Chapter 11
Dervla
Aidan and Declan want to talk plans, but I’m over this for the moment. It’s been a day, and right now, I just want to be normal for a change. I finish up my food quickly and rinse off my dishes.
“I’m going upstairs,” I announce. “I’m done for today.”
“Go,” Cormac says before anyone else can try to stop me.
I shoot him a grateful smile and head up, stripping off and kicking my boots off the second I get into my room.
I yank on an old oversized tee and a pair of sleep shorts, then crawl under the duvet like I can shut the whole world out by putting cotton between me and it.
I turn off my phone and throw it on the bedside table.
It doesn’t work.
My room is dim, the rain still ticking at the window, the house carrying every muted sound from below.
A chair scraping. Low male voices. The old plumbing complaining in the walls.
My body is heavy with exhaustion, but my head is still running flat out, thoughts sparking and colliding hard enough to hurt.
Siobhán.
Maeve.
Whitmore dead on the office floor.
Dad at the kitchen table.
The Romans.
I roll onto my side and punch my pillow into shape. Useless. I roll back again and stare at the ceiling.
Normal. I wanted normal for half an hour. Maybe an hour if God felt generous.
Instead, I have the sort of life where every quiet moment feels like an ambush setting itself.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. A minute later, my door opens.
Not a knock. Not a question. Just the latch turning and Aidan stepping inside like the room belongs to him as much as the air does.
I push up onto my elbows and sigh.
He shuts it behind him and turns the lock with a soft click.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He crosses the room slowly, then sits on the edge of the bed near my legs. “I came up here to tell you that I appreciate your words downstairs, about not wanting to change anyone.”
“Are you going soft on me?” I ask with a smile.
“Never,” he grouses. “But it meant a lot.”
“It’s true,” I say, placing my hand on his thigh. “Stay, but no talk about plans or anything about my life or yours.”
His eyes drop to where my hand rests on his thigh, then lift to my face again. “No plans,” he says. “No strategy. No fathers. No dead men.”
“No old secret societies.”
“One condition,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re in no position to bargain.”
“That has never stopped me before.” His mouth curves. “You stop pretending you’re not wrecked.”
“I’m wrecked.”
“Good.” He shifts further onto the bed and stretches out on his side beside me, propped on one elbow.
“That sounds more like you.” I settle back into the pillows and study him.
He still looks put together, which is offensive.
Hair in place. Shirt sleeves rolled. Face composed like he wasn’t in a gunfight earlier and like the country isn’t currently eating itself alive outside these walls.
“Do you ever look dishevelled?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He reaches up, undoes the top button of his shirt, then the next, slow and deliberate. “How about now?”
Heat flickers low in my stomach. “That’s cheating.”
“I prefer strategic presentation.” He removes his boots.
“Is this a seduction, Mr O’Connell?”
“Do you want it to be?”
I look at him for a long second. He is half-undone already, shirt open at the throat, eyes fixed on me with that steady, ruthless focus that usually means somebody is about to lose an argument, an election, or a limb.
Right now, I want it to mean something else.
“Yes,” I say.
Something dark and pleased passes over his face.
He moves closer across the bed, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.
I don’t. He settles over me, one hand braced by my hip, the other sliding under the duvet to my bare thigh.
His palm is warm. His touch is not gentle in the timid sense.
It is careful in the way of a man who notices every flinch and intends to own the reason for the next one.
His mouth brushes mine once.
A test.
I answer by catching his shirt and dragging him down properly.
He kisses like he does everything else. Thoroughly.
Possessively. No hesitation, no softness that feels uncertain.
His tongue strokes into my mouth, and heat uncoils hard in my stomach.
I kiss him back like I have something to prove, because if Aidan O’Connell thinks he gets to take control of this entire room, he can fucking earn it.
I bite his lower lip hard enough to make the point.
Aidan makes a low sound against my mouth that goes straight through me. Not pain. Approval. His hand slides higher under the duvet, over the back of my thigh, then to the curve of my arse, pulling me into him until I can feel exactly how interested he is in continuing this.
“That’s better,” he murmurs.
I kiss him again before he can look too pleased with himself.
His palm moves up my side under the old tee, skimming warm skin, stopping just under my breast for a second before it closes over me and I arch into it, a sharp breath catching in my throat.
He watches my face when he does it again, thumb brushing over my nipple until it hardens.
He pushes the tee up slowly, exposing more skin inch by inch until the fabric bunches under my arms. His mouth drops to my throat, then lower, kisses pressed down the centre of my chest, his tongue tracing a deliberate path that makes my skin tighten.
I shift under him, one hand sliding into his hair to guide him lower, but he resists, taking his time as if proving he controls the pace.
His lips close over my nipple next, sucking with enough pressure to draw a gasp from me that I can’t swallow back.
Heat builds fast between my thighs, insistent and demanding.
I tug at his shirt, pulling it open further until I can get my hands on his bare, inked skin.
His muscles tense under my touch, solid and unyielding, and I dig my nails in just to feel him react.
He does, with a low growl against my breast that vibrates through me.
Aidan lifts his head then, eyes meeting mine in the dim light.
He doesn’t rush. Instead, he strips the tee off me completely, tossing it aside before his mouth returns, trailing fire down my stomach while his hand slips between my legs.
His fingers press against the thin fabric of my shorts, rubbing slow circles that make my hips lift instinctively.
