Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
CHARLES
We’d found a little piece of heaven in this cabin, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Not when Carlo was still out there.
Not when Eamon—for whatever reason—was still keeping secrets from me.
Not when he had that haunted look in his eyes from time to time, as if something endlessly heavy was weighing down on him.
It was our fourth day in the cabin, and we’d spent the morning going on a short hike to an overlook. It was still bitterly cold, but the views over the snow-covered high peaks of the Adirondacks had been totally worth it.
We’d warmed up with more hot chocolate and had settled on the couch to read, but Eamon was restless. He couldn’t focus on his book, kept getting up, moving around. He didn’t like to sit still, I realized. He was a man of action.
“Come on,” I said, rising from the couch.
“What are we doing?”
“I’m going to teach you to make bread. With Wolfgang.” I started gathering ingredients. “It’s therapeutic, trust me.”
Eamon watched with fascination as I explained the process, taking some of Wolfgang, then measuring flour and salt while I heated water to the right temperature. His attention was completely focused on me, which was a heady experience.
“The key is to not overthink it,” I said, showing him how to mix the ingredients until they formed a shaggy dough. “Bread wants to be made. You have to give it what it needs and trust the process.”
When it came time to knead, I guided his hands with mine, showing him the rhythm of folding, pressing, and turning. He was a quick learner, his movements becoming more confident as he found the feel of the dough.
“Like this?” he asked, and I nodded, standing close behind him with my hands covering his.
“Perfect. You’re a natural.”
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, taking turns with the kneading. There was something deeply intimate about it—creating something together with our hands, flour dusting our clothes and fingers, the domestic rhythm of it feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
“I can see why you like this,” he then said. “It’s almost hypnotizing.”
“It is. When I’m stressed, kneading dough will help me calm down. It’s like my brain slows down while my hands do the work.”
“I can see that. I like it. More than I had expected.”
“I’m happy to teach you.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
“When we get back to Charming, I could teach you how to make cinnamon rolls or sticky buns or anything else you like.”
Eamon went tense behind me, his hands stilling on the dough. When I turned to look at him, there was something raw and painful in his expression, like I’d stabbed him.
“Charles…” he started, then stopped, his jaw working like he was struggling with words that wouldn’t come.
“What is it?” I reached up to touch his face, concerned by the sudden change in his demeanor. “You look like I suggested something terrible.”
“It’s not terrible. It’s perfect. Too perfect.”
“What does that mean?”
He stared down at me for a long moment, conflict warring across his features. For a second, I thought he was going to tell me whatever secret he’d been carrying, whatever truth he’d been holding back.
“Eamon,” I said softly, “you can tell me anything. I want to know the real you. Whatever it is you’re hiding, whatever you think might scare me away, it won’t. I promise.”
Something broke in his expression then, a crack in the careful mask he wore. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do.” I stepped closer, my flour-covered hands framing his face.
“I know you’re not telling me everything about who you are.
I’ve known it for days. The inconsistencies in your stories, the way you react to things, the way you talk about Ireland like you lived there yourself…
” I saw him flinch, but I pressed on. “I don’t care.
Whatever your real story is, whatever you think you need to protect me from, it doesn’t change how I feel about you. ”
“And how do you feel about me?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“I love you,” I said simply, the words spilling out before I could second-guess them. “I’m completely, hopelessly in love with you, Eamon O’Rourke.”
The effect of my words was immediate and devastating. Eamon’s face crumpled with something that looked like grief, and for a moment, I thought he might actually cry. “Charles,” he said, and my name sounded broken on his lips. “I—”
But instead of finishing the sentence, he kissed me. Desperately, frantically, like a drowning man grasping for air. His flour-dusted hands were in my hair, on my face, pulling me against him with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
I kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring all my love and trust and hope into the connection between us. Whatever he was struggling with, whatever secret he thought was so terrible, I would help him through it. We would figure it out together.
The kiss turned heated quickly, Eamon’s mouth moving against mine with increasing urgency. His hands roamed my body like he was trying to memorize every inch, and when he backed me against the kitchen counter, I went willingly.
“Need you again,” he murmured against my neck, his voice rough with emotion and desire. “Need to feel you.”
“Yes.” I was already reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Always yes.”
Clothes disappeared with efficient desperation. Eamon lifted me onto the counter, the cool surface against my bare skin making me gasp, but then his mouth was on mine again and nothing else mattered.
He was beautiful in the morning light streaming through the kitchen window, even with flour on his face and in his hair—all lean muscle and warm skin, his eyes dark with want and something deeper.
When he looked at me like that, like I was something precious and perfect, I felt like I could take on the world.
