“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed to mine, trembling with the effort to hold still. “You feel—God, you feel like heaven.”
Then he moved.
Slow at first, dragging out almost to the tip before slamming back in, grinding against my clit with every stroke. The rhythm built—harder, faster, the rustic bed creaking beneath us, headboard knocking against stone in time with our bodies. I wrapped my legs high around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. He obliged, angling his hips until he hit that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
I came first, clenching around him in pulsing waves, screaming his name into his shoulder. He followed seconds later, thrusting deep and holding there, spilling inside me with a hoarse, broken groan—hot, endless pulses that I felt everywhere, marking me, claiming me.
We collapsed together, sweat-slick and shaking, his weight a delicious anchor. He stayed inside me, softening slowly, ourcombined release slick between my thighs. His lips brushed my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against my skin, reverent and fierce. “And all mine.”
I smiled into the curve of his neck, feeling him still pulsing faintly inside me, and thought—yes. And you’re mine.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
PATRICK
“That’s a foul! He tackled me!”
“I didn’t tackle you! I blocked you! It’s called defense!”
I stood on the edge of the patio, a cup of tea in hand, watching what could only be described as an international incident unfolding on the sprawling lawn of Theresa’s house. The inaugural McCrae-Carideo Cup was underway, and the rulebook had apparently been tossed into the neighbor’s yard.
On the far side of the grass, my twins, Carson and Cory, moved like a two-headed hydra, weaving the football between them with that eerie telepathy they shared. They were closing in on the goal—marked by two plastic lawn chairs—when Rome, Theresa’s seven-year-old hurricane, introduced a new element to the game.
Instead of using his feet, Rome dropped his shoulder, lowered his center of gravity, and plowed into Carson with the enthusiasm of a linebacker making a Super Bowl sack. Carsonwent down in a heap of limbs and giggles. Rome scooped up the football in his hands and sprinted for the lawn chairs.
“Touchdown!” Rome screamed, spiking the black-and-white ball into the grass and doing a victory dance that involved a lot of hip wiggling.
The game ground to a halt. My boys stopped and stared.
“You can’t pick up the ball, you numpty!” Carson yelled from the ground, though he was grinning. “It’s football! Not... whatever that was!”
“It’s American football!” Rome argued, breathless and triumphant. “I scored six points!”
“Zero points!” Cory corrected. “And that’s a red card for... being mad.”
From the makeshift goalposts, Alec leaned against the back of a lawn chair. A few months ago, my eldest would have stormed off, furious that the rules weren’t being followed, or he would have stood on the sidelines with a scowl dark enough to blot out the California sun.
Today, he just laughed.
“Let him have it, Carson,” Alec called out, his voice light. “If he wants to play rugby, we’ll play rugby. Next time he runs, just tackle him back.”
“Really?” Rome’s eyes went wide, delighted by the prospect of sanctioned violence.
“Aye, really,” Alec said, jogging out from the goal. He ruffled Rome’s hair. “But you have to run faster than that, wee man. My brothers are quick.”
Beside me on the patio, Theresa leaned against the railing, wrapped in one of my oversized cardigans. She looked tired but content, her eyes following the disorganized tangle of kids.
“I have no idea who is winning,” she admitted, blowing steam from her tea.
“I believe the current score is three to... something else entirely,” I said. “Though Rome seems to be inventing new strategies as he goes. Did you see him try to body-check Brody earlier?”
“I tried to look away,” she laughed. “He’s been watching too many 49ers games with Michael.”
Out on the grass, the game resumed, though it had morphed into a hybrid sport that involved kicking, throwing, and a lot of falling down. Eoin, my four-year-old, had abandoned the match entirely and was currently belly-down in the grass, inspecting a beetle, while Paris stood near the sidelines acting as a self-appointed referee, blowing an imaginary whistle every time someone’s shirt got untucked.
