Oisín’s head tips back, a quiet moan slipping out of him as I drag against his prostate on every slow thrust. I lean in and kiss his throat, his collarbone, the fading bruise near his ribs, tasting the salt on his skin while my hands slide up his back and pull him closer. His cock is hard and leaking between us, sliding against my stomach with every roll of his hips. I wrap my hand around him and stroke him in the same unhurried rhythm, thumb swiping over the slick head.
He comes first, spilling over my fist while his ass clenches tight around me. The sight of him falling apart like that, open and trusting and completely here with me, undoes me. I follow right after, burying myself deep and filling him as the pleasure rolls through me in long, rolling waves. No static. No noise. Just the feel of him around me and the sound of his breathing against my neck.
I stay inside him while we come down, arms wrapped around each other, his head resting on my shoulder. Oisín shifts againstme, still breathing hard, and looks down at me with dark, frustrated eyes.
“Stop treating me like glass,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t break.”
I look up at him, startled and he leans in closer, lips brushing my ear. “What happened to all those filthy words my husband used to use? Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft.”
The growl rips out of me before I can stop it. I pull out of him in one smooth motion, flip him onto his stomach, and hover over him, checking his face for any sign of pain. His eyes are bright with desire, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted open on a shaky breath.
A dark grin spreads across my face. “Yeah, Sín? Like this? You want it fast and hard just like we did when we first met?” That same desire from that first night still bleeds beneath my skin but it’s taken a different shape. I don’t want to force it. I want Oisín to tell me he wants it.
“Give it to me, Saint Masters,” he purrs.
“Yeah, I think I can work with that.”
I shove his knees up so his ass is in the air and drive back into him hard, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Oisín cries out, his back arching toward the mattress, his hands flying to dig into the sheets. I fuck into him, my hips snapping wildly against his ass. I hover over his back, my chest pressed to his spine, my mouth at his ear as I pound into him.
“That’s it,” I growl. “Squeeze my fucking cock like the greedy little husband you are. You wanted filthy? Take it. Take every inch while I wreck this tight ass.”
Oisín lets out a loud, broken moan, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Fuck, I forgot how much I loved this. Shit. Saint—fuck—yes—”
I bite down on the back of his neck, hard enough to mark, and reach around to stroke his cock in time with my hips.
“I don’t need nice, Saint. I just needed to know I mattered.”
“Well, you matter, Sín. You matter so fucking much I can’t think straight.”
He comes with a shattered cry, painting the sheets while his ass clamps down around me. I continue slamming into his ass, letting out a long moan as I fill him again in thick, pulsing waves, grinding through every last drop until we’re both shaking and spent.
I collapse over him, still buried inside him before rolling off to the side and reaching for his hand. I press it flat against my chest right over my heart. His fingers spread, palm warm against my skin, and I cover it with my own.
“I think I’m in love with my sweet, sweet sin.”
Oisín lifts his head, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. “I love you, Saint Solomon Masters,” he purrs against my skin. “And if you ever forget that, know that I’m still your peace.”
I don’t have an answer that feels big enough, so I just pull him closer and hold him there. Oisín ruins the silence a second later.
“I really thought there would be more to you letting loose.”
I stare at him, wondering where this version of Oisín came from. “Sín, you’re still hurt.”
“And I’d tell you if I felt off.”
I raise an eyebrow, reaching down to stuff two fingers into his ass, pushing my leaking cum back into him. He lets out a small gasp, a smile widening across my face. “If Harlan gets mad at me, you get to explain that you asked for this.”
“I’m not telling him shit,husband.”
Epilogue
ThreeMonthsLater
Saint
By midnight, Bricks and Moth have turned escort rotation into a blood sport. They’re standing in my office beneath the logistics board, arguing over the northern handoff crew with the grim commitment of men deciding the fate of empires instead of whether Kip is too stupid to manage a fuel stop without causing a scene.
Bricks has a mug of gas station coffee in one hand, which he keeps drinking despite claiming it tastes like burnt engine runoff. Moth has his tablet tucked against his forearm, stylus moving every few seconds as he corrects the board with thesmug restraint of a man who knows he’s right and has chosen to be unbearable about it.
