Chapter 19 Mac #2
Michael raised his beer. Ma smiled into her tea. Claire's eyes were soft.
Eamon saw them. Laughed—soft, wrecked, happy.
"They're not even pretending to watch."
"They're McCabes. Subtlety isn't their strong suit."
"Okay," Eamon said. "Now I'm ready."
I opened the door. We stepped inside together. The door closed, locking out the cold.
Most of the family left around one. Marcus last, pausing on the porch.
"You need anything—"
"I have these two." Ma gestured at us. "Go. Come back tomorrow."
The door closed, and the house was quiet.
Claire emerged from the kitchen with a trash bag. Already cleaning.
"You don't have to—" Ma started.
"I know." Claire kept moving.
Ma looked at me. "Help your mother. I'll get the kitchen."
We worked in comfortable silence. By two, the living room was almost back to normal.
Claire pulled on her coat. "I should go."
"Stay," Ma said. "The roads are terrible."
"I'm ten minutes—"
"At two in the morning on Christmas. The guest room has fresh sheets. Mac can sleep in the basement. Eamon's settled here on the couch."
"All right. Thank you."
Claire climbed the stairs. Paused at the landing.
"Merry Christmas, Cormac."
"Merry Christmas, Mom."
When we were finally alone, Eamon looked at me. "Basement?"
"Yes."
I helped him up, and we crept down the steps gingerly.
He sat on the fold-out and started working at his sling.
"Let me." I knelt. Unbuckled the straps. Eased it off carefully. His sharp breath told me how much it hurt.
"Sorry."
"Not your fault."
I helped him out of the flannel. The bandage underneath was clean.
He sat shirtless in his jeans. Exhaustion carved into every line, but his eyes were clear.
"At the hospital," he said. "When I talked about the business. You never said anything.'"
I settled beside him. "Yeah."
"What does that mean?"
"'What if I built something. My firm trains them. I don't know about funding.'" I kept my voice soft, no drama. "Never 'we.'"
A moment of silence..
"Shit." He looked at our hands, fingers woven together. "After everything. After your family claimed me. After we—and I still reverted to solo."
"Three years of working alone. I get it."
"But that's not an excuse." His voice turned ragged. "You offered me a partnership with everything, and my first instinct was still building alone."
"Your instinct, yeah." I touched his knee. "But what do you want? Now that you're thinking about it."
He looked at me.
"You. This. Us. Building something that lasts."
"Then let's talk about how we actually do that. Not theory. Reality."
I lay down on the fold-out, propped on my elbow. He moved carefully, his good shoulder touching mine.
"The business. I don't have capital—"
"I do. Retirement money. Endorsement deals. I'll invest it in the business."
"Mac—"
"In us." I squeezed his hand. "Partners. Equal partners. Your expertise, my capital, our vision. We both bring something."
His thumb moved across my knuckles.
"Equal decision-making?"
"Equal everything. Fifty-fifty. If we disagree, we work it out." I kissed him lightly. "Real partnership. Not you running things while I write checks."
"Are you retiring? You mentioned retirement money."
"I'm thinking about it. I'm tired of performing. Done being a symbol." It was the truth lodged in my bones. "I want to build something real. With you."
"The Guardians," Eamon said.
I blinked. "What?"
"The name. We're not only protecting people. We're guarding them like your family guarded you. Like you guarded me. Like we'll guard each other."
Guardians. Not bodyguards. Something bigger. Presence instead of defense.
"The Guardians."
"Too on the nose?"
"No." My throat tightened. "Perfect."
"So we're doing this? Actually doing this? Together?"
"If you want to."
"I want to." He corrected himself with emphasis. "We want to. We're building this."
I leaned in. Kissed him softly.
When I pulled back, he was smiling.
"Your family's going to have opinions."
"Let them. This is ours first." I kissed him again. "We'll tell them tomorrow."
He shifted closer. "Mac?"
"Yeah?"
"I need to be with you. Not as patient and caretaker." He gazed into my eyes. "Us. Celebrating what we just chose."
Heat flared in my chest. "Yeah. I need that too."
His good hand came up. Cupped my face.
"How's your shoulder? Really."
"Good enough for this." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "I'll tell you if it's too much."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We undressed slowly. Me helping with his shirt and his jeans. Careful of the injury, but less scared now.
He lay back in only his black boxer briefs. Bandage stark white against his shoulder. His eyes were dark. Dilated and focused entirely on me.
