Chapter 23 #2
She rises up, almost until I’m about to slip out, then slams back down. Water splashes over the rim of the tub. The slap of wet skin fills the steamy air. She sets a punishing rhythm immediately, driving herself onto me with a frantic, desperate energy.
Yes. Like that.
I meet her thrust for thrust, driving up into her as she comes down.
The angle is perfect, hitting a spot deep inside her that makes her cry out every time.
Her nails bite into my shoulders. "You’re taking me so well," I grunt, my own control fraying.
"Look at you. So beautiful, fucking yourself on my cock like you were made for it. You were, weren’t you? "
"Y-yes," she gasps, her movements becoming more erratic.
"Say it."
"I was made for you," she cries out, the confession torn from her. "For your cock."
"Good girl," I rasp. One hand leaves her hip to cup her breast, thumb rolling over her hard nipple. The other stays anchored on her, helping to guide her, to pull her down onto me even harder. "Come on, baby. Faster. Milk me with that perfect cunt. Make me come inside you."
The filthy praise spurs her on, igniting something wild and desperate in her.
She’s a vision above me—flushed, sweating, her hair plastered to her neck, her expression one of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
The sounds she makes are obscene: wet slaps, guttural moans, sharp cries of my name that echo off the tiled walls of the spa.
Her movements become more frenzied, her hips rising and falling with raw, untamed energy, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her.
The way her body moves, the way she surrenders completely to the pleasure, it’s breathtaking.
Her breasts bounce with every thrust, water droplets flying from their peaks, catching the candlelight like tiny diamonds.
I grip her hips tighter, guiding her rhythm, urging her to take me deeper.
“That’s it, baby,” I growl, my voice rough with need.
“Fuck yourself on me. Show me how much you want it.” She moans loudly, her head thrown back, exposing the delicate column of her throat.
I lean forward and bite down gently, marking her as mine, and she shudders violently, her inner walls tightening around me in response.
“Luca!” she cries out, her voice breaking as she drives herself down onto me harder, faster.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped indents in my skin, but I don’t care.
The pain is a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure coursing through me.
“You’re so perfect,” I rasp, reaching up to cup her face, forcing her to meet my gaze.
Her eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide with arousal, and there’s something almost feral in the way she looks at me.
“My good little slut, taking me so deep. You love this, don’t you? Love being filled by me?”
Her only answer is another desperate cry as she grinds down on me, chasing her release with wild abandon.
The water sloshes violently around us, spilling over the edges of the tub and soaking the floor, but neither of us cares.
The world has narrowed to just this moment, this connection, this primal need to consume each other.
I can feel the tension coiling in her belly, the tremors rippling through her thighs as she teeters on the edge of bliss.
“Come on, Rosalina,” I urge, my voice a low, commanding rumble. “Let go. Come all over my cock.”
And she does. With a sharp, shattered scream, she comes apart, her body convulsing around me in waves of pleasure so intense they leave her trembling.
Her inner walls clamp down on me like a vice, milking me relentlessly, and it’s too much.
My own release surges through me, hot and unstoppable, and I thrust up into her once, twice, before stilling, buried to the hilt as I spill deep inside her.
We cling to each other as we ride out the storm, our breaths mingling in the steamy air, our bodies slick with sweat and water.
She collapses against my chest, her heart hammering against mine, and I hold her close, murmuring soft words of praise into her ear.
“You were incredible,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “My perfect, dirty angel.”
When we finally still, she stays in my lap, her head resting on my shoulder, both of us breathing hard.
"Better?" I ask softly, pressing a kiss to her damp hair.
"So much better," she confirms, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Thank you."
"Always, Lina. Always."
We stay in the spa for another hour, soaking and talking and stealing kisses, before finally getting dressed and heading home. Rosalina looks loose and relaxed in a way I have not seen since before the funeral, and I count that as a victory.
But when we walk through the front door, Gabriel is waiting in the foyer, and the expression on his face makes my stomach drop.
"What happened?" I ask immediately, moving instinctively to stand between him and Rosalina.
"We need to talk," Gabriel says quietly, and his eyes flick to Rosalina with something that looks like sympathy. "All of us."
Dante appears from the study, his face grim, and I know—I just know—that whatever Gabriel is about to say is going to destroy the peace we just built.
"What is it?" Rosalina asks, her hand finding mine, squeezing tight. "What happened?"
Gabriel takes a deep breath. "A package arrived about an hour ago. From Patrick."
He holds up a Polaroid photograph, and even from across the room I can see what it shows—a body, bloodied and broken, unmistakably male.
"No," Rosalina whispers, and I feel her knees buckle.
I catch her, holding her upright as Gabriel continues, his voice steady but strained.
"Dolan is dead. Patrick killed him when he tried to sneak Erin out of the O'Connor estate." He pauses. "The message on the back says 'Do not be stupid.'"
"Erin?" Rosalina gasps, her whole body shaking. "Where is Erin? Is she—"
"We don’t know," Dante says, moving closer. "The photograph shows only Dolan. There was nothing about Erin."
"The package," Gabriel says, gesturing to a box sitting on the hall table. "It was sitting on top of a larger box. Addressed to you. From Seamus."
Rosalina pulls away from me, stumbling toward the table like she is in a trance. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for the box, and I move to stand behind her, ready to catch her if she falls.
She opens it slowly, and I watch over her shoulder as she pulls out the contents one by one.
A leather motorcycle jacket—worn and loved, clearly well-used.
A watch—expensive, heavy, with an inscription on the back I cannot read from this angle.
And a piece of paper that makes Rosalina's breath catch in her throat.
A birth certificate.
I lean closer to read it, and my heart clenches when I see the name printed there in official type:
Rosalina Margaret O'Connor
Born: March 15, 1945
Father: Seamus Patrick O'Connor
Mother: Margaret Anne O'Connor (deceased)
"He—" Rosalina's voice breaks completely. "He made it official. He—I am really his daughter. Not adopted. His actual daughter. He changed my birth certificate. He—"
She collapses into sobs, clutching the certificate to her chest, and I gather her into my arms while she falls apart.
"I never got to tell him I loved him," she chokes out between sobs. "I never got to say goodbye. And now Dolan is dead and Erin is—God, Erin is pregnant and alone and Dolan is dead and it is all my fault—"
"No," I say firmly, holding her tighter. "This is not your fault. This is Patrick's fault. All of it."
But she is not listening, just crying harder, the birth certificate crumpled against my chest, her whole body wracked with grief so profound it makes my own chest ache.
Dante and Gabriel close in around us, creating a protective circle, but there is nothing we can do to shield her from this pain.
Dolan is dead.
Erin is missing.
And Seamus—Seamus left her one final gift, one final proof that she was loved and claimed and his.
And she never got to thank him for it.
I hold her while she cries, while she breaks, while she mourns everything she has lost.
And I promise myself—promise her, promise Seamus's memory—that Patrick Murphy will pay for every single tear she sheds.
In blood.