"I knew," I whisper. "I saw you sometimes. The shadow by the church entrance. The cigarette glowing in the dark. I knew someone was watching, and I told myself I was imagining it, but I wasn't scared. I was... glad. Because I thought maybe it meant you felt it too."
His hands tighten on my face, and something fierce flares in his gray-green eyes. "I feel everything. That's the problem. I spent thirty-four years feeling nothing, and then you walked into my church and I felt everything all at once."
He kisses me.
It's different from last night on the street. That kiss was tentative, questioning. This one is certain. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that takes my breath away, his tonguesliding past my lips, his hands sliding into my hair. I grip the front of his sweater and pull him closer, and he makes a sound against my mouth that's half groan and half prayer.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, our chests heaving in unison. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes squeezed shut, and I can feel the tremor running through his entire body, his fingers still tangled in my hair.
"Tell me again," he says, his voice rough and unsteady. "What you said in the confessional. All of it. I want to hear it from your lips, not through a screen. I need to hear you say those words while I'm looking at you."
Heat floods my cheeks, spreading down my neck, but I don't look away from the intensity in his storm-colored eyes. "Here? Now? Not hidden in the dark?"
"No screens. No barriers. No shadows between us. Just you and me." His thumb traces the curve of my jaw. "Just us and the truth."
I take a shaky breath and let the words spill out. "The first time I heard you preach, you were talking about mercy. About how we don't deserve it, but God gives it anyway. And I thought, he's talking about me. About how lost I've been since Nana died. About how I don't deserve to be found but maybe I could be anyway."
His hands slide down to my shoulders, steadying me or steadying himself.
"I started imagining things," I continue, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Your hands. The way they move when you're giving a sermon, when you're blessing the communion. I thought aboutwhat it would feel like if you touched me like that. If you blessed me with those hands."
"Waverly." My name sounds like it's been torn out of him.
"At night, I would lie in bed and think about you. I would touch myself and pretend it was you." The confession burns on the way out, but I don't stop. I can't stop. "I would imagine you coming to my apartment. Pushing me against the wall. Telling me all the things you wanted to do to me. And I would come with your name on my lips."
His grip on my shoulders tightens, fingers pressing into the fabric of my shirt with an urgency that makes my breath catch, and when I look up at his face, his expression is completely raw with want, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide. "Every night?"
"Almost." My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"Show me."
The words send a bolt of heat straight through my core, settling low in my belly and making my thighs clench. "What?"
"Show me how you touched yourself when you thought about me." His voice is rough, strained. "I want to see it. I want to know exactly what I've been imagining all this time."
He guides me backward, through the living room and into my bedroom. It's small and cluttered, my bed unmade from where I left it when I heard his knock. He doesn't seem to notice the mess. His eyes are fixed on me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"Lie down," he says, and his voice has dropped into something low and commanding that makes my whole body clench with anticipation.
I climb onto the bed, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. He stands at the foot, watching me with those intense gray-green eyes, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
"I've imagined this," he murmurs. "Coming to your apartment. Finding you in bed. Watching you fall apart."
"Are you going to touch me?" I hate how needy my voice sounds. I don't care enough to stop.
"Not yet." He sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that I can feel the heat of him but not close enough to touch. "First, I want to watch. I want to see what I've been dreaming about."
My hands are trembling as I reach for the hem of my shirt. I pull it over my head and toss it aside, leaving me in just my bra and sleep shorts. His eyes rake over my body, and I see his hands clench into fists against his thighs.
"More," he says.
I unhook my bra and let it fall. The cool air of the room makes my nipples tighten, and I hear him draw in a sharp breath. I'm shaking now, nervous and aroused and overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze.
"You're absolutely beautiful." His voice comes out hoarse, roughened with desire. "I knew you would be stunning like this. I've imagined this body a thousand times—every curve, every inch—but the reality is so much better than anything my mind conjured up."
"Cillian, please." I don't even know what I'm begging for anymore. Just more. Just him. Just something—anything—toease the persistent ache building between my thighs, growing more insistent with each passing second.
"Touch yourself." The command is gentle despite the rough, gravelly edge to his voice, despite the barely restrained hunger I can see in his eyes. "Show me exactly what you do when you think of me at night."
