Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,127

snap of the blade extending was a tangible caress for both of us. We groaned together. When she doubled over to press the tip to my hip, I snatched her wrist and lifted it higher. Wielding her hand, I cut into the collar of my shirt to rip it down to my sternum and then pressed the sharp tip to the top of my right pec.

“Here,” I ground out as her fist spasmed around me. “Want you here.”

She didn’t hesitate. The pain was a sharp ache slicing my past to ribbons. If asked, I wouldn’t have remembered the name of my town in Ireland, the colours in that stained-glass window I’d looked through for seven years, the feel of a whip on my flesh or a branding iron inside me.

All I knew was this moment, Bea carving her name into my flesh to give me the pain she knew I needed. All I knew was this vivid, overwhelming sense of acceptance. This was me, scarred and monstrous, pain filled and pain giving, yet this woman with sunshine hair and a smile that lit up the dark thought I was worthy of her love.

There was cracking in my ribs, a yawning open of bones, and then with a brutal thud that robbed me of breath, I felt her there, my girl, my heart, slotted into my chest. I was destroyed by her love, the dead man murdered by sweet hands.

The flourish of the “A” in her name cut too deep, blood pooling around the knife, drenching my dark shirt. Bea dipped further, her tongue poking out to lap at the spill. Simultaneously, she undid the ribbon around my cock with a swift tug and then pulled hard at my shaft.

Dead, I thought madly as a climax ripped me to fucking shreds, and I began to spill hotly all over Bea’s hand, and reborn by her love.

“Mo cuishle,” I grunted as I came and came. “My heartbeat.”

My words triggered her own orgasm, her hips churning hard against my thigh, her bloody lips pressed in a grimace, then falling open in a cry to the heavens as she unraveled on top of me. Finally, she slumped against my torso, knife in one hand, ribbon curled through the fingers of the other. She blinked sleepily up at me, nose brushing the scarred skin beside my newly carved scar.

“Better?” she asked, mischief in her little grin.

Emotions were roiling inside me, stemming from that organ I’d never felt so keenly in my chest. Unable to voice them, I reached down to thread my fingers in the hair over either ear so I could lift her heart-shaped face to my own.

“A rún mo chroí,” I muttered in Gaelic, then hesitated in my translation. “Secret of my heart. My secret heart living outside of my chest.”

Instantly, tears pooled in her eyes, glittering like diamonds in the sheen from the strand of Christmas lights.

“I love you,” she almost sobbed, clutching at my hands on her hair, pushing her forehead hard into mine. “I love you, Priest. Thank you for letting me.”

“I’m not easy.”

Her laugh was wet, but the smile that broke over her face was pure, unadulterated joy. “Oh, yes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I didn’t have more words for her, exhaustion more emotional than physical darkened the edges of my vision and blurred my thoughts.

“Sleepy,” she murmured as if reading my mind, nuzzling into my neck with a soft sigh.

“Gonna get up,” I told her even though every bone in me ached to stay in bed draped with her warm, sex-scented body.

“Stay,” she said, squeezing me.

“Don’t sleep well with others,” I said, when I meant I’d never slept beside a soul in my life, and I wasn’t sure I could start now.

“Try?” she begged with the prettiest damn pout I’d ever seen. Her hair shifted over her shoulder as she lifted up to aim that expression at me, the scent of peaches wafting over me.

“I’ll stay,” I granted, “until you fall asleep.”

Her sigh was tinged with sadness, but she conceded without protest, already half-asleep on top of me. I stroked her hair back, the silk tinged pink because I hadn’t washed my bloody hands, and hummed one of the songs my mam had sang to me deep in my throat. Bea hummed in pleasure, squirmed a little, then settled into a dead sleep on my chest. The beauty of her trust felt like a black satin bow wrapped too tight around my fucking heart, but