I feel like I’m underwater. Like the air in the room has curdled.
“I want the whole ledger,” I whisper.
He holds out his hand. “Then give me the code.”
I stare at his gloved palm. My mother’s name. Cillian’s name. And my own, waiting to be written in red.
I don’t remember walking back to the stables. Only the frost crunching under my boots. The way my legs shake even though I haven’t cried yet. I should be running. Or screaming. Orreadingthat damn ledger to justify the poison in my veins. But instead—I crawl into his bed.
He startles when the door creaks open, already sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, hand halfway to the drawer where he keeps the gun.
“I thought you left,” he says, voice rough like he hasn’t spoken in hours. His eyes scan me—my flushed face, trembling hands, the frost melting on my boots.
I shake my head. Just once. He exhales through his nose, something like relief softening his features, but he doesn’t reach for me. So I walk to him. He watches me, unmoving, unreadable, until my hands find the hem of my jumper and pull it over my head. He catches my wrist before I can undo the button on my jeans.
“Siobhán,” he murmurs, his voice a warning and a prayer.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes. His fingers slide under the fabric of my jeans, slow and reverent as he undresses me like I’m something fragile. His mouth finds the soft curve of my hip, the hollow beneath my ribs, the place just below my collarbone where my pulse betrays how wrecked I already am. His hands tremble as they trail over my skin, like he's scared I’ll vanish.
I don’t speak. I don’t ask. I just let him touch me.
When he lays me down, it’s with the kind of care I’m not sure I deserve. His lips brush over mine once—twice—before he deepens the kiss, tasting the salt he doesn’t comment on. I’m crying and kissing him at the same time. He doesn’t flinch.
“I should hate you,” I whisper, slow and aching.
“I know,” he breathes against my throat.
I feel the intensity shift, his lips breaking from mine as he moves down my body. His mouth traces a trail of heat along my throat, across my collarbone, down to my breast where his tongue circles, teases. My fingers tangle in his hair as he continues lower, lips pressing against my stomach, the jut of my hip bone, the inside of my thigh.
When his mouth finally finds me, I gasp, arching off the bed. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as his tongue explores, tasting, relearning what makes me tremble. I bite my lip tokeep from crying out, but he looks up at me through his lashes, silently telling me not to hold back.
So I don't.
I let every sound escape as he works me over with his mouth, his tongue circling and flicking in a rhythm that makes my thighs shake. My hands clutch the sheets, then his shoulders, needing something to anchor me as the pressure builds. He slides one finger inside me, then another, curling them just right as his tongue continues its relentless pace.
When I finally break, the release crashes through me in waves. My back bows off the bed, his name a broken prayer on my lips. But he doesn't stop.
"One more," he whispers against my oversensitive skin, his breath hot and damp. "I know you can give me one more, darling."
I shake my head, my body still quivering from the aftershocks. "I can't—"
"You can," he says, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. His fingers slide deeper, finding that spot inside that makes my vision blur. "Let go for me, Siobhán."
His voice is hypnotic, commanding yet gentle as he works me back up. I'm still so sensitive that every touch is almost too much, bordering on painful before tipping back into pleasure.He watches my face the entire time, gauging my reactions, adjusting his rhythm.
"That's it," he murmurs when my breathing quickens again. "Just like that."
When the second orgasm hits, it's different—deeper, more intense. I cry out his name, my body clenching around his fingers as he talks me through it, telling me how beautiful I look, how perfect I feel.
Afterward, he crawls back up my body, pressing his weight into me in a way that feels like protection. I need more of him, all of him, right now.
He reads the desperation in my eyes, something shifting in his expression. The tenderness from before transforms into something darker, more primal. His breathing changes as he slides between my legs, positioning himself above me. In one swift movement, he grabs both my wrists, pinning them above my head with one strong hand. His grip is firm, unyielding. I gasp at the sudden change, my heart pounding against my ribs.
"Is this what you need?" he growls, his accent thickening with desire. His free hand roughly pushes my thigh wider, then the other, his knees forcing my legs apart until I'm completely exposed to him.
I nod frantically, unable to form words. This is exactly what I need—to be overwhelmed, to have control taken away, to feel nothing but him.
