Finn
“Me do, Dada,” my son says, grabbing the fishing pole from my hand.
“Careful of the hook,” I say, trying to at least wrestle the swinging line so he doesn’t end up jabbed. “It’s sharp.”
“Ouch!” Seamus says by way of telling me he understands, in his almost-three-year-old way, what sharp means.
“That’s right, honey,” Selena says. “Sharp things can hurt you. Ouch!”
She pretends to prick her finger, making a sad face. Little Seamus puckers his lips and she holds out her finger so he can kiss it. She pulls him close for a hug and he wriggles away, running off, dragging the pole behind him in the sand.
“I’ll get him,” I say, jogging off after the little guy. I catch him easily and throw him over my shoulder, eliciting waves of laughter that warms my heart.
When I deposit him with his mom, I look at my watch. “I’ve got to go close up the shop. Meet you at home for dinner?”
“Yep,” Selena says. “We’ll clean up here.”
She stands and I pull her close, kissing her as thoroughly as possible as she tries to hold onto Seamus’ hand to keep him from running headfirst into the ocean.
I make my way up to the street and down the two blocks to our small coffee shop. Isobel, our day manager, welcomes me with a bright smile.
“Good day, boss?” she asks.
“It was,” I say. “You?”
“The usual crowd,” she says. “Nothing to write home about.”
“That’s fine with me. The usual crowd pays our paychecks,” I say with a smile.
She takes off her apron and heads off to fill out her timesheet as I count the drawer. Isobel and the rest of the community here in this tiny, Honduran beach town know us as the McMills family—Roberto and Elena. Those are the names on our most recent round of fake passports. Our son Seamus is the only one who is known by his real first name.
Selena has a part-time job managing the books for a local school district. She likes having something to focus on besides our son, who can be a bit of a handful.
Our son. I think of him no other way. I watched Selena’s belly grow. I felt him kick and move inside of her. I watched him enter the world, his lungs so strong, his cry so loud. I named him—Selena felt that was important, so I would know he was really mine.
She and I have been through all of this together. Middle-of-the-night feedings, diaper changes, the first fever. We have been together through it all. They’re both mine. Blood doesn’t matter.
I’m a different man than I was in New York. Quieter, more relaxed. I still work out, still train on weapons. I keep several guns stocked and ready, should someone ever find us. I’ll fight to the death to protect my family, and I do live with one eye to the rear, always checking my back.
After I finish up at the shop, I make the short walk to our little cottage on the water. The smell of spicy fish and rice makes my stomach grumble the moment I walk in the door. It’s quiet, though. Too quiet for a house that has a toddler in it.
My hackles rise instantly, and I unsheathe the knife I always carry on my belt as I tiptoe toward the kitchen, ready for the worst.
What I find, though, is Selena, clad only in a cleavage-baring bra and thong, high heels on, wooden spoon in hand as she stirs the pot on the stove.
***
Selena
“Put that knife away,” I say.
Finn does as told with a wry grin. “It was too quiet in here. I thought I’d find you drawn and quartered.”
“Well, it’s quiet because our son fell asleep in the stroller on the way home from the beach and he’s been knocked out ever since. Which left me time to get creative about wardrobe for the evening.”
“Well, I approve of the creativity you’ve shown for sure,” he says, pulling me close, his big body hard with muscle that never ceases to turn me on.
“I figure the food has about six more minutes,” I say. “You’re a little later than I thought you’d be. I was hoping you’d have time for a little appetizer before the main course.”
“Let’s see what I can do in six minutes,” he says with a grin.
He picks me up and puts me on my back on the kitchen table, pushing my legs wide and burying his face there. He pushes my tiny panties to the side, easily finding all the parts that matter with his tongue, an evil glint in his eyes as he does it.
“Time me,” he says, his tongue aggressively assaulting my swollen slit.
This is a game we play sometimes. He’s quite proud of his oral skills and he likes to see how fast he can make me come. It doesn’t take long at all, and as my pussy clenches, he whoops for joy and fumbles with his jeans so that they fall to the floor. He climbs up and shoves inside of me, making me cry out.
“You’ve got three minutes, stud,” I challenge.
“No problem,” he says. “Appetizer round, though. More later.”
Afterward, we dine on a meal I learned from one of our elderly neighbors. Seamus wakes up midway through, so we get him set up with his dinner, which he mostly gets into his mouth. This is an improvement from the days when much of his food ended up on the walls or floor.
The little guy looks a lot like me. Dark hair, olive skin. He’s got my eyes, my curiosity. I can’t imagine my life without him.
