Page 77 of Conall's Reign

Four counts. Stroke, one, two, three, four, and then hold as I was cumming in ropes pulsing against her heaving as I gave her everything I had. Francesca had confessed that she had an implant, so there wasn’t any reason to use a condom anymore. There was always a chance that she could still get pregnant. I loved the thought of her belly round with our child, but that wasn’t a topic that she’d discussed with me yet, and I wasn’t willing to lose her by bringing it up before she was ready.

“Roll over, baby.”

“What?”

“Roll over.”

Gripping my cock I sat on my heels behind her, pumping it languidly. Her pussy was swollen and pink, leaking my cum as she pushed her ass back towards me.

“Beautiful,” I murmured. “Touch your pussy for me. Spread those thighs further. Arms and head down. Ass out.”

She bent to the task darting a look at me once in a while but was soon grinding on her hand as she rubbed her clit. I fucked my hand in earnest, my cock responding as I watched her and the cum dribbling out of her. I wasn’t sure why that did it for me. Some kind of kink that I had to fill her up.

Lining back up, I gripped her hips as I began to fuck her hard, the sounds of our slapping flesh and her wet pussy getting me too close to the edge way too soon.

“Baby,” I moaned, reaching forward to play with her tits. I needed to get one more orgasm from her. No way was I letting her go to bed without coming again. “Milk my cock for me. Let me feel you.”

Each glide pushed me closer to the edge as she strained back against me. Euphoria swept over me, and I felt her tell-tale flutters as her channel gripped me. Speeding up my strokes, I rammed into her as I came hard.

“Fuck. I think I am old,” I confessed.

“I love you just the way you are,” she whispered as I pulled her closer, tucking the blankets around us.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

francesca

One year ago,I never would have imagined myself here—walking into the Vinegar Hill building, nodding at the soldiers as I moved through the lobby, with Finn shadowing me as always. The clinic had been busy today, packed with mothers wrangling feverish children and old men who refused to follow their treatment plans. I was exhausted, but it was the good kind of tired. The kind that meant I’d done something worthwhile.

Emilio Vanello surprised me by giving in. He agreed to peace and had given up his trafficking for our regular coffee dates, even if I didn’t publicly acknowledge him as my father. Though he felt sour about it, I accepted and upheld my part of the bargain. I wasn’t sure that I would ever be able to move past anything beyond sitting and having a cup of coffee with the man, but if that would bring about peace and save people from being trafficked, then I’d do it.

“Back from saving lives, are you?” one of the soldiers, Ryan, called as I stepped past the front desk. He lounged against the wall, boots crossed at the ankle, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder.

“Only those worth saving,” I shot back with a grin. “Not sure you qualify.”

A bark of laughter erupted from Sean. “Did you hear that, Ryan? You’re a lost cause.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ryan muttered, shaking his head as I walked by.

The elevator dinged, and Finn and I stepped inside. He pressed the button for the penthouse, remaining silent as always. Finn wasn’t one for chatter, but I could read him well enough after a year.

“Did you at least have a decent day waiting around for me?” I teased, giving him a light nudge with my elbow.

He shot me a dry look. “The best part of my week.”

“Oh, Finn, you do flatter me.”

He huffed a breath of amusement as the doors slid open. We stepped into the private hallway leading to Conall’s and my home, the soft glow of recessed lighting casting warm shadows over the polished floors. I inhaled deeply, catching an unexpected scent. Burning… garlic? Butter?

I pushed open the door, my curiosity piqued. Conall was standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up, with a spatula in hand. He turned at my entrance, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“You’re home.”

I blinked, momentarily distracted by the sight of him trying to cook. “And you’re… cooking?”

“Trying to,” he corrected, gesturing toward what seemed to be a pan of slightly charred something. “Don’t look so surprised.”

I placed my bag on the counter and stepped closer, gazing into the pan. “What exactly am I looking at?”

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