Page 48

FORTY-EIGHT

BANE

I get the sporadic text from Domhn when I’m halfway to his house—Moira’s left and is heading home.

Home .

I text back immediately.

Bane: Our home or her apartment?

No response.

My jaw tightens. Is this another game? Another way to keep me chasing her, always a step behind? I don’t fucking like being a step behind. I don’t like being out of control.

And Moira knows it.

A roar rips out of me, raw and animalistic, as I slam my foot down on the gas. I fucking hate this. Hate not knowing where she is, what the fuck she’s thinking, and what she’s running from.

I am never out of control.

And right now, I don’t even know what the fuck is happening, much less how to be in control of it. I should have her at my side already, not running around like she’s a ghost slipping through my fingers.

When I get home, the house is empty. Silent. My body is too tight and my head too full of all the ways this could go sideways.

I pace the living room, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. My pulse pounds, my body primed for battle.

My phone rings. “Moira?” I bark into the receiver.

There’s a pause, then a confused voice. It’s a parishioner. Just the phone tree, asking me to arrange a hospital visit later this week.

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. It takes everything in me to shove Father Blackwood into place, forcing my voice into something smooth and reassuring as I make pastoral assurances that yes, I will visit, yes, I’ll be there, yes, my prayers are with them.

I nearly drop the phone when a sleek, overpriced red car glides into the lot outside.

Moira .

I cut off the parishioner with a quick, “My apologies, I have another incoming call,” and hang up before they can respond.

She’s here.

I move to the window, standing just behind the curtain, watching her step out like she hasn’t shattered every piece of my sanity these last couple of days.

Whose fucking car is that?

Not hers.

A man’s? A rich man’s?

The idea slams into my gut like a fist. I shake it off because I know Moira. She’s not like that. But then, what is she like anymore? Because she sure as hell isn’t the woman who whispered confessions into my skin and heard mine in return.

She opens the door and steps inside, her eyes locking onto mine like she expected me to be waiting.

She exhales long and slow, raking her gaze over me, and I do the same. Her hair’s twisted into some messy attempt at a bun, but strands have fallen loose. Her dress is wrinkled, her makeup smeared. She looks… tired.

And fucking gorgeous.

My hands twitch. I want to grab her, pin her, hold her still, and make her explain what the fuck is going on in that head of hers.

“Are you all right?” The words come out rough, edged in something lethal. I step closer.

She lifts a hand, stopping me. “I’m fine.”

Liar .

“I’ve been calling?—”

She shrugs. “I lost my phone out clubbing last night.”

“Clubbing?”

Her leg bounces, fingers flipping the key fob like it’s a toy instead of a weapon that’s gutting me.

But she doesn’t look manic, necessarily. Or drunk, or high, or anything else that could easily explain her erratic behavior.

“I was gonna just ghost you,” she says, casual as anything, “but I’m trying to be better now. Figured you deserved more than that, so?—”

She inhales, meets my eyes, then drops the fucking hammer.

“Bye, Bane. Thanks for all the tumbles.”

I go still.

She wrestles the ring off her finger, presses it into my palm, and turns like she’s already gone.

I stare at the ring. The same cheap silver ring she giggled about when I slid it onto her finger in Vegas. The same ring she’s refused to take off since we got back.

The same ring she’s trying to pretend meant nothing.

The door’s still open.

This is what she had planned.

To walk in, break my fucking heart, and leave. Just like that.

Not happening.

I reach the door before she can step through it, grab her wrist, and spin her back into my chest. She gasps, glaring up at me, but I don’t let go.

“What the hell do you mean?” My voice is low and dangerous. “You’re my wife.”

She flinches, then tries to steel herself, lifting her chin. “We both know that was just make-believe for your job. So you wouldn’t get fired. It wasn’t real.”

I exhale through my nose, slow and controlled, but inside, a storm is building.

“Not real?” I press her back into the doorframe, my body caging hers. “It felt pretty fucking real when you tied me to the bed after we got married, and we spilled our every secret to each other. It felt real when I had my cock so deep in you I was tickling your cervix, and you massaged my prostate until I came so fucking hard I almost blacked out. It felt real when I ate you out so completely you wept and called me your god.”

She swallows, throat bobbing, and I see it. The flicker of doubt. The crack in the armor she’s trying so damn hard to keep in place.

She’s running. And I need to know why.

“You think you can just walk away?” My voice is softer now, but it’s no less lethal. “After everything?”

Her lips part, but she says nothing.

I lean in, my breath a whisper against her skin. “You belong to me, Moira.”

Her breath shudders, but she still doesn’t move. Doesn’t push me away.

Because she knows it’s true. Still, she’s threatening to go. But I don’t fucking let go of what’s mine.

I yank her all the way inside the house, slamming the door shut so hard the hinges rattle. The house trembles with the force of it, but she’s trembling harder, breathless, chest rising and falling like she already knows what’s coming.

Good. She should.

I pin her against the door, my body caging hers in, letting her feel exactly how hard I am, how fucking ready I am to remind her who she belongs to.

