Chapter Thirty
Autumn
I can’t sleep. Every ugly thought crashes in at once, sharp little knives behind my ribs. Breathing hurts. There’s a cold, twisting knot low in my stomach that won’t loosen no matter how tightly I curl into myself. The sheets feel thin, the blanket useless. Nothing is warm enough.
I turn my head, and there he is, Flynn, shirtless, lying on his side with his broad back to me, breathing slow and deep.
Moonlight spills over the inked skull tangled in Celtic knots that spans his shoulder blades, every line of muscle shifting when he exhales.
God, he’s beautiful even asleep. Terrifyingly beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes the ache worse and better at the same time.
I shouldn’t wake him. He needs rest. But my body decides for me.
I slide closer until my bare breasts press flush to the heat of his back. My arm slips around his waist, fingers sneaking beneath the waistband of his black boxers. He’s soft, heavy, resting against his thigh. Not for long, I think, and the thought alone makes me throb.
I wrap my hand around him and stroke slow. Velvet over steel, he swells instantly, thickening against my palm. A low, sleepy groan rumbles out of him. “Autumn…”
I don’t answer with words. I answer with my teeth, little bites along the slope of his shoulder while my hand pumps harder. My free hand slides into his messy hair, gripping at the roots, tugging until his head tips back toward me.
“I need you,” I whisper against his skin, my voice small and cracked open.
He makes a rough sound and covers my hand with his much larger one, forcing my grip tighter. “Like this, baby. Hard.”
His hips start to rock into my fist, lazy at first, then greedy. I feel the veins along his cock pulse under my fingers, feel him grow impossibly thicker. My mouth waters.
Finally he rolls over. Those sleepy green eyes find mine, heavy-lidded and already dark with sin. A slow, wicked smile curves his lips.
He moves over me like a storm, settling between my thighs that fall open for him without shame. One rough fingertip traces my slit. “Not wet enough,” he murmurs, voice gravel and smoke.
“I don’t care,” I breathe. “I want to feel you stretch me. I need it to hurt a little.”
He circles my clit once, teasing, then pins my gaze with his. “Eyes on me the whole time I slide in, or I stop. Understand?”
I nod frantically, already trembling.
He lines up. The blunt head nudges my entrance, and he pushes—just the tip—and the burn is immediate. He’s too big, and I’m too dry, and it’s perfect. I whimper, hips jerking.
He pulls back, sits on his heels, and spits right onto my pussy. The wet sound makes me flush hotter; his palm cracks down, a sharp slap against my clit that makes me jolt and cry out.
“That hurt!” I squeal, half laughing, half shocked.
“And it made you soaked,” he says, grinning like the devil he is. He spreads the wetness with two thick fingers and lines back up. “Let’s try again.”
He slaps me once more, harder, the sting blooming into liquid heat, and before I can catch my breath, he slams home in one brutal thrust. My back arches off the bed, a broken moan tearing from my throat. He bottoms out, so deep I feel him in my soul, and holds there.
Moonlight carves shadows across his abs, every muscle carved and flexing as he breathes.
His shoulders look impossibly wide from this angle, veins standing out along his forearms, throat, even the one that snakes down into the V of his hips.
The skull on his chest ripples when he shifts.
He looks like sin made flesh, like something sent to ruin me and save me in the same breath.
I try to close my eyes just for a second, to feel, but his voice lashes across the room.
“No. Eyes open. On me.”
Another sharp slap lands on my clit, and I scream, the pleasure-pain shooting straight up my spine.
Before the sound dies, he’s moving again, pulling out and driving back in so hard the headboard cracks against the wall, and just like that, the knot in my stomach unravels.
The knives fall quiet. There is only him, his body, his heat, his cruel hands, his perfect cock, filling every empty place inside me until there’s no room left for anything but Flynn, my husband.
His thrusts are hard, precise, calculated to keep me teetering right on the brink. Every time my body locks up, thighs trembling, breath catching, he stills completely, smirks down at me, and waits until the wave recedes; then he starts again, slow and merciless.
“Are you,” I pant, voice shredded, “edging me?”
He laughs, low and dark, the sound curling straight between my legs. “Damn right I am.” Pride drips from every syllable. I want to smack that beautiful, infuriating face.
“I’ll keep you right here,” he growls, “until you’re so fucking spent your pretty little head can’t spin another nightmare.”
