Page 96 of Iron Blade

He pushed me onto my back, my hair falling around me, as he hovered over me.

“You’re insatiable!” I laughed in disbelief.

“I’m a man in love.”

He dropped his head into my throat, tickling me with his breath.

“It’s like you stepped out of a novel,” I said, running my hands over his shoulders, and drawing into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You don’t belong out here, with us mortals.”

“You’re not mortal, my lovely Muse.”

He always knew the right thing to say. He knew when to push - which was always - and he made love like a God. He must have been written from my deepest, darkest desires, and brought to life with a swoony Irish voice.

But because perfection wasn’t allowed in this world, God dropped him into the brutal Mafia, and made him my enemy.

He made love to me on the floor, between the easels and paint, the scent of turpentine, and metal wires lingered in the air. It was an appropriate perfume for us as our bodies moved together, rolling on the ground as we generously gave ourselves to each other.

It wasn’t like the hunger of our wedding night, or the two days of incredible obsession in the cottage. Something had changed in me during those two days of quiet passion. I had never felt more complete than under his observant gaze as he sketched and drew me doing the most innocuous things. I was seen, and cared for. I felt like the most fascinating thing that ever existed. I knew beyond a doubt that he clung to me as desperately as I did to him.

After dinner with his father, I understood him a little better. I think I loved him a little more because of it. He was like the dandelion that grew between the cracks of the sidewalk on a Manhattan Street, determined to grow despite the harsh and cruel conditions.

We made love for hours that way, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.

By the end of it, I was spent; my limbs tired, and ready to sleep right there on the hard floor, as long as he stayed near me.

He turned over, reached for his trousers, and pulled a cigarette from a box. He lit up, while reclined on an elbow, and ashed into a small jar of water.

“You’re going to smoke indoors?” I lifted a quizzical brow.

“Only a few of the rooms have smoke detectors, and the important rooms have sprinklers,” he said casually.

“Your studio isn’t an important room?” I looked up at the ceiling, finally focusing on the crown molding above us.

I would think that this would be the most important room, but after his father's obvious hostility to art, I understood.

“My bedroom is,” he said, gesturing lightly to the door that connected us to the bedroom. “But not this one, no.”

“Who made that choice?”

He looked at me, lifting a brow in answer. He didn’t need to say it. His father chose what was important, not him.

“We have to go to a funeral in two weeks,” he said, putting the cigarette out with a hiss in the jar.

He stared off into the distance, his eyes sad for a moment.

“Sarah Flanagan, the wife of one of my father’s guards, Blaine. I’m sure you saw them standing at the door.”

I sat up, feeling no need to cover myself, or to hide the roundness of my unbound stomach. I usually wore spanx, or other corsetry to look the part in the gallery, but under Eoghan’s gaze, I felt no such compulsion to be so perfect. In fact, I think he preferred me this way. My hair, air-dried and wavy, falling down my bare back.

“How’d she pass?” I asked, casually, watching the sadness creep into his eyes.

“Oh, she’s been struggling since her daughter disappeared years ago,” Eoghan said, his eyes still distant, like he was watching a movie in his mind. “Sinead disappeared before her wedding day, and we haven’t found her since. I think the worry taxed her health.”

That perplexed me, not because it sounded impossible. A mother could definitely die of a broken heart over her children. It just sounded like there was more to the story that he wasn’t telling me.

“Anyway, we’re supposed to go, and pay our respects as representatives of the family.”

He pulled out another cigarette and lit it, ashing again into the jar. He vaguely gestured to see if I wanted one, but I shook my head. It wasn’t a habit I wanted to encourage in him, and I hoped that he’d stop…

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