She gasps, eyes widening, but there’s no fear in them—only raw, desperate hunger. Lust so thick it’s choking the air between us.

“I don’t give a damn where you’ve been,” I growl, voice dark with possession. “And I sure as hell don’t give a fuck who you’ve been with.”

I can’t even tell if it’s a lie or not.

All I know is that I drop to my knees, rip her skirt up, and yank her panties down in one rough move that has her stumbling against the door. I grip her thighs, spreading them wide, fingers gripping her ass as I bury my face between her legs.

I am not a jealous man. I’ve shared her at the club and let others touch what’s mine—under my rules, my control.

But this? Coming home in another man’s car, acting like she can walk away from me?

No.

I inhale her, deep and furious, my tongue swiping through her slick heat, searching—demanding proof she’s still mine.

And all I find is Moira. My Moira .

Her scent. Her taste. Her perfect, untouched musk.

It sets something off inside me.

I devour her.

I don’t tease or ease her in like I have before. I eat her like a starved man, tongue thrusting, lips sucking, my grip on her thighs bruising as I drag her against my mouth, forcing her to take everything I give.

She keens, thighs quivering, hands yanking at my hair. One leg hooks over my shoulder, grinding against my face like she doesn’t know if she wants to escape or pull me in deeper.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she gasps, voice shaking, body writhing. “I’m still leaving.”

Wrong.

I growl against her clit, the vibration sending her up on her toes, and then I drive a finger into her, curling back against the spot that makes her come undone.

She screams, convulsing against me, juices flooding my tongue as I pin her there, my mouth locked around her as she shatters. Her hips jerk, slamming the door against its rusty hinges. Her moans bounce off the walls.

But I’m not finished.

Not by a long shot.

I stand, pressing her soft, spent body against the door. Her lips are parted, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her pupils blown wide with pleasure.

“Do I need to tie you to the bed again?” I murmur.

Her brow furrows, something unreadable flickering through her eyes before she shakes her head. “I’ll safeword,” she rasps. “I should have already.” Her hand fumbles for the doorknob. “I have to go. I can’t be here anymore.”

“Why?” My voice is a growl. “ Tell me .”

She shoves at my chest, but I don’t move.

“That’s right, dove,” I taunt, voice smooth as sin. “Fight me. Get good and mad at me.”

Her lips part, and for a moment, she looks like she might break—like she might confess everything.

But then her eyes harden, fury following pleasure.

“You don’t always get what you want!” Her voice cracks. “This isn’t how I wanted it to end, but I have to go.”

She reaches for the door again, and again, I block her.

She slaps me.

Her palm leaves a sting that only makes my cock throb harder.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Then she groans, fists my shirt, and yanks me down, her teeth sinking into my bottom lip before she breathes against my mouth, “Just one last time.”

That’s all the permission I need.

She leaps, wrapping her legs around me, and I catch her effortlessly, slamming her back against the door. One hand grips her ass while the other rips at my belt, my pants, freeing my cock just enough to thrust inside her in one brutal stroke.

She cries out, nails digging into my back, and I swear, Heaven and Hell collide inside me. She’s so tight, so wet, squeezing me like she never wants to let me go.

She moves to take control, but I growl, slamming her harder against the wood, gripping her hips tight. Making her take every inch just the way I want her to.

She gasps, shudders, and then?—

She slaps me again.

Something snaps inside me. I lose every ounce of restraint.

I tear her dress open, baring her breasts, and take one in my mouth, biting the hard tip of her nipple just enough to make her jolt.

She clenches around me, her orgasm ripping through her as she wails my name, her juices drenching my cock, my balls, the scent of her pleasure thick and intoxicating.

That’s two .

And I’m still not done.

I lift her off the door and carry her to the kitchen, setting her on the counter. I need to see her. I need her to look me in the eyes when I ruin her again.

I slow my thrusts, grinding deep, rolling against her clit, never looking away.

“You’re my wife,” I whisper, my voice gravel and devotion.

She flinches, shaking her head.

“I want to worship you like this every night,” I murmur, dragging my lips up her throat, sucking a bruise into her skin. “Every day.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “This was a mistake.”

I cup her jaw, forcing her to face me, to meet my eyes. “No, it wasn’t.”

She swallows hard, and for a moment, I see it—the part of her that still belongs to me. That always will.

She just hasn’t accepted it yet.

But she will.

Because Moira is mine .

She tries to wiggle off my cock, but I just start thrusting deeper, hitting that spot I know she can’t resist.

Her head falls back, ecstasy contorting her features. I swear she mouths, not fair.

Then her hips lift, responding without thought, eyes locking onto mine, full of conflict. Full of what I’m terrified of is a goodbye.

I grab her hips and kiss her furiously, wanting to trap her, to keep her locked away where only I can have her.

But she pulls back, sinking her teeth into my shoulder, ever the wild thing.

I can’t hold back anymore.

I wrap my arms around her, and I come.

One heartbeat. Another spasm.

Two heartbeats.

Three.

Two bodies, together as one.

Man and wife.

And then she squirms away, and I refuse to let go.

Until she whispers her safeword in my ear.

“Domino.”