She rises on her toes, lips brushing my ear. “Wherever you want me.”
Every cell in my body detonates. I kiss her—slow, deep, savoring the taste of her, the warmth of her mouth, the way she goes pliant and desperate in the same breath. She fists my hair, pulling me closer, and I groan into her lips.
“Jesus, Siobhán,” I breathe against her mouth. “Tá mé ar mire leat.3I’m mad with you.”
“I know,” she whispers, nails dragging down my chest. “Show me.”
I lift her—gentle, effortless—and press her back against the hallway wall, her gown spilling around my hands. She gasps, wrapping her legs around my waist as I kiss down her throat, slow and reverent, tasting her skin like it’s something sacred.
Because it is. It always has been.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her collarbone.
“You do that to me,” she whispers back, breathless.
God help me. I slide my hands up her thighs, pushing the fabric higher, baring inch after inch of her until the cool air hits the warm heat between her legs. She trembles, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.
“Cillian…”
“I’ve got you,” I say, voice low, raw. “Always.”
My fingers trace the inside of her thigh—just barely—and she shivers like I’ve struck a match along her spine. When I reach the softest part of her, wet and wanting, she bites a sound into her lip.
“Look at me, dove.”
Her eyes lift—green and glassy and full of hunger.
“Good girl,” I breathe.
Her whole body tightens around the words. I stroke her slowly, reverently, watching her fall apart, watching her cling to my shoulders like she’ll lift off the earth if she lets go. She whispers my name between breaths, soft little pleas that undo me more than any scream ever could.
When she’s trembling, ready to break, I kiss her—deep, consuming—and guide myself to her, pushing in slowly, inch by inch, watching her lips part in a silent cry.
“Fucking Christ,” I groan into her neck. “You feel like heaven.”
Her fingers dig into my back. “More,” she whispers. “Please.”
I thrust deeper, slow and steady, savoring the way she melts into me, the way her breath catches each time I bottom out. She clings to me, forehead against mine, lips parting with every movement.
“Mo chroí,” I whisper.My heart.
She gasps. “Say it again.”
I thrust into her harder, hand cradling the back of her head. “Mo chroí. Mo ghrá. Mo shaol. My heart, my love, my life.”
She whimpers—a soft, broken sound—and kisses me like she’s drowning. I kiss her back like she’s oxygen. We move together—slow, sensual, every bit of us tangled in devotion and hunger. Her gown slips from one shoulder; I kiss the skin revealed there. Her ring brushes my cheek as she holds my face. And when she breaks—crying out softly into my mouth—I hold her tightly, whispering Irish against her skin, guiding her through it.
“Tá tú slán. Tá tú sábháilte.4I’ve got you.”
She shudders, still trembling around me, and I follow—thrusting deep, burying my face in her neck as I spill into the woman I’ve loved since I was a boy. For a moment, neither of us breathe.
Then she cups my face, thumb brushing my lips, and whispers, “I love you, Cillian O’Dwyer.”
Christ, I’ll die from it.I kiss her—slow and reverent this time—and carry her to bed, curling around her under the blankets, her breath soft against my chest.
Safe. Home. Mine. And I fall asleep with her hand over my heart.
1.I am yours forever, my love
2.And I am yours forever, my dove
3.I’m crazy about you
4.You are safe, you are safe.