I lift my head, meet her eyes. They're soft. Sated. Dangerous.
"Aye?"
"That was better."
I laugh—can't help it—and kiss her slow. "Better than what?"
"Better than careful. Better than trying not to break me." She shifts beneath me, deliberately clenching around me, and I groan because I'm already half-hard again. "Do it again. But this time, I want to be on top."
I roll us in one smooth movement, letting her settle on top of me, hands on her hips. She sits up, hair falling around her shoulders, looking every inch the queen she is. Firelight dances across her skin, catching on the marks I left, the bruises from earlier, the strength in her shoulders.
"Your move, wee Rose." She rocks her hips experimentally and I grip her tighter, jaw clenching. "Careful now."
"No," she says, leaning down to bite my jaw. "You said no more careful. That goes both ways."
And then she rides me—slow at first, rolling her hips in a way that makes my breath catch, testing the angle, finding what she wants. I watch her face as she takes me deeper, see the exact moment she finds it. Her lips part. Her eyes go dark.
"There," she breathes. "Right there."
"Aye?" I grip her hips tighter, guiding her, helping her take it. "That where you need me, love?"
"Yes." She braces her hands on my chest, nails biting in—drawing blood probably, I don't care—and starts to move. Really move. Faster now. Harder. Taking me like she's claiming territory. Like I'm Belfast itself and she's planting her flag.
"Fuck, look at you," I groan, watching her work. The way her body moves. The way her tits bounce with each roll of her hips. The way she's completely unselfconscious, chasing her pleasure like it's her birthright. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. Taking what's yours."
"Mine," she agrees, breathless, riding me harder. "All mine."
"Aye," I rasp. "Every inch. Every breath. Yours."
She leans forward slightly, changes the angle, and gasps. "Finn—God—"
"That's it," I encourage, thumbs digging into her hipbones, definitely leaving marks. "Use me. Take what you need."
"You like this?" she asks, voice rough with exertion, with want. "Like watching me fuck you?"
"Christ, yes." I'm barely holding on, barely keeping myself from just flipping her over and pounding into her. But this—this is hers. Her victory lap. Her claiming. "You're perfect. Fucking perfect. My queen taking her throne."
She makes this sound—half laugh, half moan—and grinds down harder. "Your queen who killed for you tonight."
"Aye," I growl, and fuck, that shouldn't turn me on more but it does. It absolutely does. "My queen who's got blood under hernails and my cock inside her. My queen who's beautiful covered in violence."
"You're fucked in the head, Finnian O'Callaghan."
"So are you, Róisín O'Callaghan." I thrust up to meet her, making her cry out. "That's why we work."
She picks up speed, riding me in earnest now—chasing it, taking it, demanding it. The sounds she makes are obscene. The wet slap of skin. Her gasping breaths. My groaned curses. The whole estate definitely knows what we're doing.
"Tell me," she demands, breathless but commanding—always commanding. "Tell me what you see."
"I see my wife," I grit out, watching where we're joined, watching her take me again and again. "I see the woman who stood in that chapel covered in blood and didn't flinch. I see the most dangerous woman in Belfast riding my cock like she owns it."
"I do own it," she says, and there's that Malloy arrogance mixed with O'Callaghan fire.
"Aye, you do." I slide one hand up from her hip to her breast, thumb circling her nipple. "You own all of me. Body and soul. Blood and bone."
She keens, head falling back, spine arching beautifully. "Finn—I'm close—"
"I know, love. I can feel it." I can—she's tightening around me like a vice, her rhythm getting erratic. "Let me see it. Let me watch you come on my cock."
