Her breath hitches. "Then claim me properly. No more careful. No more gentle. I'm not breakable."
"No," I agree, leaning in close, nose brushing hers. "You're not. You're fucking dangerous. And you're mine."
I kiss her then—deep and hungry and honest—and she responds like she's been starving for it. Her hands find my trousers, pushing them down my hips, and I help her, kicking them off without breaking the kiss. When I'm finally bare against her, skin to skin, she makes this satisfied sound in the back of her throat that goes straight through me.
"Come here," she demands, pulling me down, and I go willingly—covering her body with mine, letting her feel my weight, my want, everything I am.
I settle between her thighs, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down her body—breast, stomach, lower—until I find her wet and wanting. She gasps when I touch her, hips bucking up into my hand.
"Fuck, Róisín," I groan. "Already?"
"Aye," she says, breathless and shameless. "Been wanting this since the chapel. Since you washed the blood off me like I was something holy."
"You are," I tell her, circling her with my thumb, watching her face—the way her eyes flutter, the way her lips part, the way her whole body responds to me. "You're a fucking saint covered in sin and I worship every inch."
She reaches down, wraps her hand around me, and I nearly come apart right there. Her grip is firm, confident, devastating—familiar in the best way. "No more poetry, Finn. Just fuck me."
I push her hand away—gently but firmly—and pin both wrists above her head again. "My pace, love. You asked me not to be careful. That means you take what I give you. When I give it."
Her eyes flash—challenge and desire all mixed together—and she nods once. Permission. Trust. Everything.
I line myself up, feeling her heat, her readiness, and pause. Look down at her. This woman who rules beside me. Who killed beside me tonight. Who chose me again when she could've walked away.
"I love you," I say. Raw. Real. "Every bloodstained, beautiful, brutal part of you."
"I know." Her legs tighten around me. "Now prove it."
I push into her in one hard thrust—no teasing, no gentleness—exactly what she asked for. Her mouth falls open on a gasp that's half shock, half satisfaction, and I groan because she's perfect. Always has been.
"Fuck," I grit out, because she's tight and hot and taking me like she was made for it. Made for this. For us. "You feel—Christ, love—"
"Don't stop," she orders, nails digging into my shoulders where my hands have released her wrists. "Don't you dare stop."
I don't. I pull back and drive deep again, setting a rhythm that's hard and deliberate and absolutely filthy. Each thrust is a claiming. Each gasp from her lips is a surrender. The firelight catches on her skin, turning her gold and shadow, and I lean down to kiss her—messy and graceless and real.
"You're mine," I growl against her mouth. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she gasps, meeting me thrust for thrust like we're fighting again—but this time we're on the same side. "And you're mine. Always have been."
"Always will be," I swear, picking up the pace, giving her everything—harder, faster, the headboard hitting the wall with each movement. The whole estate can probably hear us. Good. Let them know exactly what happens behind these doors. Let them know their king takes his queen the way she deserves—rough and reverent all at once.
"That's it, love," I rasp, feeling her tighten around me. "Take it. Take everything I've got."
"More," she demands, and Christ, she's magnificent like this—face flushed, hair wild, completely undone and completely in control all at once. "Finn, more—"
I shift the angle, hit that spot inside her that makes her cry out, and do it again. And again. Until she's shaking beneath me, chanting my name like it's the only word she knows. Like I'm the only thing that matters.
"Come for me," I order, voice rough as Belfast streets. "Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart."
"Fuck—Finn—I—"
She breaks. Hard. Her whole body goes taut, back arching off the bed, and she's beautiful—absolutely fucking beautiful—in her pleasure. I feel every pulse, every tremor, every wave of it, and it drags me over the edge with her.
I come with her name on my lips and my forehead pressed to hers, pouring everything into her—all the fear from tonight, all the love I've carried, all the violence we survived together. When I finally still, we're both breathing hard, slick with sweat, tangled together like we'll never come apart.
I don't pull out. Not yet. I want to stay here. Want to keep her full of me. Want her to feel this tomorrow when she walks into a room and takes what's hers. Want Belfast to see it in her eyes—that she's claimed and claiming.
"Finn," she whispers, hands gentle now in my hair.