I stripped down to my underwear. Climbed onto the bed. The fold-out's springs protested. Straddled his lap carefully, knees bracketing his hips. Mindful of everything that could hurt.
"Okay?" I asked.
"Yes."
I leaned in, letting the heat of his body guide me.
My lips brushed his softly at first, then pressed with deliberate intent.
The fingers of his good hand wove into my hair, anchoring me as our mouths met in an intentional, unhurried dance.
I trailed kisses down the graceful curve of his jaw, tasting his warm skin, pausing at his throat until a quiet whimper slipped free of his lips.
I moved lower, each kiss an invitation: along his collarbone, over the gentle rise of his chest. His skin tasted of a mix of salt and the faint tang of antiseptic, alive under my lips.
I took my time, exploring with mouth, fingers, breath—reverently skirting the injured shoulder, worshipping everything else.
When I reached his flat, muscular stomach, he drew in a sharp breath, and he squeezed my shoulder with his good hand. "You don't have to—" he began.
"I want to," I murmured, meeting his gaze. "This is for us. Celebrating what we chose together."
Understanding ignited behind his eyes. It was no mere transaction; it was a gift offered freely. "Yeah," he whispered, voice edged with emotion. "Yeah, okay."
My fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxer briefs; he lifted his hips, and they slid away. He was already hard, his cock pulsing. I wrapped my palm around the shaft, stroking once, slowly. His head tipped back, breath catching. "God—"
I lowered my mouth, capturing the tip with gentle warmth. He gripped my hair—not directing, only holding fast—and his hips arched toward me. I hollowed my cheeks, took him deeper, setting a steady, unhurried rhythm.
Every sound he made was raw, trusting, utterly beautiful. When my tongue traced a spot that sent a shudder through his whole form, he gasped, voice full of need. "Mac—I'm close—"
I kept going, coaxing him onward, each movement measured, caring. His breathing hit ragged peaks. When he came, calling my name, his good hand balling up the sheets, it was complete surrender—every barrier down. I continued to stroke him gently until his body relaxed, slightly trembling.
Lingering in the afterglow, I kissed my way back up his torso and settled beside him. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling in bliss.
"Give me—" he whispered, throat tight. "Give me a minute. Then I want—"
"No rush," I soothed.
"But you—"
"We have time," I said, brushing my palm over his cheek. "All the time."
His eyes opened. "Partners," he murmured.
"In everything," I agreed, and he drew me close with his good arm, sealing the promise in a deep, lingering kiss.
His hand drifted down my side until he found my cock, hard and pressing against his hip. "My turn," he breathed against my lips.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he insisted, wrapping me in a firm, knowing touch.
He guided me onto my back, careful to honor his healing shoulder, then lowered himself between my thighs. When his mouth closed around me, warm and deliberate, my senses exploded. He hummed softly, the vibrations sparking fire behind my eyes.
He moved with patient reverence, each sweep of tongue and gentle tug of lips drawing me higher. It didn't take long. I shuddered and spilled my cum over my abs and his chest.
After, we lay tangled together. My head on his chest.
"That was—" I started.
"Like we know we have time now."
"We do have time." I kissed his chest. "All the time."
He was quiet for a moment. Then:
"I love you."
Simple. Clear. No desperation. Truth.
"I love you too."
Sleep tugged at us. I didn't fight it.
We slept wrapped around each other.
I woke to pale dawn filtering through the window. The snow had stopped. The world outside was clean, white, and new.
Footsteps on the basement stairs.
I froze. Eamon still slept.
The footsteps stopped at the bottom.
A soft clink. Then they retreated.
When I was sure they were gone, I looked over.
Two mugs of coffee on the bottom step. Still steaming.
No note. No words.
Ma knew we were down here. Had known all along. And she'd just delivered her blessing.
Eamon still slept. His face peaceful. No tactical assessment. No guilt. My man at rest.
I lay there watching him breathe and thought about The Guardians and all the ways two broken people could build something whole.
Upstairs, Ma moved in the kitchen—coffee gurgling. Christmas morning began the way it always did—with caffeine and family and cinnamon rolls in the oven.
Eamon's eyes opened. Blinked slowly. Focused on me.
"Merry Christmas," I whispered.
"Merry Christmas."
Upstairs, Ma started humming. The smell of coffee drifted down.
We had a future to plan: legal paperwork and a hundred decisions we'd make together.
But first: family. Christmas morning in a house that had decided we both belonged.
It was the right place to start.