Chapter 23
SEAN
She’s sitting close—too fucking close—to Flynn.
They're bent over his laptop, and she's laughing at something he's saying, her hand on his arm, her face lit up with genuine amusement.
Flynn's grinning at her like she's the most entertaining thing he's seen all week, and there's an ease between them that makes something dark and ugly twist in my gut.
Even in my current state, I can recognize it.
Jealousy.
Raw, irrational, consuming jealousy.
I know it's ridiculous. Flynn is my oldest friend.
He's practically a brother. And I know—intellectually—that he would never cross that line, never touch what's mine. But seeing Maeve smile at him like that, seeing her relaxed and happy she’s only recently been with me—before I pushed her away again—makes me want to put my fist through his face.
They haven't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever they're looking at on the screen, and I use the moment to try to wrestle my emotions under control. I'm being irrational. I'm injured, and exhausted, and I failed to put an end to Brennan, and I'm taking it out on the wrong person.
But I can't stop staring at Maeve's smile.
I close the door behind me, harder than necessary, and they both look up. Flynn's smile fades immediately when he sees me.
"Jesus Christ, Sean—"
I ignore him, stalking past the couch toward the bathroom. I need to get cleaned up, need to patch myself up before Maeve sees how bad it is. Need to get away from the image of her smiling at Flynn before I do something stupid.
"Sean?" Maeve's voice follows me, concerned now. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," I bite out, not looking back.
I make it to the bathroom and kick the door shut behind me, immediately regretting it when the motion sends pain shooting through my ribs.
I brace myself against the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
I look like hell—blood soaking through my shirt, a cut above my eyebrow that's still bleeding, bruises already forming on my jaw and cheek.
But it's the look in my eyes that stops me. Dark and wild and possessive. Dangerous. I'm losing control. Over the situation, over my emotions, over everything. And I hate it.
I pull my shirt off with a grunt of pain, assessing the damage.
The worst is a knife wound on my side, deep enough that it probably needs stitches.
There are various other cuts and scrapes, the beginnings of purpling bruises, and when I probe my ribs gently, the pain that lances through me confirms at least one is cracked.
I'm digging through the cabinet for the first aid kit when the door opens behind me.
"I said I'm fine," I snap without turning around.
"You're clearly not fine," Maeve shoots back from behind me. "You're bleeding all over the bathroom."
"I can handle it." I find the kit and set it on the counter, still not looking at her.
"Sean." She moves closer, and I can feel her behind me. "Let me help."
"I don't need help." I'm being an asshole, and I know it, but I can't seem to stop. The jealousy is still churning in my gut, mixing with the pain and frustration until I feel like I might explode.
"Fine." Her voice goes cold. "Bleed out, then. I'll be on the couch with Flynn if you change your mind."
The mention of Flynn's name snaps something in me. I turn so fast it makes my vision swim, and suddenly we're standing inches apart, her eyes wide with surprise at my reaction.
"Don't," I growl, my voice low and dangerous.
"Don't what?" She crosses her arms, glaring at me. "Don't help you? Don't worry about you when you come home covered in blood? Don't exist in the same space as your friend?"
"Don't say his name like that." The words come out before I can stop them, and I see understanding dawn in her expression.
"Like what?" But there's something else in her voice now. Not anger, but curiosity. Confusion, even, as if she truly doesn’t understand what I’m talking about.
"Forget it." I try to turn away, to focus on the first aid kit, but she grabs my arm—the good one, thankfully.
"No. You don't get to do that. I’m tired of you saying things like that to me and then pulling away and waving me off, as if I don’t deserve an explanation as to why you act the way you do.
We’re married, Sean, like it or not. And I’m done being walked all over.
You showed me that I don’t need to be the person who allows that, so you don’t get to keep doing it to me.
" Her grip tightens. "What the hell is going on? "
"It’s nothing." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"You're a terrible liar when it comes to emotions." She moves even closer, and now I can smell her shampoo, feel the warmth of her body. "Why would you be jealous of Flynn?"
"I'm not—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"You are. I can see it all over your face." Her eyes search mine, and I feel naked under her gaze. Exposed. It makes me want to pull away even more, withdraw from her until there’s no chance that either of us can hurt the other. "Do you really think I'd—that Flynn and I would—"
"No." The word comes out harsh, grating. "I know you wouldn't. I know he wouldn't. But seeing you with him, seeing you laugh with him like that, so easy and comfortable..." I close my eyes, unable to look at her while I admit this. "You've never been that relaxed with me."
There's a long moment of silence, and when I finally force myself to open my eyes, I'm shocked to see that Maeve looks like she's fighting not to laugh.
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny." She looks at me as if I’m a fucking idiot, shaking her head. "Sean, I was helping Flynn pick out a gift for Gia."
I blink. "What?"
"Gia. The woman he met at the gala. The one he hasn't stopped talking about for the past week.
" She’s still giving me that look. "He wanted advice on what to get her, and I was helping him look at jewelry options.
That's what we were laughing about—he kept freaking out about what jewelry for a woman like that costs.”
The jealousy that had been consuming me deflates so quickly it's almost embarrassing. "Oh."
"Oh," she echoes. "Sean, do you really think I want Flynn?”
"I wasn't thinking clearly." I run a hand through my hair, wincing when the motion pulls at my injuries. "I came back, and you were together, and you looked so happy, and I just..."
"Sit," she says, and there's no room for argument in her voice. "Let me clean you up."
There’s something different in her voice.
A flicker of confidence that I’ve never heard before, and it’s part of what breaks my resolve to keep her out of this.
