Chapter 38
LIKE WE’RE TEENAGERS
Caitríona
We leave the car in the steel belly of the boat, the sea breeze misting across my face. An attendant appears in a navy blazer, staring up at Matteo from beneath his cap. “Last name?”
“Livia.” The name easily slips from his tongue while I swallow hard again and pretend hearing our daughter’s name from his lips doesn’t ruin me. “Mr. and Mrs.,” he adds with a grin in my direction.
The attendant checks a list and ushers us into a private lift I didn’t know ferries had. My hat stays low, and my hand stays in Matteo’s. It’s not romance, it’s self-preservation.
“This way to the VIP Deck,” the attendant says, keying in a code. “Suite Seven. The balcony’s weather-side unfortunately, so you’ll have to mind the wind. But you should enjoy the trip either way.”
A balcony on a ferry? Of course, Matteo would find the one ferry with a VIP suite in a mad scramble to escape Quinlan.
The man opens the door and tips his hat before disappearing down the narrow corridor we just walked through. Matteo holds it open for me, a grin playing on his lips. “Shall I carry you across the threshold?”
“Don’t you dare.” I throw him a narrowed glare, but the corners of my stupid mouth are already quirking up.
Suite Seven is small but spoiled with cream walls, a compact sofa, a real bed with a headboard, and a tray already set with water and champagne.
The lamps are lit and glowing low. Much too romantic for two fugitives on a getaway mission.
Then I spot the sliding door which leads to a sliver of a private deck.
The hum of the ship lives in the bones of the room, vibrating through my own. There’s something about the intimate space after the tension-filled car ride that has my nerves rioting. I need a release…
“We should go over the plan…” Matteo drops down onto the couch. “The ferry docking, the car, the foot passenger exit, which stairwell we—”
“Matteo.” I shake my head, walking toward him. “Not yet.”
His brow knits. “We can’t—”
“I know,” I say, softer. “But for a minute, will you just pretend with me?” I step closer until the distance turns to heat. “That we’re teenagers again on that beach. There are no ghosts, no trackers, no men with our names in their mouths. Just… us.”
He holds my gaze like he’s weighing the sin of it. Then he exhales, the fight leaving from his shoulders. “One minute,” he warns, which we both know is a lie. That dimple escapes and with it, the spark in those mischievous eyes.
I slide open the balcony door, and the night rushes in. It’s wind, salt, and a low thrumming dark. The deck is barely two strides deep, ringed in a glass, waist-high rail. Far below, the Irish Sea roars and glows where the ship worries it white.
He only hesitates for a second before he follows me out. The wind teases hair across my mouth, but his hands are there first, tucking it behind my ear. His fingers linger like they’ve been waiting four years to remember the map of my face.
“Hi, Kitty Cat,” he says, almost laughing at himself.
“Hi,” I echo, and the word is a tipped match.
His mouth finds mine like it was always going to.
There’s no preamble and no apology. It’s not tender this time.
It’s messy and young and starving, just like we were back then.
There’s salt on our lips, the wind in our lungs, and the railing cold under my palms as I back into it and pull him with me.
He brackets my arms against the balustrade, hips slotting to mine, and the ship’s hum synchs to the thud in my chest.
“Someone might—” I start before I cut myself off, realizing I couldn’t care less who sees this.
“It’s black as sin out here,” he murmurs, kissing the words from my mouth. “And I don’t care.”
I tug him closer by his jacket, greedy, and daring.
We crash and cling, laugh against teeth, and chase the kiss like it’s running.
His hands roam up my back, down my sides, urgent and certain, and relearning what never left.
I hook my fingers into his belt, and he groans into my mouth, the sound wrecked and grateful.
“Look at me,” he whispers as he presses his forehead to mine, breath hot in the cold. “Kitty Cat, look at me.”
I do, and it guts me. I see the joy wrecking his eyes, and the ache under it.
He kisses away the sting at the corner of mine.
I know what he’s doing. He’s keeping his promise not to repeat those three little words that destroy me every time.
And still, a stupid part of me wants to hear them.
