Chapter 11 #2
He rises carefully, and crosses to the mattress.
I remove my cut, rings, and boots, Oisín watching each piece go with his hands braced beside him as the room loses armor one layer at a time.
He expects force because force is what I’ve given him since the beginning.
He knows how to meet force. Tonight, I want something else from him.
“This isn’t forgiveness,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“You lie again, and last night will look generous.”
I step between his knees and lift his chin, holding him there long enough to watch the fight in his eyes shift into something more fragile, then I kiss him slowly enough that he can’t use the rush to disappear.
“Strip for me, Sín,” I mutter against his lips. He quickly obeys and then lies back on the bed, waiting until I climb on as well, settling between his thighs.
I throw him a smirk before sliding down his chest and taking his cock into my mouth in one slow, wet slide.
Oisín’s back arches off the bed with a broken sound.
I suck him in deep, tongue working the underside while my hands hold his hips still so he can’t fuck my throat.
His breathing kicks up, his fingers twisting in the sheets, his hips twitching uselessly against my grip.
“Saint—fuck—”
I pull off with a wet pop and look up at him. “You’re going to stay right here and take what I give you.”
I flip him onto his side, spooning up behind him, and hook one of his knees forward so he’s open for me.
My mouth finds the back of his neck, sucking hard enough to leave another mark while I reach back for the lube that’s made its home on my nightstand.
I slick up my fingers and then push two inside him, scissoring, stretching, and curling until his breath stutters every time I brush his prostate.
He pushes back against my hand, chasing it, but I keep the pace, mapping every tight flutter around my fingers.
When I add a third, he lets out a loud moan, his forehead pressed to the pillow. I twist my wrist, fucking him open with steady strokes while my other hand slides around to pinch and roll his nipple. Oisín jerks, his ass clenching hard around my fingers.
“Faster,” he gasps. “Saint, please—faster—”
“No.” I bite the curve of his shoulder, sucking another bruise into his skin. “Tonight, I’m letting you know exactly who you belong to.”
I pull my fingers free, unzip my pants just enough to pull out my cock, and press the head against his hole. I sink in inch by inch, slow enough that he’ll feel every thick slide until I’m buried to the hilt. Oisín’s whole body shudders, a wrecked sound tearing out of him.
“Mine,” I growl against his neck, rolling his nipple between my fingers again. “This tight little ass is mine. Every sound you make is mine. Every time you get hard for me, every time you come, every time you breathe in my bed—it’s mine.”
I start to move with long, deep strokes that drag over his prostate on every pass. Oisín’s hand flies back, gripping my thigh like he needs something to hold onto. I keep the pace steady, fucking him open slowly while my mouth stays on his neck, and my fingers twist his nipples.
“Saint—God—please—”
I drop my hand to wrap around his cock, stroking him in the same rhythm. “You’re going to come just like this. Slow. So you remember who’s fucking you. Who owns you.”
He comes with a broken cry, ass clamping down around me so hard my vision whites out. I fuck him through it, until my own release hits and bury myself to the hilt and fill him, grinding through every pulse while he trembles.
I stay inside him afterward, chest pressed to his back, one arm banded across his chest so he can’t move away even if he wanted to. Oisín’s breathing is ragged, his skin damp with sweat, and he’s still making soft, wrecked sounds every time I shift inside him.
I press my mouth to the fresh mark on his neck and murmur against his skin, “Oisín.”
He shudders hard at the sound of his full name.
I say it again, slower, every syllable mapped out on my tongue.
“Oisín Caolan Ward.” The peace I was searching for settles between us, my head quiet again.
I’m learning to no longer hate it even if Oisín’s presence is what my father would call a weakness.
I rock my hips forward, loving the broken sigh that falls from Oisín’s mouth. “What does your name mean?”
He goes still against me. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then his voice comes out barely above the dark.
“It’s from the old stories. Oisín was a warrior poet, who went to Tír na nóg, the land of eternal youth.
He stayed there for what felt like three years, but when he came back to Ireland, centuries had passed. Everyone he loved was gone.”
His fingers curl once against my skin.
“My mother said he survived because he remembered. Even when the world changed. Even when there was nothing left to return to.”
Most men would make some useless sound here. Comfort. Sympathy. Something soft enough to ruin the moment and cheapen it. I think about Canon calling him useful, Varina asking him to become a knife for the family, every man who just glossed over him because they thought he didn’t matter.
“Sín...” I trail off, not even sure what I want to stay.
He presses back against me, his fingers threading through mine against his stomach.
“My mother always told me not to let anyone shorten my name but Sín made me feel anonymous, like when I met you.” Oisín lets out a heavy breath before lifting my hand to his lips.
“Except when you say it, it makes me feel seen.”
“Sín,” I mutter against the back of his neck. “My Sín.”
Oisín doesn’t say anything after that, his breathing slowly evening out while I’m still inside of him.
The smart move is to treat him like the threat he is.
He sees too much, learns too fast, and still has Rogue blood pulling at old wounds.
But he came back with Varina’s plan in his mouth and gave it to me when lying would’ve served his family better.
That doesn’t make him safe.
It makes him worth watching closely.