“Go inside.”
Rouge rolls his eyes so hard I can almost hear it. “Fine, but only because I love a good murder ballad.”
He saunters off, still humming under his breath, leaving behind a faint trail of expensive cologne and chaos.
Cillian turns back to me, expression unreadable. “Ready?”
I nod, but my feet don’t move. Neither do his. Cillian’s hand doesn’t offer itself—it claims. Fingers slide along my jaw, then down, grazing the column of my throat like he’s memorizing each breath. The world narrows to the space between us and the wild drumbeat under my ribs. He leans in slowly, like he wants me to feel every second of the descent.
His mouth brushes my neck. Not soft. Not chaste. Possession with a pulse. A low groan escapes him—quiet and ruined—and then he presses his lips just below my ear. Warmer. Hungrier. My spine arches before I can stop it.
“You’re trying to kill me,” I whisper.
He smiles against my skin. “Not yet, darling.”
His hand finds the small of my back, dragging me closer until there’s no air between us—just static. Just sin.
“You look like a fucking prayer no one deserves to say out loud,” he growls, voice rough with restraint. “And I’m one breath away from dropping to my knees just to sin properly.”
He kisses me again—slow and deep, right under the hinge of my jaw. My knees betray me. My pulse riots. Then he breathes something low and lethal in Irish, voice thick with heat.“Is tusa mo pheaca is mo phláinéad—agus fuilim sásta dul trí ifreann ort.1”
The doors swing open. Laughter. Music. Light. But I don't feel it. Because it’s not the gala I’m walking into. It’s him.
1.You are my sin and my planet—and I’d bleed through hell for you.
