Chapter 20 #2
"They thought they were protecting me," she says softly. "Especially after Siobhan died. Desmond was terrified something would happen to me, too. So was my father, in his own way, I think."
"And something almost did anyway." I lean back as the server returns with our drinks, waiting until she's gone before continuing. "You can't live your life in a cage, Maeve. Even if the bars are made of good intentions."
She takes a sip of her cider, considering my words. "Is that why you left Boston? To get out of a cage?"
The question catches me off guard, and I find myself answering more honestly than I intended. "Partly. Boston has too many ghosts for me. Too many memories of things I'd rather forget. Dublin felt like a fresh start.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s part of it. The closest I’ve come, with her.
"But you're a killer here," she says, and there's no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.
"Yeah." I take a long drink of my Guinness, the bitter taste familiar and grounding. "But I chose it. I was given a choice, and I made mine. Before, I felt… trapped. Like my life was turning out in a way that I hadn’t had any say in.”
"I understand that," she says quietly. "Feeling trapped in a role you never chose."
Our eyes meet across the table, and I realize we're more alike than I thought. Both of us shaped by violence and loss, both of us trying to figure out who we are outside of the expectations placed on us. Neither of us can escape them, not entirely… or this marriage we’ve been forced into.
The server returns to take our food order—a burger and fries for me, and fish and chips with a salad for Maeve, the only green thing in this place, I think—and the moment passes, but something has shifted between us.
The conversation flows more easily after that, moving from topic to topic with a naturalness I didn't expect.
Maeve tells me about the books she likes to read, about how she used to play piano before the deaths in her family.
I find myself telling her about Dublin, about the places I like to go when I need to think, about Flynn and how we met years ago when we were both young and stupid and thought we were invincible.
She laughs at some of my stories, and the sound is like music, bright and genuine. I realize I want to hear it again. I want to be the reason she laughs, I think, and the thought startles me. I’ve never had it before, about anyone.
The food arrives, and I watch her try to navigate eating fish and chips with a fork and knife before I show her how to just use her hands. She looks scandalized at first, then amused, and when she takes a bite, she closes her eyes in pleasure.
"This is amazing," she says, and there's a smudge of grease on her lower lip that I have the sudden urge to kiss away.
"Told you the food was good," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
We order a second round of drinks, still talking.
I can see the roses in Maeve’s cheeks, a smile on her lips, and suddenly, I want to stay out here with her forever.
I don’t want to go back to the apartment, where I’ll have to decide how this night ends, where I’ll have to grapple with my desire and my guilt.
I want this—the most simple pleasure I’ve ever enjoyed with a woman. I want her.
When we’ve finished our second round, I pay the bill and get Maeve her coat.
When we step back out into the Dublin night, the air has turned colder still, biting down to the bone with the wet.
Maeve shivers slightly, and without thinking, I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
It's far too big on her, swallowing her small frame, but she pulls it tighter around herself and smiles up at me.
"Thank you."
"Come on," I say, offering her my arm. "I want to show you something."
She takes my arm, her hand small and warm against my forearm, and I lead her through the streets toward the river.
It’s dark and quiet tonight, the water reflecting the lights of the city, and we walk along the quay in silence.
It's peaceful, the kind of peace I rarely allow myself to feel, and having Maeve beside me makes it better somehow.
"It's beautiful," she says, looking out over the water. "I can see why you like it here."
"It's not always like this," I admit. "Dublin can be rough. Especially my side of it. But there are moments like this, when it feels peaceful. Quiet."
She looks up at me, and in the dim light from the street lamps, her eyes are luminous. "You're different here. More relaxed."
"Maybe." I stop walking, turning to face her fully. "Or maybe it's you."
"Me?" She sounds surprised.
"You make me want to be different," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. "Better. Less of the man the Council made me and more of... I don't know. Someone who deserves you."
Her breath catches, and she reaches up, her hand touching my cheek. "Sean..."
I cover her hand with mine, holding it against my face.
"I know I've been a bastard to you. Pushing you away, treating you like you're a burden when you're anything but. I'm not good at this. At feelings. At being a husband. But… I could try. Try to… try.” I’m stumbling over my words now, feeling like a fool, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck until, suddenly, Maeve saves me.
"I want that too," she whispers, and then she's rising up on her toes, and I'm bending down, and our lips meet in a kiss that's softer than the one last night, more tentative, like we're both afraid of breaking this fragile thing between us. This moment that, I feel suddenly, couldn’t have happened anywhere else.
Out here, I don’t feel like the man I’m afraid of being with her…
the man who can’t be trusted with her. It feels like the world is small and safe in this spot, like we’re in a private bubble made just for us, and for a moment, I just let myself want.
I let myself have, because out here, we’ll have to stop eventually.
Her arms go around my neck, and my hands find her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens.
She tastes like cider and something sweeter, something that's just her, and I can't get enough.
My jacket falls from her shoulders, forgotten, and I back her up against the stone wall of the quay, pressing my body against hers.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and it goes straight to my cock. I'm hard already, and with her soft body against mine, I'm aching with need.
"Sean," she breathes against my mouth, and the way she says my name, breathy and wanting, nearly undoes me.
"We should go home," I manage to say, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark with desire, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"Yes," she agrees, and I grab my jacket from where it fell, draping it back over her shoulders before taking her hand and leading her back toward the apartment.
