60. Eamon #2
She won’t meet my gaze. And that tells me everything. She’s retreating, folding herself up behind those walls she thinks will keep her safe. But I won’t let her.
"Come with me," I say, already steering her toward the car before she can build another excuse.
"Where are we going?" she asks, a hint of exhaustion threading through her voice.
"You need a break."
She gives me a skeptical look, guarded and calculating. But she doesn’t fight me. She slides into the passenger seat without a word.
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing at the marina, the salt-tinged air cool against our skin, the water whispering secrets in the fading light. Aoife’s eyes narrow as I lead her toward a private dock, the water lapping gently against the boats moored there.
"What is this?" she asks, her voice wary.
I smile as I step onto the deck of the sleek yacht, the polished surface gleaming under the last golden light of the day. "This, mo chroí , is the Eclipsed Serenity."
She hesitates at the edge of the dock. "This is yours?"
I extend a hand, watching as she eyes it suspiciously before finally stepping onto the deck.
She moves cautiously, her steps measured, testing the yacht’s stability beneath her feet.
The faintest frown tugs at her lips as she glances around, taking in the pristine deck, the soft glow of recessed lighting coming to life as the sun sinks lower on the horizon.
She lets out a breath of disbelief, trailing her fingers along the edge of the built-in bar. “How many bodies have been dumped off this thing?”
"You wound me, mo chroí ," I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock offense.
"Do I?" she murmurs, glancing at me from beneath her lashes, the ghost of a challenge lurking behind her words.
There’s a challenge in her voice, one that sparks a slow grin across my face.
I don't answer.
Instead, I pour us both a drink, letting the silence stretch between us like a live wire. When I hand her a glass, her fingers brush mine and linger, just for a breath too long. A tremor, so slight she probably thinks I miss it, runs through her hand before she pulls away.
I bring my drink to my lips, watching as she finally lifts hers, masking whatever cracked through her behind the rim of the glass.
“I never would’ve guessed you owned a yacht,” she says. “You don’t step away from work long enough to relax.”
“And yet, here I am.”
She hums, unconvinced. “So, do you take business calls from the deck? Host meetings with your underlings while the waves crash in the background?”
I chuckle. “You’d be surprised how much business gets done on the water.”
She shakes her head in a slow, tired motion, then turns away from me toward the horizon. The last threads of sunlight melt into the sea, staining the water in deep, bruised colors—violet, indigo, the bleeding edge of black.
For a long moment, she just stands there, silhouetted against the dying light, letting the slow, rhythmic sway of the yacht cradle her.
The wind brushes strands of hair across her face, but she doesn’t move to tame them. She simply breathes as if trying to remember how.
Out here, surrounded by endless water and fading sky, she finally lets herself be small. Not the girl who taught herself to be untouchable. Not the Syndicate’s hidden heir. Not the executioner.
Just a woman standing at the edge of the world, trying not to fall apart.
“How many women have you brought on board?” she asks after a long moment, her voice softer now, as if she's afraid of the answer.
"None," I say.
Her lips part slightly, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it, slipping her expression back behind cool, practiced walls. "Not even one?" she asks, quieter this time.
I shake my head. "This is a part of my life I've never wanted to share with anyone before."
The moment stretches between us, thick and heavy with everything neither of us is ready to name. Maybe she feels it too because she doesn’t tease, doesn’t deflect, doesn’t turn it into a joke the way she usually would.
She just sets her glass down, her fingers lingering on the edge for a breath longer than necessary, then moves past me toward the bow.
Toward the open water, where the horizon stretches into forever.
She braces her hands against the railing, standing at the very edge. I follow, stepping up behind her. My hands find her waist, gentle at first, almost asking permission, and when she doesn’t pull away, I draw her back against my chest.
Aoife leans into me, a soft, shuddering breath slipping from her lips as the last light of the sun sinks into the sea.
"It's beautiful," she murmurs, her voice barely louder than the wind.
I press my lips to the curve of her shoulder, tasting salt and warmth. "It is," I whisper.
But I’m not looking at the sunset. I’m looking at her.
She turns in my arms, tilting her chin up, and I see it—the moment she lets go. The moment the walls drop, the fear falls away, and only feeling remains.
And then she kisses me.
It’s slow at first, desperate and searching, but then it deepens, her fingers tangling in my hair, her body pressing into mine, heat blooming between us.
I lift her, carrying her inside the cabin and lowering her onto the bed.
I don’t rush. Tonight’s not about control or power or proving a point.
It’s about her—about us.
I take my time, dragging my hands over every inch of her, memorizing the way her body reacts to my touch. My fingers skim along the delicate curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the soft swell of her breasts.
