18. Lorcan
Lorcan
I’m still buried inside my wife when her words hit me like a freight train.
I think I’m falling in love with you.
I’ve wanted women. I’ve had them. I’ve never once wanted to keep one—until this exhausted, fierce, beautiful girl walked into St. Brigid’s to become my wife.
I knew the second I saw her that she was different.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are wide, lashes wet, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like she’s already bracing for me to use it against her.
Not a fucking chance.
“Good,” I rasp. “Because I fell in love with you the second you threatened to slit my throat on those church steps.” I kiss her slow and deep, pouring every ounce of it into the slide of my mouth on hers. “I’m yours, Maeve. Body, name, everything I’ve got. And I’m not going anywhere.”
I ease out of her carefully. She winces, and I curse myself for not being gentler at the end. I deal with the condom, then scoop her into my arms and carry her straight into the bathroom. She makes a soft protesting sound but loops her arms around my neck and lets me.
The shower is huge—glass and stone, rain head, heated floor. I get the water hot, set her on her feet under the spray, and wash her myself. Soap over every inch of her. Gentle between her legs where she’s tender and pink. She leans into me the whole time, quiet, trusting me with her weight.
It wrecks me more than the fucking did.
When we’re clean, I towel her off, carry her back to bed, and pull her against my chest under the covers. Her cheek finds that hollow of my shoulder like it was carved for her. One of her legs slides over mine. I can still feel the faint tremor in her thighs.
“Sore?” I skim my fingers down her spine.
“A little. But worth it.” Her voice is sleepy and sated. “That was…”
“Yeah.” I grin into her hair. “It was.”
She traces idle patterns on my chest. “You were careful with me. Even when it got intense.”
“I’ll always treasure you.” I catch her hand, press a kiss to her palm, then to the gold band on her finger.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t fuck you hard. Or against the wall.
Or over the edge of this bed with your pretty ass in the air while you scream my name into the pillow.
” I tip her chin up. “But never more than you can take. You tell me if anything becomes too much. You’re my wife.
And I protect what’s mine—including from myself if I have to. ”
A flush crawls up her neck. Her eyes darken. My cock twitches against her thigh, already interested again.
“Already?” she whispers, half laugh, half breathless.
“You’ve got no idea the restraint it’s taking not to flip you over and slide back into that tight pussy right now.” I palm her ass, squeeze. “But I’m giving you time. Twenty-four hours before I touch you again like that.”
She bites her lip. “And if I touch you?”
I groan. “Then all bets are off.”
She laughs, and the sound lodges under my ribs.
I roll us so she’s half on top of me, our legs tangled, my hand buried in her damp hair.
The house is quiet. Moonlight spills through the big windows.
Somewhere down the hall, three kids are sleeping safe because she fought the world alone for years for them and then—miracle of miracles—allowed me the honor of fighting beside her.
I hold her, my thumb stroking slow circles on her hip, and let the silence settle warm around us. Every cell in my body knows this woman is mine.
I press one last kiss to her forehead and close my eyes with my wife draped over me.
Where she belongs.