Chapter 15 Mac #3
I didn't answer because no, that wasn't my assessment. I knew I photographed well. Knew my face opened doors. But beautiful?
Eamon's hand stopped moving. "Look at me."
I did.
"You're beautiful," he said again. "Not because you're famous or have good bone structure.
You're beautiful because you burn pancakes and buy your aunt blankets even though you're terrified.
You're beautiful because you're scared and show up anyway.
Because you're lying here letting me touch you even though everything in you wants to take control. "
I was entirely transparent to him.
"That's the beauty I see," he said. "And I want to worship it. Will you let me?"
I couldn't speak. Nodded.
"Words, Mac."
"Yes." It came out raw and honest. "Yes."
His mouth moved lower. Down my chest. Across my stomach. His hands followed in the wake.
When his fingers reached my belt, I instinctively reached for him—to reciprocate, to make this something I could manage.
He caught my wrists. Pinned them gently above my head.
"No," he said. "Let me. This is for you. You don't owe me anything. You're allowed just to receive. Understand?"
"I don't know how."
"I know. That's why I'm teaching you."
He released my wrists and gazed into my eyes. "Keep your hands there. If you move them, I stop. Clear?"
"That's not—"
"Clear?"
"Yes. Clear."
"Good."
He unfastened my belt, his knuckles grazing my lower abdomen. Then the button on my jeans. Then the zipper, teeth parting with a sound that sent electricity up my spine.
Every nerve fired. From anticipation. From wanting something and not knowing whether I was allowed this much pleasure.
Eamon's hands were patient, his fingertips leaving trails of fire on my hipbones. He peeled my jeans down my thighs like he had all the time in the world, like we weren't counting down to a raid, and Vanessa wasn't waiting with restraints and her toxic obsession.
For the moment, none of that existed. Only Eamon's hands and mouth tracing the hollow of my throat, curve of my ribs, and the sensitive skin below my navel.
"Breathe," he said, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
I did my best, chest heaving.
His mouth moved lower, tongue leaving a damp path.
When he wrapped his fingers around my cock, squeezing with perfect pressure, I stopped breathing entirely.
"Easy," he murmured, thumb circling the sensitive head. "I've got you."
I gripped the pillow, knuckles white. Fought the instinct to thrust into his palm.
"That's it," he said. "Feel. Don't think. Don't perform. Be here in the moment with me." His hand moved. Slow. Deliberate.
He was learning what made my stomach muscles clench, what made my breath catch, and what made my hips lift despite attempts to stay still.
When his mouth replaced his hand, hot and wet and perfect, I whimpered.
"Good," he said against my skin, lips vibrating against my shaft. "That's what I want. Real sounds. Real responses. You."
I was coming apart, desire coiling tight in my groin. Every defense crumbled under his attention.
He didn't rush. He maintained a steady rhythm, tongue sliding along my cock, cheeks sucked inward.
My hands twisted in the pillowcase. My back arched off the bed.
I almost reached for him—instinct, need, the desperate want to give back—but stopped myself. Gripped the pillow harder instead.
Eamon felt me tense. Pulled back just enough to speak. "Good. That's good, Mac. Stay with me. Let me have this."
His voice—how he made my restraint feel like a gift to him—cracked something open.
Nothing else existed except Eamon's mouth, his hands gripping my trembling thighs, and the way he was showing me what it meant to have him worship my body.
"Let go," he said in a hoarse voice. "I've got you." I did. The orgasm hit like a wave breaking through my core. Not gentle. Pure release—months of tension draining out, leaving me boneless.
And then—unexpectedly—my eyes burned. Not from pleasure. From something bigger.
Relief. Permission.
The overwhelming evidence that someone saw me completely and didn't need me to perform.
I pressed my face against Eamon's shoulder before he could see.
But he knew. His hand wrapped around the back of my head, steady and sure. "I know. I've got you."
Eamon stayed with me. Brought me back down. Cleaned me up with tissues from the nightstand.
When I could breathe again, he stretched out beside me and pulled the quilt over us. Let me curl against his chest.
"Okay?" he asked quietly.
"I don't—" I stopped. "You didn't—"
"This wasn't about me."
"But that's not fair—"
"Mac." His hand cupped the back of my neck. "Did you like it?"
"Yes."
"Did you feel like you had to perform?"
"No."
"Then it was perfect." He kissed my forehead. "You're allowed to receive, Mac. You're allowed to take without giving back. You're allowed to be the focus of someone's complete attention without owing them anything. That's not transactional. That's love."
The word settled between us like snow on dark water. Neither of us had said it before.
Now it sat there. Real. Named. Impossibly fragile and somehow inevitable all at once.
"Is that what this is?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah. I think it is."
I closed my eyes. Felt his heartbeat steady against my cheek.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The street was silent except for occasional cars, tires hissing on wet pavement.
I was learning what safe felt like.
Not controlled, managed, or performed.
It felt like Eamon's arms, with his breathing evening out.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"For what?"
"For teaching me."
His arms tightened. "Thank you for letting me."
The last thing I remembered before sleep was thinking: Today, we end this.
For the first time since Thanksgiving, I knew what safe felt like.
And I wasn't letting that go.