Page 121 of Wistful Whispers
She hums, arching her back slightly into my chest. “Can they see us?”
“If they can, lucky them. They’ll see how much you turn me on.” I kiss her neck. “How much my cock loves being inside you.”
Her laugh is low and rich, and I feel it in my chest.
I kiss down the slope of her shoulder, then lower the straps of her bra. She watches us in the window as I trail my fingers along her sides, slowly, reverently, easing her out of the last of her clothes. Her reflection flushes with color, and mine—tall, broad, utterly wrapped around her like a stormfront.
When I sink to my knees behind her, she gasps, one hand reaching up to brace against the glass. I spread her open and taste her slowly, deliberately, until her thighs are shaking and her voice catches in her throat. “Seamus—”
I rise again, covering her body with mine. She’s so warm, so soft, and I’m already hard, pressing into the small of her back. I nudge her legs apart with my knee and yank her ass toward me. Press myself against her entrance. The first thrust has both of us moaning.
Her hands flatten against the glass as I slide in and out of her from behind, slow and deep. I hold her hips steady, watching us reflected together—the way she arches, the flush on her cheeks, the way her breasts bounce with every motion.
I’ve never seen anything more erotic than us, right here, right now.
“This okay?” I whisper against her neck.
She nods, breathless. “Oh, yeah.”
I clutch her tightly, my rhythm steady. Hungry. We move together, bodies slapping in sync, pleasure curling around us like the night air outside. She watches herself, biting her lip as I drive into her again and again, never breaking eye contact with our reflection. It’s not about dominance or power—it’s intimacy. Raw and real.
Us.
“I love you so fucking much,” I grunt. “You hear me, Marcella? I love fucking every inch of you. Every sound you make when I fuck you. Every damn part of your body.”
She cries out when she comes, her whole body trembling against the glass, and the sound undoes me. I follow her over the edge, teeth at her shoulder, arms wrapped tight like I can anchor us both there forever.
When we finally still, the city keeps moving beneath us—horns, footsteps, the hum of life not pausing for anyone. Up here, it’s her and me. Breathless. Joined. Whole.
In the quiet that follows and the way she melts back into my arms, I hear it—the ache of something rare and lasting. A wistful whisper of everything we almost lost, and everything we still get to build.
Ours.
Always.
Forever.
thirty-seven
Marcella
Christmas Day
Lifeisfunny.
A year ago, I was cross-examining a cardiac surgeon so ruthlessly the court reporter needed a break.
Today, I’m pregnant, in my much-younger-boyfriend’s oversized hoodie, riding shotgun to a family dinner where I get to tell my parents they’re about to becomeabuelos.
I’m giddy. I’m terrified.
I’ve never been happier.
This wasn’t the plan.
Turns out, I don’t miss the plan at all.
After spending a few hours at the McGloughlins, my hand is tangled in Seamus’s on our way to Tacoma. He drives like he’s got nowhere to be but next to me. One hand on the wheel, the other brushing slow circles against my knuckles like he can feel every neuron firing beneath the skin.
