Page 10 of His Lucky Charm

I forced myself to relax, breathing through the initial burn until it melted into pleasure. When he was fully seated, he paused, his chest pressed against my back as he wrapped one arm around my chest to hold me against him.

“Mine,” he repeated, voice guttural in my ear. “My mate.”

Before I could question the strange terminology, he began to move, and coherent thought fled. Each thrust was powerful, deliberate, striking that perfect spot inside me with unerring accuracy. The hand on my hip moved to wrap around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts.

“Not going to last,” I warned, feeling my orgasm building with embarrassing speed. “Too good.”

“Come for me,” he commanded, pace increasing to a punishing rhythm. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

His crude words pushed me over the edge. I came with a shout, spilling over his fist and clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through me. Behind me, Rafferty’s movements became erratic, his breathing harsh against my neck. With a sound that was definitely more growl than groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his cock pulsing inside me.

For several long moments, we remained frozen in that position, both of us panting. Then, with surprising gentleness, he eased out of me and guided me down to the mattress, tucking me against his side. His hand stroked lazily up and down my spine as our breathing slowly returned to normal.

“You okay?” he asked, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I was rougher than usual.”

I took mental inventory. I would be sore tomorrow, certainly, with likely visible marks on my hips and neck. But the lingering pleasure far outweighed any discomfort.

“More than okay,” I assured him, tracing patterns through the hair on his chest. “Though I am curious about something.”

“Hmm?” He sounded half-asleep already, his body relaxed against mine.

“You called me your ‘mate.’” I felt him tense slightly. “That’s an interesting choice of word.”

For a moment, I thought he might deflect again. Then he sighed, his arms tightening around me. “It’s just… something that slipped out in the moment.”

“Rafferty—”

“Not tonight, Eliot.” His voice was soft but firm. “Please.”

I wanted to push, to demand answers to the questions multiplying in my mind. But his expression was so raw, so vulnerable, that I found myself nodding instead.

“Okay. Not tonight.”

Relief softened his features. He pulled me closer, kissing me with unexpected tenderness. “Thank you.”

As we drifted toward sleep, tangled together in his bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever Rafferty was hiding would change everything between us. And despite my lifelong devotion to rational thought, I found myself hoping that some legends might contain a kernel of truth after all.

Chapter 6

I woke alone the next morning, sunlight streaming through windows Rafferty had forgotten to close in our haste last night. A note on the pillow beside me explained his absence:

Had to leave early. Family business. Back in three days. Stay at my place if you want—mi casa es tu casa. Keys on the counter. -R

P.S. Sorry about your shirt. I’ll make it up to you.

I traced my fingers over his messy scrawl, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in my chest. Three days without him felt unexpectedly bleak, which was ridiculous given that I’d only known the man for two weeks.

And yet, here you are, in his bed, already missing him, my traitorous mind pointed out.

After a shower—during which I confirmed that Rafferty had indeed left several impressive marks on my neck and hips—I dressed in yesterday’s clothes minus the ruined shirt. Luckily, Rafferty’s closet provided an alternative. I selected a flannel that was comically large on my frame but smelled like him, which was oddly comforting.

His apartment felt strange without his overwhelming presence filling it. I wandered through the open living area, taking in details I’d missed during our more… energetic encounters. Photos on the wall showed Rafferty with various people who shared his auburn hair and green eyes—family, presumably. Bookshelves held an eclectic mix of Irish literature, cookbooks, and to my surprise, several academic works on Celtic mythology.

But it was what I found in his home office that truly caught my attention.

The door wasn’t locked—why would it be, when the entire apartment was private? Inside was a small room with a desk, computer, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. But unlike the casual disarray of the rest of his living space, this room was meticulously organized. Leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, many looking ancient enough to make my historian’s heart skip a beat.

And there, on the center shelf, protected by a glass case, sat a book that looked older than the town itself. The cover was weathered leather, the binding cracked with age. Even from a distance, I could see the embossed symbol on the front—a wolf’s head surrounded by a Celtic knot.