No words. Not yet.
Just two people who survived, who lied to an entire city, who lost and gained and killed and resurrected—and now stand here trembling from everything they haven’t said.
I slide my hands up his chest. He exhales—shaky, broken, relieved.
“Come here,” he murmurs, voice low and raw enough to make my knees threaten treason.
He kisses me. Slow—like a promise. Then faster—like a confession. Then deeper—like an apology neither of us needs.
My fingers curl into his coat. His hands slide to my waist, pulling me flush against him. There’s grief in the kiss. There’s relief in the kiss. There’s blood still drying on memories neither of us will name aloud.
He lifts me slightly, walking us backward toward the living room—toward the soft glow of the fireplace, toward the place that feels like ours and no one else’s.
It’s slow. It’s rushed. It’s sweet. It’s rough. It’s everything we are, colliding after too long.
His mouth breaks from mine just long enough for him to whisper, voice shaking: “I thought I’d lost you once. I’m never letting that happen again.”
I swallow hard. “Then take me,” I whisper back. “Take all of me.”
His growl is soft, sinful, reverent. And he does. He doesn’t even bother turning on the lamp. He lays me down in front of the fire — the crackling glow painting his cheekbones in molten gold — and the second I’m on my back, Cillian is hovering over me like he’s deciding whether to pray to me or devour me. Maybe both. His thumb traces my bottom lip.
“1Mo chol,” he whispers. The words drag a tremor down my spine. He leans closer, breath warm.2“Mo chroí álainn.”
No one has ever said my name like he says my everything. His mouth meets mine again, deeper this time, hands mapping every inch of me through my dress like he’s relearning what he already knows.
I tug at his coat. “Off,” I breathe against his lips.
He smiles — wicked, adoring — and shrugs it off, tossing it somewhere behind him. His shirt follows. His skin is warm, flushed, muscles trembling with restraint.
“Cillian…”
He kisses down my jaw, my throat, slow enough to make me ache but hungry enough to make me gasp.
“You’re shakin’, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing my collarbone. “Let me take care of you.”
“You already are.”
He hisses softly, like my words hit some place inside him he keeps locked. His hands slide up my thighs beneath my dress, pushing the fabric higher and higher until the firelight kisses bare skin.
“Look at you,” he growls softly. “Spread out for me like a dream. Dublin’s darling daughter, the siren who ruined me—”
I tug his hair, making him look at me. “I didn’t ruin you,” I whisper. “You were made for me.”
His pupils blow wide. And then—He drops to his knees. Right there. In front of me. Chest rising and falling like he’s been punched.
“Siobhán…” His voice breaks on my name.“A ghrá… my love… let meworshipyou.”
I lift my hips slightly. “Then do it.”
The sound he makes is unholy. His hands grip my hips as he pulls me to the edge of the rug, his mouth trailing slow, reverent kisses up the inside of my thigh.
“You taste like salvation,” he breathes, lips brushing my skin. “Like everythin’ I ever wanted. Like home.”
He kisses higher. Then higher. When his mouth finally reaches me, I gasp — loud, desperate — and he groans against me like my pleasure feeds him. He licks slow at first, savoring me like he has all night, all life. His hands hold me open, his tongue moving in lazy strokes that build and build until my breath is trembling.
“Please,” I whisper.
He looks up, mouth glistening, eyes dark with devotion and hunger. “Beg properly,3mo bhean ghile.”