The walk back feels like it takes forever. Every step is torture, my body wound tight with want, and I'm achingly aware of Maeve beside me, her hand in mine, her breathing slightly uneven. When we finally reach the building, I'm practically vibrating with need.
Flynn is gone when we enter the apartment, a note on the counter saying his security replacement is on duty and doing patrols, and I send up a silent thank you to whatever gods are listening. I don't want an audience for this. I don't want anything to interrupt what's about to happen.
I don’t think I can stop it this time. I don’t know if I want to any longer, if I should, if I…
Maeve sets my jacket on the back of the couch, and when she turns to face me, there's nervousness in her eyes mixed with desire. "Sean, I—"
I cross to her in two strides, cutting off whatever she was going to say with another kiss.
This one is harder, more demanding, and she responds in kind, her hands fisting in my shirt as she pulls me closer.
I walk her backward toward the bedroom, our mouths never breaking apart, and when the back of her knees hit the bed, she falls onto it with a soft gasp.
I follow her down, covering her body with mine, and the feel of her beneath me is almost too much. I've wanted this for so long, fought against it for so long, and now that I'm finally allowing myself to have it, I feel like I'm drowning in her.
My hands find the button of her jeans, undoing it and sliding underneath to touch the soft skin of her hips, and she arches into my touch.
I kiss down her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips.
She's trembling, and I force myself to slow down, to be gentle with her.
"Are you sure?" I ask, pulling back to look at her. "We don't have to—"
"I'm sure," she says, her voice steady despite the trembling in her body. "I want this. I want you."
Those words break something in me, some last wall I'd been holding up, and I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into it. My hands work at the zipper of her jeans, tugging them down at the same time that I push her sweater up, wanting her naked, wanting to see all of her. Underneath, she’s wearing a simple black cotton bra and panties, and it's somehow more erotic than any lingerie could be.
I shed my own shirt, and her hands come up to touch my chest, tracing the lines of my tattoos, the scars that mark my skin. Her touch is gentle, reverent almost, and it makes my chest tight.
"You're beautiful," she whispers, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. I'm covered in scars and ink, a map of violence written on my skin, but she looks at me like I'm something painted and framed.
"You're the beautiful one," I say, my hands sliding up her sides, feeling the delicate curve of her ribs, the softness of her skin. "So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes."
She blushes, and I kiss her again, my hands working at the clasp of her bra.
It comes free, and I pull it away, revealing small, perfect breasts that fit exactly in my palms. I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth, and she gasps, her back arching off the bed.
I can’t get enough. Her nipple is tight between my lips, her body responding to every touch, every stroke of my hands and tongue, and I want more.
I want to taste her, to make her come, to…
My phone rings.
I ignore it, too focused on Maeve, on the way she's writhing beneath me, on the soft pleas falling from her lips. But it rings again, insistent, and I curse under my breath.
"Ignore it," Maeve breathes, her hands in my hair, trying to pull me back to her.
I want to. God, I want to. But the phone rings a third time, and I know that it’s not something I can ignore. If someone keeps calling me, then it’s important enough to pick up.
"Fuck," I growl, pulling away from her. "I'm sorry. I have to—"
"It's okay," she says, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes, the flush of arousal still coloring her skin.
I grab my phone from where I'd tossed it on the nightstand, and the name on the screen confirms my suspicions. Liam Fitzgerald.
"What?" I answer, not bothering to hide my irritation.
"We need you," Liam says, his voice clipped. "Now. There's been a situation."
"I'm busy."
"I don't care if you're fucking the Queen of England, Flannery. Get your arse down here. We've got a problem that needs your particular skill set."
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to throw the phone across the room. "Where?"
He gives me an address, and I memorize it, already running through what I'll need. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Make it ten," he says, and hangs up.
I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, looking at Maeve on the bed. She's pulled the sheet up to cover herself, and there's understanding in her eyes mixed with disappointment.
"You have to go," she says, and it's not a question.
"I'm sorry." I grab my shirt, pulling it back on. "I wouldn't if it wasn't—"
"I know." She sits up, the sheet clutched to her chest. "It's okay, Sean. Really."
But it's not okay. I can see it in the way she won't quite meet my eyes, in the way her shoulders have hunched slightly, like she's trying to make herself smaller. I've disappointed her, again, and I hate myself for it. I can see the worry in her face, and I know what she’s thinking—that by the time I come back, I’ll have changed my mind.
The worst part of it is that, even now, hard and aching for her, I can’t say for sure that won’t be the case. That I won’t come to my senses and remember why this is a terrible idea.
"I'll be back as soon as I can,” I tell her, drawing in a breath. “I’ll let security know to keep an eye on you, add an extra man or two until I can get back.”
She nods, and I force myself to leave, grabbing my jacket and my gun on the way out.
As I head down to the street, I'm already planning.
I'll handle whatever shit the Council needs me for as quickly as possible, and then I'm coming back here.
Back to Maeve. Back to the life I'm starting to think I might actually deserve.
The night air is cold against my skin, and I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the phantom touch of her hands on my body. I've never wanted to kill someone for interrupting me before, but right now, I'm seriously considering it.
I flag down a cab and give the driver the address, and as we pull away from the curb, I look back at my building. Maeve is waiting for me up there. My wife. The woman I don’t deserve and nearly had tonight.
I could have her, still, when I get back. If I don’t fuck it up.
If I don’t remember all the reasons why I should never have let it get this far.