Page 128 of Beyond Protection
When his mouth replaced his hand, hot and wet and perfect, I whimpered.
"Good," he said against my skin, lips vibrating against my shaft. "That's what I want. Real sounds. Real responses. You."
I was coming apart, desire coiling tight in my groin. Every defense crumbled under his attention.
He didn't rush. He maintained a steady rhythm, tongue sliding along my cock, cheeks sucked inward.
My hands twisted in the pillowcase. My back arched off the bed.
I almost reached for him—instinct, need, the desperate want to give back—but stopped myself. Gripped the pillow harder instead.
Eamon felt me tense. Pulled back just enough to speak. "Good. That's good, Mac. Stay with me. Let me have this."
His voice—how he made my restraint feel like a gift to him—cracked something open.
Nothing else existed except Eamon's mouth, his hands gripping my trembling thighs, and the way he was showing me what it meant to have him worship my body.
"Let go," he said in a hoarse voice. "I've got you." I did. The orgasm hit like a wave breaking through my core. Not gentle. Pure release—months of tension draining out, leaving me boneless.
And then—unexpectedly—my eyes burned. Not from pleasure. From something bigger.
Relief. Permission.
The overwhelming evidence that someone saw me completely and didn't need me to perform.
I pressed my face against Eamon's shoulder before he could see.
But he knew. His hand wrapped around the back of my head, steady and sure. "I know. I've got you."
Eamon stayed with me. Brought me back down. Cleaned me up with tissues from the nightstand.
When I could breathe again, he stretched out beside me and pulled the quilt over us. Let me curl against his chest.
"Okay?" he asked quietly.
"I don't—" I stopped. "You didn't—"
"This wasn't about me."
"But that's not fair—"
"Mac." His hand cupped the back of my neck. "Did you like it?"
"Yes."
"Did you feel like you had to perform?"
"No."
"Then it was perfect." He kissed my forehead. "You're allowed to receive, Mac. You're allowed to take without giving back. You're allowed to be the focus of someone's complete attentionwithout owing them anything. That's not transactional. That's love."
The word settled between us like snow on dark water. Neither of us had said it before.
Now it sat there. Real. Named. Impossibly fragile and somehow inevitable all at once.
"Is that what this is?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah. I think it is."
