Page 99 of Godless Saints

I reached for the shampoo, poured some into my palm, and started washing his hair. Slow. Thorough. My fingers worked through the strands, massaging his scalp.

Moon groaned against my chest. “Fuck… that feels good.” He sounded pissed at himself for saying it. His head tilted under my hands. He tensed when I moved lower.

I paused. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine.” Moon’s spine went rigid.

I slid my hand down his spine, gentle but firm. “Let me see.”

Moon’s eyes widened. “What the fuck. No. You are not doing that.”

I pressed his chest to the tiled wall, and dropped to my knees behind him.

“Cillian, what the fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed against the wet tile. “Get up. You are not doing this.”

I kissed the darkest bruise on his ass.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “You don’t get to put those marks on me and then kiss them like they hurt you too.”

I stood slowly, turned him to face me, and pulled him flush against my chest under the hot spray. My arms locked tight around him.

“They do,” I murmured against his wet hair.

Moon stayed quiet, then exhaled. "Ugh… I’m starving.”

I smiled against his shoulder and bit down. “Alright.” I licked a slow stripe over the mark I’d left on his shoulder. “Finish up. I’ll make you a proper Irish breakfast. Pretty sure you’ve never had one.”

“No,” he muttered, still pressed tight against me. “I haven’t.”

***

The pan was sizzling when Moon finally emerged from the bedroom. He was drowning in my clothes. My black sweater hung off his frame. Sleeves too long, cuffs bunched up around his wrists. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, leaving the rest of his legs completely bare except for the black socks sliding down his ankles.

No pants. Just my sweater and those marks I’d left all over his thighs. My gut pulled tight. I almost burned the rashers. He looked like he’d always lived here. In my life. Moon noticed me staring. His cheeks flushed.

“It’s not my fault your clothes are too big,” he said defensively, crossing his arms. “You’re taller. And built like a fucking tank. I’m a fencer, not a heavyweight. Stop giving me that look."

I broke eye contact, gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to turn my knuckles white. If I kept looking at him standing there in nothing but one of my sweaters, damp hair and marked-up thighs, I was going to bend him over this fucking table and take him again.

So I focused on the pan like it was the only thing keeping me sane.

Moon’s eyes traced the ink across my back. “You have so many tattoos...”

I shrugged, flipping the rashers. “Old family thing.”

Moon’s throat worked. “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

I met his eyes over my shoulder. “Breakfast is ready. Eat before it gets cold.”

He eventually pulled the sleeves of my sweater over his hands and sat down, looking small and dangerous in my clothes.

I plated the food and set it in front of him. “You need this after last night.”

We ate in comfortable silence. I made him put on a pair of my sweatpants before we went out. When we finally stepped outside…

The air was crisp, a light snow drifting lazily through the gray Highland afternoon. Wet grass soaked my boots.

For the first time since this all started, no one was watching us.