He stills. Hands on my waist. Eyes sharp.
“And?”
“And…I want to tell you everything,” I whisper, “but not while you’re trying to undress me with your mind.”
His grin is pure sin. “I don’t use my mind for that, dove.”
I draw in a breath, steadying myself. “It’s from New York,” I say, smoothing my fingers along the collar of his shirt as if that will anchor me. “The Philharmonic. They… want me to come back. One performance. A formal apology performance, they said. Not publicly—though it willbepublic—but… personal. For me.”
His hands tighten on my hips. Not harsh—just that subtle possessive flex he doesn’t even realize he does. “For everything?” he murmurs.
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “For the conductor. For his wife taking money from Darragh and feeding the tabloids. For letting that man walk away without consequences. For how they spoke about me. For how they—”
His mouth brushes my cheek, cutting the words off with maddening gentleness. That’s when I notice it. He’sgrinning.Not big. Not obvious. Just that smug, barely-there curl at one corner of his mouth that means one thing:He knows more than he’s letting on.
My eyes narrow instantly. “Cillian.”
“Hm?” He feigns innocence terribly, kissing down to the corner of my jaw, guiding me backward—slow, deliberate—until the edge of his desk hits the back of my thighs.
“You’re smiling.”
“A tragic flaw, I know.” He nips lightly at my throat, hands sliding from my waist to the backs of my thighs. “Terribly unprofessional.”
“Cill…” Suspicion rises like a tide. “Do you… know something about this?”
His smirk deepens. A man who has sinned, fully enjoyed it, and plans to do so again immediately. Instead of answering, he lifts me effortlessly—like I weigh nothing but the music he worships—and settles into his chair, pulling me down onto his lap. My skirt flares, my breath hitches, and he exhales like I’ve just ended a famine.
“Tell me everything,a chroí,” he murmurs, palms spreading warm and wide up my spine. “Use that sweet voice while you sit right where I want you.”
“You’re distracting me on purpose,” I accuse, though my fingers curl into his shirt because God, he’s warm and solid andmine.
His mouth finds my throat again. “And you love it.”
I do. I really, really do.
But I still press my palm to his chest and lean back enough to meet his eyes. “Cillian O’Dwyer, what did you do?”
His grin turns feral, delighted—caught red-handed and not the least bit apologetic.
“Nothing I regret,” he says.
I narrow my eyes, leaning in just enough that my breath brushes his cheek. “Mm. That sounds like something a guilty man would say.”
His palms tighten on my hips. “Sounds like something a man in love would say. Especially when his fiancée is sittin’ on him like this.”
“Cillian.” I draw out every syllable, letting my lips ghost over the edge of his jaw. “What. Did. You. Do?”
He inhales sharply—God, that sound—and tilts his head just enough for my mouth to skim his throat.Victory. “You’re going to distract me,” he warns, but it comes out hoarse, his accent deepening.
“That’s the point,” I whisper, rolling my hips just a little—barely enough to be indecent, but enough that he curses under his breath.
His hands fly to my waist, grip tightening. “Mo chroí, if you keep that up, I’ll forget how to speak entirely.”
“Good.” I kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and taunting. “Maybe then you’ll talk.”
“That’s backwards,” he mutters, but his voice is gone, dissolved in the heat between us. “You—sweet Christ—are trouble.”
I smirk and kiss him again, deeper this time, stealing whatever composure he has left. His mouth opens under mine—hungry, claiming—but I pull back just when he tries to deepen it. He growls. Actually growls.