But I know he’ll keep his word. The balcony shudders as the ship hits a wave, and we steady each other like drunkards.
“Inside,” he manages, voice ragged. “Before I forget the word ‘privacy.’” His dark brows furrow as my fingers fly to his zipper and free his cock. “Cat…” My name is nothing but a gasp. “What are you doing?”
“Remember that night on the jetty?”
His eyes darken into the deepest emerald, as if he’s reliving the moment he laid me bare under the stars. “You sure?” There’s a satisfying jagged edge to his tone.
I push down my leggings and panties in one go and spin around, pressing my ass to his hard length. “I want to enjoy the view while you fuck me, Matteo.”
A strangled sound vibrates his throat as his arm comes around my waist, and he draws me back against him. My shoulders hit the hard expanse of muscle of his chest, and I arch against him.
His hand skates lower, finding my wet folds and we groan together. “Mmm, Kitty Cat, I love how soaked that pretty pussy is for me.” His finger glides through me, spreading my arousal and when he reaches my sensitive clit, my hips buck against him. “Are you ready for me?”
Fiery heat surges through my veins as he grabs his cock and runs it across my entrance. “Umhmm,” I mumble incoherently as he bends me over the railing. His thumb circles the taut bundle of nerves while his throbbing head presses at my entrance. I arch my hips back, desperate to take him in.
“Mmm, that’s my girl.” He drops kisses along my spine as he eases himself in, slowly stretching me until Matteo Rossi is all I feel, all I know.
Then he thrusts, long and deep and fills me to the core. A gasp escapes as I grip the railing, the icy metal sending goose bumps across my heated skin.
“Yes, Matteo,” I cry out.
He picks up the punishing rhythm, finger circling my clit while he pounds into me from behind. It’s chaotic, bordering on painful because of his massive size and the deeper angle, but I can’t get enough.
“Don’t stop,” I command when he slows to lick the back of my neck.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he barks before driving into me again. His free hand moves from my hip and slips under my shirt. He finds my breast, then my sensitive nipple, and my head falls back on a moan.
He thrusts again and again.
Until the burning need between my legs coils tighter, faster. “Matteo,” I groan. “I’m going to come…”
“Good girl, Kitty Cat,” he purrs, his voice ragged against my ear.
Then his finger circles more quickly, driving me closer and closer until only pleasure exists.
His cock drives deeper in perfect time with his thumb.
My breath catches and desire ignites at the tip of my spine, exploding through me in a wave of pure pleasure.
He holds me up as the orgasm rips through, cock still drawing out every last ounce of pleasure. All I see are stars, my knees wobbling from the intensity. He keeps me standing, pressed against the unyielding pillar of his body.
Once my breathing returns to normal, he scoops me into his arms, irises blown out and eyes sparkling with desire. “I’m not done with you yet, Kitty Cat. We’re only teenagers, remember?”
We stumble back through the door, hands still everywhere, the latch snicking shut behind us.
We don’t bother to slow, and we’re certainly not careful because we’re eighteen and nineteen and terrible again.
We knock into the sofa, half-laughing at it, then Matteo finds the bed by feel.
The room tilts with the sea, and we match it.
He throws me on top of the bed, and he’s inside me again, breath and bodies one, and the kind of kiss that erases time.
It isn’t pretty. It isn’t poised. It’s fingers gripping and mouths finding, of skin warmed in patches, and of whispered curses in two languages that mean don’t stop. He says my name like a vow and a mistake, and I answer with his like a dare.
For the entire night there’s no London or Belfast, no Tiernan, and no bargains I can’t keep.
There’s only heat and the thunder of water and the way his hands know exactly where to anchor me when the world tilts.
We move until the ache turns to relief, until the noise in my head finally quiets, until the spirits of our past have to wait outside the door with the wind.
Hours later, we lie tangled and panting, hair wind-blown and damp. Matteo touches my cheek with the back of his knuckles, reverent in spite of everything, and I steal one last kiss like a thief who can’t help herself.
“One more minute,” he whispers, tasting like the sea and a promise.
“Maybe two,” I breathe, and let the white capped waves drown our secret.