Seamus’ favorite movie is on. He snuggles up between us on the couch, a sippy cup in one hand, his favorite blanket in the other. As the movie wears on, his head sags until, finally, he falls asleep with his head of dark curls on Finn’s lap, the big man’s hand resting on the little one’s. It melts my heart.
After we put him in his crib, we head out to the back porch. It’s small, only big enough for two lounge chairs, but it’s ours. We stretch out, glasses of wine in hand.
“Thank you for being such an amazing dad,” I say.
“He makes it easy,” Finn says. “You do, too.”
“I feel like … do you ever feel like things worked out just like they should have? I mean, do you ever have regrets?” I know I’m not making any sense.
“I have no regrets,” Finn says, his voice rough.
“None?” I ask.
He reaches out and grabs my hand, toying with the small diamond band on my left ring finger. “Not a one,” he says. “You?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t regret being with you, marrying you.”
He gives me a soft smile. “I wish we could have had a real wedding. With family and friends.”
“Not me,” I say. “It was perfect.”
We got married about six months ago on the beach, just us and Seamus and the priest. The sun was setting and the colors were spectacular. I wore a filmy white dress. Finn wore a white polo and khaki shorts. We were both barefoot. Seamus tried to eat sand. All in all, it was an amazing memory.
“Do you ever worry that we’ll never be able to set down roots for him?” Finn asks. “That they’ll find us? That we’ll always be running?”
“I don’t worry about it,” I say. And I mean it. “If we have to run, we’ll run. We’ve already been in three beautiful places. And we’ve done just fine in each one. We have each other, and as long as that’s intact, then everything else is irrelevant.”
Finn is a different man these days. He’s definitely less intense, but the edge of worry never quite dulls. He’s always looking for the monster lurking around each corner. He stays quietly connected to a few old contacts, who let him know the chatter out of the Kovolov organization. If there is any indication that they are getting close to finding us, we are ready to move at a moment’s notice.
I don’t know how this could have worked out differently. If I hadn’t put my chips in with Finn, I might be a kept woman with Sergei, suffering through any number of degrading requests, raising my baby with a man I hated.
No, this is right. And while it took us a good year to get to a point where we could both say it out loud, I think we both knew that the connection between us had quickly moved beyond the physical, beyond the circumstantial. It had bloomed into something real, something that was cemented the moment our little boy was born.
There will be days ahead that will make life different. He will grow. He’ll need roots, friendships. He’ll want to go to school, to have a girlfriend, to go to college, to build a family of his own. And how much will he know about who we are, about how we came to live this gypsy life? I’m not sure, but I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
“Mrs. O’Hare,” Finn says, breaking me from my thoughts, “I want to fuck you right now. Would that be acceptable to you?”
“Well, when you’re so romantic about it, how can I say no?” I say with a laugh.
He grins and stands, holding out a hand to help me up. I follow him into the house, into our bedroom, to our large four-poster bed. He runs his hands over my shoulders, down to my waist, grabbing the hem of my T-shirt and lifting it, baring my breasts. My nipples harden when the air hits them—Finn’s fingers tweak them, sending a shot of lust straight to my core.
He dips one hand between my legs, finding me wet already as his fingers dip inside my folds. I let out a moan. I love the way he touches me.
I reach out and untie the pajama bottoms he wears. They fall to the floor, exposing his huge, proud cock. I wrap a hand around its girth, squeezing and pumping a few times before giving him a wicked grin and falling to my knees to take him into my mouth. He grabs my hair, guides my strokes, pushes me to take it all in, all the way to the balls. Gladly. I love the taste of him, the feel of that silky shaft in my mouth. I love the dot of salty precum that coats my tongue. I know what it means.
He pulls me up and pushes me roughly back onto the bed, spreading me wide, burying himself there, his tongue darting in and out of my cunt while his dexterous fingers work at my swollen, throbbing clit. Just as I’m about to climax, he pulls away and positions himself over top of me, impaling me, pushing my legs up over his shoulders so he can get deeper and deeper, his thrusts harder and harder.
I cry out, coming instantly, my pussy clenching around his cock as he pushes me to every limit I have. When he lets loose his own orgasm, it’s with an animal roar that only stops when his mouth meets mine, our tongues intertwining in a dance that we both never want to end.
Later, we lie naked on top of the covers, shining with sweat, barely able to move.
“I love you, Selena,” Finn says.
“I love you too,” I say.
“Everything in my life … it was all a path to get me to you,” he says, reciting his wedding vows, as he does almost every night.
What started as something of a business partnership, a means to an end, has bloomed into something very real.
THE END
***
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