Saint Lorcan shifts slightly, and I feel him still inside me. Still hard. Stillthere.
My face flames.
"Easy," he says quietly. "Don't come back too fast. You'll crash."
"I'm fine," I mumble against his chest.
"You're floating."
"I'mfine."
"Emmaleen."
The way he says my name—firm, grounding,commanding—makes my pussy clench around him involuntarily.
His breath hitches. "Christ."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize for your body's response." He cups the back of my neck, thumb stroking the edge of Giovanni's collar. "This is normal. This is good. Ya did so well,a stór."
A stór.I still don't know what that means, which is embarrassing. I'm like sixty-eight percent Irish. It feels like something Ishouldknow…
Just stop, Emmaleen. Overthinking is for people who aren't currently impaled on an Irish saint. Enjoy what's left of the moment.
I'm still floating. Still untethered. But overthinking and me are old friends. Like second-grade besties that built forts in the woods, did blood-sister rituals, and played light-as-a-feather during birthday sleepovers—then grew apart in college, but found each other again at our ten-year high school reunion.
So my thoughts are coming in fragmented bursts, like someone's changing channels inside my head.
You just fucked a man who kidnapped you.
No, he rescued you.
Did he though?
You begged him to punish you.
You came so hard you saw God. Or… Saint Lorcan. Same difference, apparently.
Giovanni is going to kill him.
Giovanni is going to kill you.
You're a terrible person.
You're a brilliant person.
You have no idea who you are anymore.
"Shh," Lorcan murmurs, his hand still stroking my hair. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not?—"
"Ya are. I can feel it. Your whole body just went tense."
Busted.
He shifts slightly, and I'm hyper-aware that he's still inside me. Still connected. Which should probably feel weird, or awkward, or something, but instead it just feels... grounding.
