His words push me over the edge. I cry out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me, more intense than before. My entire body shudders as I clench around him, pulling him deeper.
"Christ, Siobhán," he growls, his forehead pressed against mine as his hips stutter. "You're everything—so fucking beautiful when you come—my perfect, brilliant woman—"
He follows me over the edge with a deep groan, his body tensing as he pulses inside me. For a moment, we're both suspended in the heat of it—breathless, trembling, pressed forehead-to-forehead like we’re sharing the same stunned heartbeat. Then Cillian finally exhales, a low, awed sound that ghosts over my mouth. He kisses me once—slow, reverent—before easing out of me, his hands steadying my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll crumble to the floor.
He lets out a soft laugh, the smug kind, the kind he only uses when he’s well and truly ruined me. “Mo chroí,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek. “You’re shaking.”
“You did that,” I accuse weakly, swatting at his chest. “You absolute menace.”
“Hmm.” His grin is wicked. “If threatening the Philharmonic gets me rewarded like this… perhaps I should threaten people more often.”
“Cillian.” I narrow my eyes.
“What?” he asks, feigning innocence so poorly it should be illegal. “You enjoyed yourself.”
“That is not the point.”
“Oh, I think it is,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle the corner of my jaw. “I think you enjoyed it very, very much.”
I shove him lightly, though it holds absolutely zero heat. My body is still molten. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, sliding his hands to my waist to lift me off the desk like I weigh nothing, “you love me anyway.”
He sets me on my feet, but stays close, steadying me with a large hand at the small of my back when my knees wobble again.
“Shh,” he teases softly, kissing the top of my head. “You’ll start rumors if you can’t walk out of my office.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he says, voice smug velvet. “You adore me.”
I sigh—dramatically, obviously. “Unfortunately.”
His laughter rumbles against me as he pulls me into his chest. The office smells like us now—sex and paper and cedar and winter wind—and when he presses a kiss to my temple, something inside me unclenches completely.
He murmurs, softer now, “For what it’s worth,a chroí… I’d burn a hundred cities before I’d let anyone hurt you again.”
My throat tightens—not with lust this time, but something sweeter, steadier, terrifying in that it’s real. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into him. “I know,” I whisper.
He kisses the crown of my head like he’s sealing a vow into my hair. “Good,” he says. “Because I have no intention of stopping.”
I snort. “I assumed.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, eyes bright and warm and absolutely drunk on me.
“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my swollen bottom lip, “tell me again about this performance in New York… preferably while sitting anywhere except my desk.”
I laugh—breathless, happy, wrecked, whole. “Fine. But I swear to God, Cillian O’Dwyer, if you threaten anyone else on my behalf—”
He cuts me off with a kiss that tastes like whiskey, winter, and victory. “Then you’d better be ready to reward me properly,” he whispers against my mouth.
I shove him again. He just laughs.
He drops his forehead to mine, breath still uneven, hands still warm on my waist like he hasn’t quite convinced himself to let go. “You know,” he murmurs, brushing a stray curl behind my ear, “if this is the sort of news you bring me… I might start threatening people more often.”
I swat at his chest. “You absolutely will not.”
He grins—slow, wicked, entirely too proud of himself. “We’ll negotiate.”
