life. She felt her nails sink into his skin and leaned in to find his lips with hers, to graze her teeth at his throat, until she pulled back to look into his eyes, her own nearly black from pleasure as she spoke to him in Irish.