“How did you know I was,” I start, but he slams in so deep the words fracture into a moan.
He leans over me, grips my chin hard, forcing my mouth open.
His eyes burn, wild and possessive, and then he spits onto my tongue.
The raw dominance of it makes me whimper like the shameless slut I am for him.
“Swallow,” he orders.
I do. Instantly. The taste of him slides down my throat while his huge hand wraps around my neck and squeezes.
Breathing turns into fire, heartbeat roaring in my ears, but it’s not fear making me shake.
It’s trust. It’s adrenaline. It’s the way his thick forearm flexes, veins standing out like ropes under the ink as he controls every ounce of air I’m allowed.
He fucks me harder, cock dragging over that perfect spot inside until my eyes roll back. The pressure on my throat turns the pleasure razor-sharp. Just when black spots dance at the edges of my vision, he loosens his grip, slow and careful.
“Small breaths, trouble,” he murmurs, thumb stroking my pulse. “Good girl.”
His other hand slides between us, two rough fingers circling my clit lazily while I suck in tiny, desperate sips of air. My back arches off the bed.
“Flynn, please, I need to come,” I beg, voice cracking.
“I know you do,” he teases and stops again. My whole body slumps, every muscle pulled bowstring tight, mind floating in thick, frustrated fog.
He climbs off the bed, all long lines and carved muscle, and digs into his duffel. When he turns back, moonlight catches the wicked grin on his face and the silver string of ben-wa balls dangling from his fingers.
My brows pull together. Before I can speak, he flips me onto my stomach and yanks my hips up until I’m on all fours, ass in the air like an offering.
“Flynn,” Panic licks up my spine.
“Relax.” His palm cracks across my ass, the sting blooming hot and perfect. “I’m not fucking your ass tonight.” A dark chuckle. “Well… not with my cock.”
Cold lube drips between my cheeks. I gasp at the shock of it, then moan when the first ball presses in. He works it slow, letting me feel every inch of stretch, every second of relief when it settles inside. Then the second. The third. My arms shake, forehead pressed to the sheets.
“Please, Flynn.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore.
“Three more, baby,” he growls, voice rough with lust. The next three slides in faster, cold metal shifting deep, making me feel impossibly full, impossibly his.
“Fuck,” he breathes, palming my ass with both hands, spreading me open to admire his work. “Your ass is a goddamn masterpiece.”
Then his cock slams in with one brutal thrust, filling my pussy while the balls shift inside me. I cry out, back bowing. He sets a relentless pace, hips snapping, every ridge of him dragging against my walls.
One hand fists my hair, arching me hard, forcing my ass higher against him. With the other he tugs the string. The first ball pops free, and the sudden drag sends lightning up my spine.
Another thrust. Another ball pulled free. My whole body coils tighter, tighter.
The third comes out on a hard snap of his hips, and I shatter, screaming his name into the mattress, pussy clenching around him in violent waves while the balls shift and roll with every spasm.
He doesn’t stop, just fucks me through it, drawing the orgasm out until I’m sobbing from the intensity.
Then he groans, like an animal, and I feel the cum, warm and hot, filling me.
Only when I collapse, limp and trembling, does he slow, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades.
“I think you will sleep now.” He whispers, his chest pressing on my back.
I nod, with a slow, lazy laugh. “I need to clean up.”
“No,” he coos, voice heavy and deep. He rolls onto the mattress and takes me with him. “You will sleep with my cum inside you.”
“Flynn—”
“Shh, wife. Get some sleep.” He kisses the top of my head and holds me tight in his strong, tatted arms, and I’ve never felt safer.
We meet in the lobby. The Callaghans are already there, helmets in hand, dressed head-to-toe in black riding gear. They look like a small army preparing to conquer a city.
Flynn had given me the same: black pants and a heavy jacket that feels more like armour than clothing. He’d said, “Dress for the slide, not the ride.”
At the time I didn’t understand, but when I see the bikes waiting outside, they are these massive black beasts lined up like they’re breathing, and I finally get it.
We step out into the cold foggy morning. Men mount their bikes in silence, six of them. Another armoured SUV sits behind with four more men loading in. Guns. Vests. Darkness.
“Let’s get out of here,” Declan says.
Flynn steps in front of me. He lifts a huge matte-black helmet and settles it over my head with slow, careful hands.
