"Shhh," he soothes. "Don't worry, lass. We're still connected." And we are. "Blow them out,a stór.All your sins are forgiven now."
I am momentarily stunned at the symbology happening here. The candles were lit as an admission of transgressions. Punishment became my penance. Then, fucking was forgiveness.
Now, I get to blow the candles out, erasing the debt forever.
"Emmaleen?"
"Yeah," I breathe. "OK, it's just…" Then a tear falls down my cheek.
"Ya OK, lass?"
I wipe the tear away. Nodding. "I am… it's just. This is so…nice."
Lorcan chuckles. "It's a little over the top, yeah."
"No." I look down at him. His eyes are very gray. And they flicker with gold and amber from the firelight. "No, it's not. It's exactly what I needed."
This makes him smile. And I realize that his smiles come easy. "Blow them out then. Let's put it behind us."
I take a breath, nodding. Then I blow them out. One by one, my sins are erased.
He stands again, shifting me in his grip. Enough thrust to remind me his cock is still impaling me like a sword. Then he carries me out of the chapel, through the crimson curtain, into his great room. I bury my face against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean sweat and something woodsy.
My brain catalogs details even as my body melts. The leather furniture I glimpsed earlier, the massive fireplace made of stone, Persian rugs over polished concrete floors.
Everything in this man's space is deliberate. Curated. Like he built himself a castle inside a converted Boston warehouse because growing up in an actual castle wasn't enough.
Of course it wasn't.
Saint Lorcan the Spanker doesn't do things halfway.
He carries me up the stairs and I feel his cock start to slip. I tighten my legs desperately.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, but there's warmth in his voice.
"Don't want to let go," I admit against his throat.
"You'll have me again,a stór."
Will I though? Or is this just one of those things people say during the afterglow before reality crashes back in?
Because I don't belong to him. I understand that he and Giovanni came to some kind of agreement, but that was just… some kind of pity reaction to my spiral.
Three men in my life.
It's something out of a dream.
Which means it's too good to be true.
I would not trade Giovanni for Lorcan. Just like I wouldn't trade Giovanni for Jino—I go where he goes. Giovanni is mine.
But this is… nice.
Heroic kidnapper, Saint, Irish mobster—doesn't matter. This man is just nice.
Lorcan reaches the top of the stairs and suddenly we're in his bedroom again. But he doesn't stop at the bed—he keeps walking, carrying me through to an adjoining bathroom.
"Holy shit," I breathe. The bathroom is a fuckingspa.