She’s tense at first, every muscle tight, fighting the slow unraveling I’m asking of her. Her breath catches—a sharp, fractured inhale she can’t quite hide. For a moment, she holds herself rigid, caught between instinct and fear.
Then, slowly, her body begins to yield.
The tension bleeds out of her muscles, her weight shifting, barely, but enough, leaning into me without meaning to, as if instinct is dragging her somewhere her mind hasn’t given permission to follow.
I let my fingers slide lower, toying with the hem of her dress. “Let me see you.”
“You want it off? Then do something about it,” she taunts, eyes dark with challenge. She wants this, but she wants to make me work for it.
Slowly, I drag the straps of her dress over her shoulders, my fingers grazing the sensitive skin there. Slipping my fingers beneath the lace of her bra, I push the cups down, allowing her breasts to spill free.
My hands find her, slow and sure, but not patient. There’s no patience left in me when it comes to Aoife, only hunger and the aching need to know her in ways no one else ever will.
I cup her breasts, the weight of them perfect in my palms, my thumbs teasing over her nipples until they harden beneath my touch. A gasp slips from her lips, sharp and helpless, and she arches into me, silently demanding more.
Dragging my mouth lower, I trace the curve of her breast with the edge of my tongue, savoring the way she trembles when I close my lips around her peak. I suck—slow, deliberate, just hard enough to pull another broken sound from her throat.
As I peel the dress from her body, my knuckles graze her ribs, the flat plane of her stomach, the sharp line of her hips. For a moment, all I can do is look at the way she sprawls across the bed, bare, wild, burning, like a flame no one has ever dared to touch until now.
"Beautiful," I murmur against her skin, the word tasting like a prayer I don't deserve to say.
I trail kisses lower, each one slow and claiming, mapping every inch of her like she’s mine to learn and memorize and worship. Her stomach quivers under my mouth, her breath fracturing into uneven gasps as I move lower, lower still.
When I reach the curve of her inner thigh, I slip my fingers beneath the lace clinging to her hips, dragging it down, baring her completely to me. I press a kiss just above the place she aches for me, feeling her tense, feeling her fight the instinct to beg.
Not yet.
I want her undone.
I want her wrecked.
I want her ruined in ways no one else will ever be able to put back together.
"Stop teasing me," she breathes, her voice cracked open, threaded with frustration and need.
Her body is strung tight beneath my hands, every muscle trembling on the edge of surrender.
I groan against her, dragging her thighs wider, anchoring her to the bed as my mouth claims her without mercy.
I lick, tease, devour until she’s gasping, rocking against me, her hands tangled in the sheets as she fights not to fall apart too soon.
"Eamon," she cries, my name falling from her lips like a prayer she doesn't even know she's saying.
I lift my head, fingers slipping into her, slow and deep, stroking her in a rhythm designed to undo her completely.
"Say it again," I rasp, my voice rough, the need clawing up my throat.
She does, broken and desperate. When I finally give her what she needs, she shatters beneath me, her body seizing around my fingers, a raw, helpless moan tearing from her throat.But I don’t stop.
Not yet. I drive her higher, pull every last tremor from her, wringing the pleasure out of her body until she’s boneless and trembling, utterly wrecked in my hands.
Only then do I rise over her, catching her mouth in a bruising kiss, pressing her into the sheets like I could brand myself into her skin. She claws at me, nails dragging down my back, desperate to pull me closer, to pull me inside where she already belongs.
"Tell me what you want," I rasp against her lips, my cock throbbing against her thigh.
She meets my gaze, no hesitation, no fear, only need. "You. Every part of you."
With a groan that rips from deep inside me, I push into her slow, brutal, claiming her all over again. And this time, I lose myself completely.
Every thrust is a vow I don't know how to speak aloud. Every broken sound she makes drives me harder, deeper until there is nothing left but this beautiful act of trying to carve ourselves into each other before the world can tear us apart.
She comes first, her body clenching around me, her cries muffled against my shoulder as she falls apart in my arms. The feel of her shattering, of her holding onto me like she’ll drown if she lets go, rips through my control.
I drive into her one last time, spilling into her with a groan that sounds more like a prayer than anything human. Her name is the last thing on my lips as the world collapses around us.
I ease out of her slowly, carefully, the loss like a fresh wound I don’t know how to close.
But I don't let her go. I gather her against my chest, anchoring her there, feeling every trembling breath she takes against my skin.
Her fingers trace slow, mindless patterns over my heart until her breathing evens out and sleep finally pulls her under.
But I stay awake, staring into the darkness above us.
And when I’m sure she’s lost to dreams, I let the words fall from my mouth, barely a whisper against the quiet. "I love you, mo chroí. "
I don't want this to end.
God help me. I don't know if I’ll survive it if it does.