I pulled Eamon closer, needing to feel every inch of his skin against mine. His hands were everywhere at once—in my hair, skimming down my sides, cupping my ass to grind our hips together. The heat of him, the hard planes of his body pressed against me, made my head spin with want.
Eamon’s mouth latched onto my neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin until I was sure I’d have another mark. I didn’t care. I wanted his claim on me, wanted evidence that this was real.
“Fuck, Charles…” Eamon trailed open-mouthed kisses down my neck. “You drive me crazy.”
“Good.” I arched into his touch. “I want you crazy for me.”
His only response was to crush his mouth to mine in another bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim me. I surrendered to the onslaught, my fingers digging into his shoulders as I tried to pull him impossibly closer.
We were both too far gone for slow and too impatient to get the lube from the bedroom.
Eamon only let go of my mouth long enough to grab the small bottle of olive oil I’d bought before the snowstorm.
That would work. His now slick fingers found my entrance and pushed inside.
I cried out at the sudden stretch, my head falling back as he worked me open with quick, efficient strokes.
It bordered on too much too fast, but I craved the burn, the undeniable proof that this was real.
“Need you inside me. Now, Eamon. Please.”
He swore under his breath, the desperation in his voice making me throb with need. I whimpered as his fingers withdrew, my body clenching around the sudden emptiness. But then he was there, dragging me forward until I was right on the edge of the counter.
No more words were spoken as the blunt head of his cock pressed against my slick entrance.
Our eyes locked, a moment of perfect understanding passing between us, and then he was pushing inside, stretching me, filling me, completing me.
The stretch and burn of it made my eyes water, especially since my ass was already somewhat sore from before, but I welcomed the pain.
It meant this was real, that he was real, that the connection between us wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
“Christ, Charles,” Eamon groaned, his forehead pressed against mine. “You feel so fecking good.”
My head fell back on a moan as he hilted himself fully, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him even deeper. He stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us trembling from the intensity.
“I love you,” I whispered again, the words a sacred vow. “I love you, Eamon.”
Eamon’s eyes squeezed shut, and for a moment, I thought I saw a sheen of tears. But then he was moving, pulling out almost fully before slamming back in, and coherent thought became impossible.
He set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against mine with each powerful thrust.
The force of his thrusts rocked me back, pleasure spiking through my body with every slam of his hips.
I clung to Eamon’s shoulders, my nails digging into sweat-slicked skin as I tried to anchor myself against the onslaught.
But it was impossible to do anything but surrender to the raw, primal rhythm he set, to the exquisite stretch and drag of his cock inside me.
“Eamon,” I panted, my voice breaking on a particularly hard thrust. “Oh god, yes, like that…”
He growled against my neck, his teeth scraping over my racing pulse.
One hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise while the other snaked between our bodies to wrap around my aching erection.
I cried out sharply as he stroked me in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation almost too much to bear.
My head fell back, thudding against the cabinets, but I barely felt it. My entire world had narrowed to Eamon—the heat of his skin, the brush of his hair against my cheek, the intoxicating scent of sweat and sex and something uniquely him.
The pleasure was exquisite, overwhelming, all-consuming.
Each powerful thrust of Eamon’s hips drove me higher, pushing me toward a precipice I had no desire to step back from.
I wanted to fall, to shatter, to lose myself completely in the feeling of him moving inside me, claiming me, branding me as his with every roll of his hips.
“Eamon,” I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“Never,” he growled, changing the angle of his thrusts until he was hitting that perfect spot inside me with each stroke.
My orgasm hit me like a freight train, slamming through my body with breathtaking force. I cried out Eamon’s name as I spasmed around him, my release spurting between our sweat-slicked bodies. He groaned into my neck, his hips stuttering as my muscles clenched rhythmically around his cock.
“Charles,” he gasped, his voice ragged. “Fuck, I’m gonna…”
I felt him swell inside me, his cock pulsing as he found his own release. He buried his face in the crook of my neck as he shuddered through the aftershocks, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I held him close, murmuring words of love and praise as we both came down from the high.
Eventually, Eamon pulled out carefully, and I whimpered at the loss. He peppered my face with soft kisses, his hands smoothing over my trembling body with reverent gentleness. I clung to him, suddenly desperate to keep him close, to never let him go.
“I love you,” I whispered again, the words the truest thing I’d ever said. “Whatever happens, remember that.”
He leaned his forehead against mine, closing his eyes, but not before I saw the pain flashing in them. “Charles…”
“You don’t need to say it.”
“I… I can’t. You don’t underst—”
I pressed a finger against his lips. “It’s okay. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”