“Tell me,” I whisper against his lower lip. “Or I stop.”
His eyes snap open, blazing dark heat and frustration. “That’s cruel.”
“Mm-hm. And effective.” I brush my nose against his. “Start talking, Devil.”
He drags a palm up my back, slow and reverent, like he’s mapping every inch he owns. “Fine,” he breathes. “I may have… encouraged certain institutions to correct their mistakes.”
I blink. “Encouraged?”
His smirk returns—wolfish, sinful, entirely too proud of himself. “Let’s call it… persuading. Firmly.”
“Cillian.”
“And maybe I spoke with the conductor’s board.”
“CILLIAN.”
He shrugs like this is nothing. “And perhaps his wife received compensation. And a warning.”
My jaw drops. “Awarning?”
“A polite one,” he lies shamelessly, sliding one hand up to cradle my face. “Very polite. I even said please.”
I stare at him. “You threatened the New York Philharmonic.”
“Only a little.”
“Cillian!”
His grin is pure wicked satisfaction. “They destroyed your name. They owed you blood or apology. I chose apology. Be grateful I’m trying to be civilized these days.”
I press my forehead to his chest, laughter spilling out of me—breathless, disbelieving, stupidly in love. “You’re impossible.”
He tips my chin up with two fingers, eyes softening in that dangerous, devastating way that turns my bones to dust. “And you’re mine. I fix what hurts you.”
My heart punches my ribs.
He brushes his mouth against my cheek, then lower, whisper-soft along my jaw, each kiss a confession. “Tell me you’re not pleased,” he murmurs. “Tell me you don’t love that I’d burn cities for you.”
I swallow hard. “I never said I didn’t love it.”
His answering groan vibrates through me—low, hungry. “Then stop teasing me,a chroí. Or I swear to God—”
He doesn’t finish. Because I kiss him. Fully, hungrily, with every ounce of gratitude and want and adoration I can pour into one breathless moment. His hands seize my waist. His chair groans. His self-control snaps. And Dublin’s Devil melts under me like I’m the first miracle he’s ever believed in.
His breath stutters against my mouth when I pull back only enough to look at him. Really look at him. Flushed. Ravenous. Wrecked in the way only I get to see.
“Cill…” I murmur, brushing my thumb across his lower lip. “You threatened an entire orchestra for me.”
He exhales a harsh laugh against my cheek. “I didn’t threaten the whole orchestra.” A beat. “Just the people who needed it.”
I glare — only to gasp when his hands grip my waist, rough and possessive and grateful all at once. “You’re impossible,” I whisper.
“Is liomsa tú,1” he murmurs — softly, reverently, the way he rarely ever says it.
And Christ, that goes straight through me. His lips drag down my throat, slow and consuming, like every inch of me is something he plans to memorize before he lets me speak again. My fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan — that deep, sinful sound that vibrates through my spine.
“Cill…” I breathe. “I’m supposed to be giving you news.”
