That my words had pleased him.
As he feasted on me, his dick found its way home, and as he slipped inside, his hands shifted.
He drew one heel out of the pocket, then when the other got stuck, he didn’t relinquish his hold on me, just shuffled me down the table, one hand holding my leg high against his waist, while the other was stuck in the netting.
I’d have laughed at any other moment, but nothing about this was a laughing matter.
Whatever had my husband all riled up, I was soothing. I was born for this, I knew. Born to ease the path of a man who fixed everyone else’s problems but rarely focused on his own.
As his hips pumped into me, his dick dragging over tissues he’d stirred to life with his mouth and hand, I fell over the edge so quickly it was practically shameful.
Only, nothing about what we did together, about what we had together, could ever be deemed shameful.
I knew that now.
As I screamed through my orgasm, I felt him pump his cum inside me. Felt the snarl as it rumbled past his lips, heard the groan that was from the soul, sensed the rage and the need battering him as he exploded into me, letting me absorb this, allowing me to ease his strain.
I clung to him, weathering the storm much as I’d told him I would, and moaned through my release as he held me just as tightly.
Together, we melted into one another, a puddle of extinguished need and want that was just waiting for another match to set us alight.
It took us ages to come back down, to hold each other upright.
Beneath me, the blue baize was itchy against my arms, and the flat surface that had zero give to it, along with the way my leg was starting to ache, should have had me fidgeting, but I didn’t want to move. He didn’t either. He stayed where he was, slumped against me, letting me run my fingers through his hair.
I thought he only came back to reality because his phone started ringing, and I wished I could spare him that, but I couldn’t.
I didn’t grumble because I knew what he was, who he was. A man like him didn’t get vacation times, and federal holidays were not a part of his life, so an unofficial holiday like Orthodox Easter Sunday meant very little in the grand scheme of things.
He straightened up, but surprisingly, he didn’t reach for his cell immediately. His hand smoothed over my calf, and he freed my heel from the net with a patience that always came as a surprise.
As volatile as he was, Brennan was infinitely patient with me. That was why I refused to panic when he did something that confused me.
He’d hurt himself before he hurt me.
I knew that like I knew he loved me.
Love for him made me sit up so I could cup his cheeks and hold him closer for a kiss that had him sighing into me.
“Answer your phone,” I told him softly when I pulled back, smiling when I saw his eyes were closed. He huffed at my smile as they opened but did as I said—answered his cell.
“Inessa?” He blinked a couple times. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay with Eoghan?”
My legs clamped together as concern hit me while I waited for Brennan to tell me what was going on.
The next second, however, his shoulders relaxed. “We’ll be over shortly.”
“What is it?” I demanded.
“Victoria made Kulich. Apparently, I’m supposed to know what that means.”
Though he butchered the pronunciation, my brow furrowed. “Victoria cooked?”
“She cooked. They invited us over.” He joked, “Apparently, it’s a feast for both her sisters. And a chance for Irish heathens to know what Russian food tastes like.”
“I didn’t even know she could cook,” I said dryly. “Inessa and I sure as hell can’t.”
Brennan snorted. “Don’t I know it. Although those burgers you made last week weren't bad.”
I shoved him but muttered, “I wonder why she cooked?”
“Maybe because this is her first Easter without that poisonous prick of a father?”
Humming, I murmured, “Maybe.”
I’d prefer that to some surprise news that she was five months pregnant or something.
Cooking might mean nothing to Brennan, but to us? That was a red flag. That was ‘I need to fix this and food is the way to anyone’s soul’ kind of logic.
“Hey, chill. We’ll go and eat and you can spend some time with your sisters without worrying about my da breathing down your necks if you speak Russian. I’ll hang out with my baby bro and watch sports.” He shrugged. “Sounds like a night.”
His words had me relaxing. Not because they were soothing, but because Bren had just done what he always did—he fixed.
So whatever shit Victoria had gotten herself into?
Bren would fix that too. I just had to have faith, and with every passing day, he kept on proving that, kept on proving himself to me.
I knew he always would.
Fifty-Three
Victoria
I giggled when Shay’s head appeared through the crack in the door, his face smushed as he whispered, “All clear?”
Nodding, I made grabby hands with the food and raised a finger to my lips to keep him quiet.
Not that it worked.
“You’re lucky Mom let me out,” Shay complained.
“Quieter,” I hissed. “Anyway, I’ll make it up to you.”
“I didn’t think this was how you wanted to hang out.”
Grinning, I shoved his shoulder. “You mean you don’t like being my glorified errand boy? If you’re going to become president, then you should get used to it.”
His brow furrowed as he dumped a lot of bags onto the counter in front of me. “The president doesn’t go and pick up takeout that you fake-cooked to serve to your fam.”
“Nope, he’s the whipping boy of the Senate and the Congress.” I sniffed. “You need to watch The West Wing. You’ll see what I’m talking about then. We all have a boss. Even you if you become the first filthy—”
“The president doesn’t have a boss,” he interrupted. “He’s the most important man in the world.”
“You keep on believing that if it makes you feel better,” I drawled, amused when he rolled his eyes at me. “How much do I owe you?”
He waved a hand. “It’s okay.”
I scoffed. “Shay, there’s over five hundred dollars' worth of food here.”
“You can owe me one.”
“Accruing favors already?” I mocked.
“Yeah, you can pay me back with some political machinations when you’re thirty.”
“Thirty and married with squalling babies?” I retorted. “Not sure I’ll be in a position of power then.”
Shay stilled. “You can be so much more than that, Victoria.”
“Mama said there was no greater job than being a mother.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure she’s right, but it’s not a job, is it?” Before I could slap him, he murmured, “I mean, Mom can switch her phone onto ‘Do Not Disturb’ when she doesn’t want to talk to her agent. But she’d never do that just in case something happened to me.
“Being a mom is worse than a job. It never ends.”