"Fuck," I groan into the crook of her neck. "You're so tight. You feel like you were made exactly for this."
"I was," she whispers and she wraps her legs around my waist to pull me deeper. "Take me, Cillian. Prove we're still alive."
The demand in her voice is all I need. I start to move, my hips snapping with a speed that I’ve been trying to suppress for the sake of her condition. Every thrust is deep and punishing, a heavy thud of bone against flesh that makes the tea cup rattle on the nightstand. She’s sobbing my name into the crook of my neck, her fingers digging into my shoulders with enough force to leave bruises, but it isn't enough. It’s never enough.
I feel the heat building in my gut, that white-hot pressure that tells me I’m seconds away from losing my mind and pouring myself into her. I can't finish here. I want her to feel the weight of me in a different way before the world comes knocking.
I pull out of her with a wet, sudden slide that makes her let out a whimper of protest. "Cillian, no. Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping," I rasp, my breath uneven. I reach down and scoop her into my arms, mindful of the heavy, warm swell of her stomach against my chest. She’s slick and flushed, her skin sliding against mine as I carry her toward the ensuite. "I want you under the water."
I kick the door open and turn the handle until the spray is steaming and thick. I don't wait for the glass to fog. I step into the stall with her still cradled against me and the water hits us like a physical blow, washing away the salt and the scent of the bed. I set her down with her back against the cool tile, but I don't let her go. I keep my hands on her waist, anchoring her while the steam rises around us.
"Turn around," I command, my voice a rough growl that echoes off the glass.
She obeys, her breath hitching as she leans forward to rest her forearms against the wall. It’s the safest position for the baby, giving her belly the space it needs while I take what I want. I stand behind her and the sight of her wet skin, the water sluicing down the curve of her spine and over her heavy hips, makes my vision blur.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this," I mutter, my hands sliding over her ribs to cup her breasts. The water is hot but she is hotter. I lean down to bite at the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder and she lets out a moan that I can feel in my own bones.
"Cillian, please," she gasps, her palms sliding against the wet tile as she tries to find purchase. "I need you back inside. Now."
I don't make her ask again. I guide my cock to her entrance, the friction of the water making the sensation sharper, more intense. I slide into her with one long, uncompromising drive that pins her to the wall. She lets out a long, high-pitched cry that is lost in the roar of the shower.
"Talk to me, Saoirse," I growl, my hands gripping her hips to set the pace. I’m hitting her deep, my length claiming every inch of her wet heat while the water pours over us. "Tell me how it feels."
"It's too much," she sobs, her head dropping forward as I pick up the speed. "You're... you're stretching me open. It's so big. God, Cillian."
"That's it," I rasp, my jaw set so hard it aches. I’m not even close to finished with her. "Take all of it. Every fucking bit."
I reach around her, my hand sliding down to find that sensitive peak, and I thumb it while I continue to drive into her from behind.
"Cillian," she screams, and the sound echoes off the wet tiles. "I’m going to—I can’t breathe?—"
"I've got you," I growl, my teeth grazing the back of her neck. "Come for me again, Saoirse. Let me feel it."
She shatters. Her walls grip me so tight, I lose my breath. I feel the violent tremors of her climax ripple through her entire body and it’s the final push I need. I stop holding back. I drive into her one last time, buried so deep I feel the thud of her heart, and I let out a guttural groan as I pour myself into her. The heat of my release is a searing brand that marks her in the steam and I hold her there until my legs are shaking and the world starts to come back into focus.
The water continues to pour over us while we stand there in the quiet aftermath. I stay buried inside her for a long minute, my forehead resting against the back of her head, just listening to the frantic hitch of her breath. Eventually, I pull out of her with a wet slide and turn the water down until it's just a lukewarm drizzle.
I take the soap and work up a lather in my hands. I’m methodical as I wash the sweat and the salt from her skin, my touch careful as I move over her stomach and down her thighs. She’s leaning against the wall with her eyes closed and a small, wrecked smile on her face. When I’m done, she takes the cloth from me.
"My turn," she whispers. Her voice is a shredded remnant of itself, but her hands are steady as she cleans the evidence of ourmorning from my body. It’s a quiet, domestic ritual that feels more intimate than the sex itself.
We step out of the shower and the room is thick with fog. I grab a towel and wrap it around her before I start drying her hair with a gentleness that would surprise the men who work for me. We move through the bedroom in silence, the weight of the coming day starting to settle back onto my shoulders. I pull on my suit and adjust my cuffs while she sits at the vanity to fix the copper mess of her hair.
"You ready?" I ask, catching her reflection in the mirror and needing to suck a breath in at how beautiful she is.
She stands up and smooths the fabric of her dress over her bump. She looks like a queen and a survivor and the love of my life all at once. "I'm ready," she says, her voice firm now. "Let's go end this."
22
CILLIAN
The chapel sits on the edge of the property overlooking the same stretch of sea she woke to weeks ago, stone walls restored but not modernized, windows prettily stained, benches polished by three generations of hands. We announced the date and the location two weeks ago under the pretext of keeping it small and contained, and every detail circulated exactly as intended. Close family only. Minimal staff. No press. No extended allies. Privacy.
Patrick will believe it.
Conall stands near the rear doors speaking quietly into an earpiece while two men check the perimeter sweep for the third time this morning, and Declan leans against a pillar pretending he’s only here as an uncle and not as the quiet architect of half our outer defenses. My mother adjusts flowers near the front, her movements precise, while Maeve argues with a caterer about the placement of trays as if this is any ordinary wedding.