His fingers brush my jaw, my cheeks, my hairline as he fastens the straps under my chin.
His green eyes flicker up at me through the glass, and for a moment they’re not feral, not dark, not hungry.
They’re soft.
Like he’s really seeing me.
My heart stutters.
“Done,” he murmurs, tapping the side of my helmet. “You can talk to me if you need anything, okay?”
I nod, because my voice won’t work.
He puts on his own helmet, swings a leg over the bike, and Kian walks up to steady me with a gloved hand as I climb on behind Flynn. The seat is high, the machine warm and vibrating under me.
Then I wrap my arms around Flynn’s waist.
God. The way his body feels—solid, broad, tense with control—my fingers automatically curl into his jacket. His back is hot even through the layers.
“Let’s roll out,” Declan’s voice crackles through my helmet, making me jump.
Viviana sits behind him, her arms snug around his torso.
Kian and Connor fall in behind us, and finally Flynn turns his head slightly, as if checking I’m there before he takes off.
We start slow, but when we hit the open road, Flynn twists the throttle, and the bike roars like something alive. He leans forward, and I’m dragged with him, my chest pressing into his back, my arms tightening. The wind rushes around us, cold and sharp.
“If you feel anything wrong, just tap on my stomach,” he says through the comm.
“Okay,” I whisper, breathless.
Flynn shoots ahead, with Declan right behind.
When he leans into a turn, our bodies move as one, my weight shifting with his, trusting him completely.
The pack moves like a single organism, each rider anticipating the other.
Kian slows intersections, blocking cars with his bike as we fly through without stopping.
It’s terrifying.
It’s beautiful.
It’s stupidly hot.
The Callaghans’ mansion rises through the darkness like something carved out of an old myth, lights glowing warm between the trees.
The gate slides open right on time, and we glide through.
Their men peel off to the left, toward the security wing, while only the Callaghans and us continue to the garage.
Flynn slows the bike, guiding it into the open doors.
Engines echo off the concrete as everyone parks in a perfectly straight line.
We step inside the mansion. Flynn kisses me, just a brush, but enough to steady me, and then follows after Declan and the others. Viviana loops her arm through mine with a soft tug.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get something to eat.”
We head into their enormous kitchen. Warm bread waits on the counter along with cheese, fruit, and a pitcher of fresh orange juice. Viviana sits at the wooden table, and I settle beside her, tearing off a piece of bread and pressing cheese onto it.
“I know I already told you, but I really didn’t know Flynn was going to marry you,” she says suddenly.
Her voice isn’t teasing; there’s a sadness in her eyes.
It’s the first time we’ve been alone since they told me who they really were.
The club was too crowded, too many eyes on us.
“I would’ve stopped them. I kicked Declan in the ribs when he told me. ”
A laugh bursts out of me. Viviana is small, but she’s pure fire.
“I was terrified when I realised what was happening,” I admit. “But…” I smile, the shy kind that crawls up on its own. “Now it just feels… right. In a messed-up kind of way.”
Viviana nods, pulling a slice of orange from the plate. “Flynn’s a good man. He helped Declan through hell. With one of the Russians, Alek. With two Consortium members. Every time something huge went down, Flynn was there.”
She hesitates, trying to talk without saying too much.
“I don’t blame you for anything that happened,” I say. I place my hand over hers, hoping she feels the truth in it. “I lied too. I had a stalker. And honestly? If you had told me your husband was the leader of the Irish mafia? I would’ve been on the first plane out of this country.”
She laughs, and it makes the kitchen feel warmer.
“I’m happy with him, Viv,” I whisper. “I really am. He’s different… and I’ve never felt safe before him.” My eyes drop to my ring, the heavy gold that still feels surreal on my hand.
“He loves you,” she says gently. I look up. Viviana smiles. “Even Declan said he’s never seen Flynn Brady like this with anyone.”
My chest tightens. “I just wish my parents were here. Their daughter got married, and they have no idea.”
Viviana squeezes my hand. “Once this is over, we’ll throw you and Flynn a proper wedding. With your family. With everything. Trust me, I’m practically an expert in repeating weddings.”
I stare at her. “You and Declan?”
She laughs, waving her hands. “Sweetheart, if I told you how we ended up together…”
I lean in, already smiling, and when she starts talking about her father, about the deal, about Declan, my jaw drops.
“Oh my fucking God,” I whisper, completely floored.