“Aoife,” he breathes, voice frayed and reverent. “I love you.”
He kisses me softly as he moves, long, languid strokes, nothing like the frantic rhythm we sometimes chase. This time it’s tender, deliberate. Every glide drags against every sensitive place inside me, every withdrawal leaves me aching for the next slow push. I squeeze around him, wanting to keep him there forever.
“I’m going slow,” he whispers against my lips. “I want to feel every part of you… remember every inch of how you feel around me.” His hands settle on my waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above my hips as he sinks deeper still. “Fuck… you’re so tight, so perfect.”
He looks down at me then, eyes dark and shining with something raw and unguarded, love, fierce and quiet and absolute. In that moment I believe he would set the world on fire for me, and the thought makes my chest ache in the best way.
“It will always be you,” I whisper, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving faint crescents.
My back arches off the bed as he thrusts deeper; he lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, slow suck, gentle pull, then the soft scrape of teeth. Pleasure spikes sharp and sweet; my hand flies to his hair, holding him there as I moan his name.
He lifts himself onto his forearms, bracing above me. The angle changes and my moans grow louder, breathier. The pressure coils tighter, brighter, until it snaps.
“Oh God—Matteo—” The words quiver out in broken gasps as my walls flutter and spasm around him, pleasure crashing through me in bright, shuddering waves. His name spills from my lips like a prayer.
“You look so beautiful when you come,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. He thrusts harder once, twice. “One more time, little lamb. Give me one more.”
He keeps moving until the bed creaks softly beneath us. Then he stills, pulls out slowly. I whimper at the loss, and he laughs low, the sound vibrating against my skin.
He slides back into me in one smooth, bare thrust. The sensation is overwhelming, hot, nothing between us. I almost cry out into his mouth, he swallows the sound, groaning against my lips.
“Aoife… so good… so fucking perfect… all mine…”
The rhythm builds again, deeper, harder, skin slapping softly, breaths mingling. Pleasure coils tighter, brighter. I can feel every pulse, every throb of him inside me.
“Oh, Matteo—” My voice cracks.
“That’s it,” he rasps against my ear. “Come for me, little lamb.”
The orgasm hits like a wave, fiercer, longer, my body shaking, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. I cry out his name, nails scoring his back.
“Fuck—” Matteo’s control fractures. He grips my hips, thrusts faster, harder, chasing his own release. “Fuck—” He buries himself deep, pulsing inside me, hot and endless. He keeps moving through it drawing out every tremor until we’re both trembling.
He collapses over me, careful not to crush me, lips finding my neck in soft, reverent kisses. I wrap my arms around him, fingers threading back into his hair, holding him close. His mouth travels to my jaw, then my lips, gentle now, lingering.
“I love you, little lamb,” he whispers against my skin.
I smile, my heart so full it aches. “I love you, my wolf.”
We stay like that, tangled, breathless, hearts beating in messy sync, his warmth seeping into me, the faint scent of us mingling with rain and lamplight.
No rush to move.
No need to speak.
Just this, him inside me still, softening slowly, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we face it together.
And right now, that’s everything.
Epilogue 1
It’s been a month since we went to Ireland and fought for Aoife. A month since the Irish went quiet. Too quiet.
The silence isn’t mercy. It’s preparation.
They’re up to something.
The Sunday bells echo through the Messina church, their chime cutting through the soft garden breeze. For once, the air isn’t weighed down with tension. The family’s together, laughing, wine on the table, sun glinting off marble pillars. And Aoife… She's here. Finally, in this place. On this side of the war.
