As he spoke, he stroked his free hand down her stomach, soft little touches that stoked the fire of need inside her. “Bossy. Hard-headed. Possessive.”
“Indeed,” he said with a low chuckle as he continued with those featherlight touches. “I am all those things. And you married me anyway.”
“I did. And I would do it again, even if we weren’t being threatened with a police raid.”
The hand that had now drifted down to her hip stilled. Lifting his head, he stared down at her, wonder in his brilliant green eyes. “You would?”
“Of course. That’s what you do when you love someone, isn’t it? You spend the rest of your life with them.”
“You love me.” A statement rather than a question, but no less filled with wonder.
“Trust me, nobody is as surprised by that turn of events as I am.”
“You love me,” he repeated, his fingers resuming their quest down her body, more urgently now. “Even though I’m bossy and hard-headed and possessive. Even though I kidnapped you and threatened to kill your father.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it, O’Rourke?”
His fingers filled her without warning, and she arched off the bed with a loud cry. “You’re an O’Rourke now, too, don’t forget. And what does my wife call me when she’s pinned to our bed, writhing with pleasure?”
“Daddy!” The word was ripped from her as a shockwave of pure, stunning pleasure crashed over her. She barely had time to recover before he was working her up toward that shimmering peak again.
Helpless, she surrendered to it, to him. Let herself be dragged over that knife-sharp edge over and over.
And when she was a boneless, mindless, whimpering mess, he finally joined her. Filling her, stretching her the way only he could as he moved inside her.
“My beautiful wife,” he murmured against her lips. “My stubborn princess. My very, very good girl. Is tú mo chuisle. Once more, with me. Come with me, Aria.”
There was nothing left in her to resist. So once again she gave herself over to him as he filled her one final time, emptying himself into her with a low, needy groan.
Collapsing on the bed beside her, he pulled her into his arms and she let her eyes drift closed as she listened to his heart thundering in his chest. Proof that he was alive, and so was she.
When the thundering subsided, she lifted her head to meet those stunningly bright eyes. Some of the grief had left them, though she knew he would always carry it with him. “What was that you said at the end?”
The corners of his lips dipped down. “What?”
“You said something, but it wasn’t English. Something like… Is too muck weeshla?”
“Is tú mo chuisle?”
“Yes! That was it. What’s it mean?”
His frown deepened. “I hadn’t realized I said that.”
Interesting. “Why do you look upset? Is it bad?”
“No.” Twining his fingers with hers, he brought their locked hands to his lips. “It translates roughly to ‘you are my pulse’. It’s Gaelic.”
Oh, god. If she wasn’t already in love with him, she would have fallen head over heels right then. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not nearly as beautiful as my wife.”
Pleasure warmed her from the inside out as he released her hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone in that way he had that made everything inside her tremble. “My beautiful, brilliant, bratty wife. May I ask you a somewhat personal question?”
“We’re laying in the bed we share with your cum drying on my thighs. I think we’re past the ‘TMI’ stage, Killian.”
“Brat,” he murmured, his lips curving upward. “I’ve just been wondering… what happened to your nose?”
Of everything she’d expected him to ask, that hadn’t been anywhere on her radar. “My nose?”