I sink down onto the edge of the closed toilet lid, and she moves between my legs, first aid kit in hand.
She works in silence for a moment, cleaning the cut above my eyebrow with gentle, small dabs of an alcohol pad that burns like hell, and I watch her face as she concentrates.
There's a small furrow between her brows, her teeth worrying her lower lip, and she's so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"This is going to sting," she warns before pressing an antiseptic-soaked pad to a scrape on my shoulder.
It does sting, but I barely feel it. I'm too focused on her, on the way her fingers feel against my skin, on her breath against my forehead, on the closeness of her and how much I want to reach for her even though it feels like half the blood has left my body and the other half is rapidly descending.
She moves to the knife wound on my side, kneeling in front of me to get a better angle, and I have to close my eyes against the sight of her on her knees between my legs.
I’m already dizzy, and it’s not the time or place, but I can feel myself rapidly stiffening, aching to feel her touch me everywhere.
"This needs stitches," she says, her fingers probing the edges of the wound gently.
"I'll heal."
"Sean—"
"I've had worse." I open my eyes and look down at her. Hers are wide with worry, staring at the slash below my ribs. "Just butterfly it closed. It'll be fine."
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression must convince her, because she nods and starts pulling out supplies.
Her hands are steady as she cleans the wound, applies the butterfly bandages, covers it with gauze.
She wraps my ribs next, her hands sliding around my torso, and I have to fight to keep my breathing even.
Every touch is torture. Not because it hurts—though it does—but because it feels too good.
Too right. She's taking care of me, and no one has done that since my mother died.
I've spent twenty-three years since then being self-sufficient, not needing anyone, and now Maeve is on her knees in front of me, tending to my wounds like it's the most natural thing in the world.
She looks up at me, securing the bandage around my ribs. “If you weren’t always pushing me away, Sean, always running from this, you wouldn’t have to come home and be jealous. If you’d make me yours, you wouldn’t feel the way you do.”
If you’d make me yours. Just the thought of that, of what it means, has me hard as hell in an instant, my body throbbing with the need to touch her, have her, even if I died of blood loss trying.
“There’s no annulment after that,” I say flatly. “And you deserve a chance at a real life, Maeve. Not this half-existence where you're married to someone who can't give you what you need."
“You don’t know what I need.” Maeve’s hands rest on my thighs as she looks up at me. “You don’t even know what you need, Sean. So how can you tell me what it is that I should choose?”
"I know what's best—"
"No, you don't." She shakes her head. “You don’t know how to do this any more than I do. So stop pretending. We’re both lost. Did you ever think that maybe we could find our way out of this together?”
“Every instinct I have says this is wrong. That I'm going to ruin you." My hands drop to her arms, sliding up the bare skin there, wishing she was in my t-shirt again instead of one of hers. “And I’ve spent my life following my instincts.”
Maeve swallows hard. Her gaze shifts over me, over the wounds, over my bare chest, her throat working as her eyes finally meet mine again.
And then she pushes forward on her knees, leaning up so close that her breath ghosts across my lips.
It would be so easy to close the distance. "I'm stronger than you think."
"I know you are." My thumb traces the curve of her shoulder through the thin cotton. "You're the strongest person I know."
“Then act like it.” Her breath is warm on my mouth, and the last of my control snaps.
I reach down, my hands cupping her face as I bring her mouth up to mine, and she makes a small sound of surprise that quickly turns into a moan.
I forget about the pain in my body, the screaming in my arm from the pressure I’m exerting on it right now.
All I can think about is how badly I need her, how I can’t stop this from happening any longer.
My entire body craves her like air, and every instinct I have is demanding that I make her mine.
She’s kissing me back just as desperately, her mouth moving over mine, still inexpertly but so needy that it doesn’t matter.
I never thought I’d get such pleasure from being with a woman who doesn’t know what she’s doing in bed, but everything about Maeve turns me on more than anyone else I’ve ever been with.
The thought that it’s only me, that it could only ever be me if I let it, makes me feel as if I’m drowning in lust.
I stand, bringing her with me, and she wraps her legs around my waist instinctively. The motion pulls at my injuries, sends pain shooting through my side and ribs, but I don't care. All I care about is the woman in my arms, the way she tastes, the sounds she's making as I devour her mouth.
I carry her out of the bathroom, past Flynn—who takes one look at us and immediately heads for the door, calling out something about going home—and into the bedroom. I kick the door shut behind us and press her against it, my body pinning hers, my mouth moving from her lips to her jaw to her neck.
"Sean," she gasps, her hands fisting in my hair. "Your injuries—"
"I don't care." I bite down gently on the curve of her neck and shoulder, and she arches against me. "I need to be inside of you. I need—”
“I want that too,” she gasps, her head turning as she brings my mouth back to hers. “Please, Sean, I’m tired of waiting. I want to find out what it feels like. I want to find out what you feel like.”
That undoes me completely. All I can think is, mine. She's mine, and I'm done fighting it, done pretending I don't want this with every fiber of my being.
I carry her to the bed, laying her down as gently as I can manage, and follow her down. My hands find the hem of her shirt, and this time when I pull it off, I'm not stopping.
I can’t. Not again.
She’s naked under me in a matter of seconds, her clothing tossed aside as I strip her bare, keeping my jeans on just to manage my own lust until I can make sure she’s ready for me.
My cock feels as if it’s about to break my zipper, my entire body thrumming with the need to be inside of her, but I’m well aware of how fragile she is, how big I am.
I need her to be ready. Soft and open and aroused, and even then, I’ll have to go slow.
But one thing is for certain.
By the time tonight is finished, my wife won’t be a virgin any longer.