I bite my lip to keep quiet, but he notices, always notices, and increases the pressure until a moan escapes anyway.
Satisfaction flashes in his expression. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags the shorts down my legs, discarding them without a glance.
Exposed now, I watch him as he settles between my thighs, his breath warm against my core before his tongue flicks out, tasting me.
Every stroke builds the tension, deliberate and unhurried, until my hands fist the sheets and my back arches.
He holds my hips down with one arm across my pelvis, keeping me in place while he works me over, lips and tongue driving me higher.
Pleasure coils tight, almost painful in its intensity, and when he adds fingers, curling them inside me, I come apart under his mouth, hips jerking, one hand twisted in the sheets.
Aidan doesn’t give me time to recover. He rises, shedding his shirt and pants efficiently, all ink and lean muscle, and I pull him back down to me.
He pushes inside my pussy with one deep thrust, and I exhale hard against his shoulder.
He goes still for a moment before thrusting slow and deeper.
The aftershocks fold into something new before the last ones have even finished.
I meet his rhythm, wrapping my legs around his waist to take all of him, my nails raking down his back hard enough to mark.
He hisses, but it only spurs him on, his pace quickening until the bed creaks under us and sweat slicks our skin.
His hand finds my throat, squeezing with enough pressure to remind me who’s in charge here.
I don’t fight it; I revel in it, the possession, the way he claims every response from my body like it’s his right.
Pleasure builds again, faster this time, and I chase it, grinding up against him until my orgasm hits me hard. My pussy clenches around him, making him groan.
“Fuck, Dervla,” he murmurs against my lips. “I needed this.”
His grip on my throat tightens, and his pace slows, drawing out every last tremor of my orgasm until I’m shaking beneath him. His eyes lock onto mine. There’s a fierce possessiveness in his gaze that sends a thrill down my spine. I can feel every inch of him, claiming me, and it’s intoxicating.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Every fucking part of you.”
“Yes,” I pant.
His grip eases slightly, and he leans down to capture my lips in a searing kiss. His tongue invades my mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his hips as he starts to move again, slower this time, but no less intense.
His free hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as he pins it above my head.
The gesture is dominant, but there’s a tenderness to it that makes my heart race.
His grip on my hand tightens, and I can sense the control he’s exerting over himself, over me.
It’s a battle, a surrender. I don’t just feel claimed; I feel known. That’s the part that scares me.
His hips move with a deliberate, relentless pace, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge again. The room fills with the sounds of our ragged breaths, the quiet, urgent whispers of desire. His mouth drags from mine, teeth catching at my throat on the way down.
“Aidan,” I whisper.
He responds with a deeper thrust, his hand squeezing mine tighter, as if anchoring me to this moment, to him.
The pleasure builds, a slow, intense burn that spreads through every nerve. My body tenses, preparing for the inevitable climax.
“Come all over my cock,” he murmurs with a wicked smile.
“Fuck,” I moan. “Aidan.”
My orgasm tears through me sharp and hot, my whole body locking around him.
He watches it happen like he owns the right, mouth parted, eyes gone darker than the room.
I break with a strangled gasp, and he follows a second later, driving deep and holding there as he unloads, his forehead dropping to mine, his breathing ragged enough to ruin the polished act for once.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
The rain keeps tapping at the window. The old bed complains under us. His weight pins me into the mattress in a way that should feel oppressive and somehow doesn’t. It feels earned.
Aidan lifts his head first. His hand leaves my throat and slides to my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip once. His expression is different now. Still controlled. Still him. Just less armoured. “This has turned into something unexpected,” he says, eyes narrowed as he stares at me.
“Decided that you care after using me?”
He snorts. “Bold and unbothered. I like it. But yes.” He rolls off me and pulls me to him.
I rest my head on his chest.
“I won’t insult you by giving you words that mean nothing,” he says after a beat. “I’ll show you.”
“You do anyway.”
“Not enough.”
“Are we back to the you not killing so I can get answers?”
“Yes. At the start of this, I figured I’d annihilate anyone who hurt you, and yet. Goliath, Troy, Roisin, Eoin, Siobhán and God knows who else… they all still live. It’s disturbing.”
“You find not killing people disturbing?” I smile against his chest. It’s the most Aidan thing I’ve heard him say.
“I do it for you. If you want that to change, say the word.”
I prop myself up and stare down into his perfectly blue eyes. “I didn’t ask you not to kill people. I understand you do it so I can get answers, but don’t put words in my mouth.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m taking that as permission.”
“I’m not your ruler.”
“Still taking it as permission. The next fucker who breathes wrong in your direction is dead.”
“Better make sure you have a spare gun then,” I say with a little laugh, my blood spiking with the thrill of his words.
Aidan gives me a look that says he enjoys that answer far too much. “I already have a spare gun.”
“Of course you do.”
“Several, actually.”
I laugh, soft and wrecked, and sink back down against him. His hand moves over my back in a slow pass that feels almost lazy, which is unnerving in a man like him. He is never lazy. Even half-naked in my bed after sex, he feels like a loaded weapon set down for maintenance rather than rest.
I let myself have this.
The heat of his body. The damp air in the room. The quiet after a day that has been all blood, guns, dead men, lies, and family horror dressed up as strategy. I can hear the faint murmur of voices downstairs, then the creak of the house settling again.
My body is finally giving up the fight with adrenaline, and my eyes close, sleep already dragging me under.